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I should stop this silliness before it starts, accept my interest as nothing more than the idle fantasy of a desperate mind, but of course, I can’t do that.
My cupboards are embarrassingly barren, and for the first time in months I take a detour from my usual dog-walking route, looping Brutus’ lead over a post outside the late-night store while I nip inside and grab a handbasket.
I run through the things I like. Some organic muesli and some fresh peaches. A pot of luxury Greek yoghurt that I think Claire bought me once when we were on some weird health kick. Dark chocolate with orange segments, the most expensive on the shelf.
I’m losing my fucking mind and I know it as I check out. Selling out my sanity for some grandiose illusion that a moment with a terrified cleaner in a dark office meant something. That the note in my pocket is anything other than a kind young girl being polite to her employer.
Brutus sniffs the shopping bag as I retrieve his lead, and it amuses me to think the grumpy old beast knows so much more about the mystery woman than I do. What’s surprising in itself is that the teething period with a new member of staff in the house has been surprisingly dog-issue free. I was expecting at least one emergency call out as she’d found herself trapped in a room with a growling Brutus on the other side of the door. But no. Nothing.
Maybe he likes her.
I trust his judgement as much as I trust my own. We’re two peas in a very cynical pod, him and I, and yet he’s accepted an intruder without spilling any of their blood over the carpet.
“What do you think, boy?” I ask him as we walk. “Is she nice?”
His ears prick at the sound of my voice, his tongue lolling as we pace the final stretch back to home turf.
“Let’s see if she likes a bit of muesli in the morning, shall we?”
Brutus pads through to the kitchen as we head inside, as though he knows. He parks his stinky arse on the tiles and stares up at me as I unpack the shopping. I take one of Claire’s flouncy old serving trays from the bottom cupboard and arrange a display on the kitchen island. Muesli and a fresh peach, one of my finest china cereal bowls and a silver spoon from the cutlery drawer. And the chocolate. Of course the chocolate.
I take a fresh piece of paper from my writing pad and pen her another note.
Your bacon was a superb suggestion. Here’s one of mine.
Muesli with chopped peach. A generous spoon of Greek yoghurt (fridge) covered with a fine grating of dark chocolate.
Let me know your thoughts.
Regards, AH.
I fold the note on the tray and head up to bed before I can think better of it.MelissaDean and I shopped on the internet last night, looking for cheap second-hand designer bargains to carry off the illusion that I’m a high-class woman worthy of high-class clients.
I’ve spent the final scraps of my wages on this crazy quest, but I’ve got a few outfits on their way which look as though they’ll do the job for me. A slinky pink gown with a killer split, some sparkly heels, a faded pair of designer jeans and a trendy cami-top. A fitted jacket was the most extravagant of my purchases, but the weather is shitty at this time of year, and I’ll need it unless I want to freeze my tits off on the way to meet CF at his swanky sale room.
My appointment is on Friday at eight p.m.
In the interim I have my new gig at the soup kitchen this evening, and I have to pull that off, too. My trial run in my new identity.
Dean helped me concoct the perfect cover story. A girl named Amy Randall, aged twenty-one, older sister of Dean’s friend Sammy that we used to go to school with. It’s her details that Dean messaged over to a dodgy contact lower down on the estate last night. He says they owe him a favour, so last night he disappeared with one of my passport photos and came back with the promise they’ll deliver a convincing fake ID in time for my Friday meet up.
I hope he’s right.
It feels weird to steal someone else’s identity, especially someone I vaguely know. But I need any background checks to hold true. My fake address is Amy Randall’s real address, my fake date of birth is her real one, stolen from Facebook along with every other scrap of info we could find on there.
Her social media is locked down pretty tight, just a photo of her cat as a profile picture to anything other than friends.
I hope it’ll be enough to hold my cover.
