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Leaving Dean in charge of Joe for so much of the working week makes me feel guilty, but I try not to dwell too hard on that, just focus on the time we do have and keep on pushing for the better future I have planned for him. For us.
He doesn’t seem to care, just as long as he has someone to play choo-choo trains and make his dinner just so. Dean’s doing a sterling job on both fronts.
Dean’s also doing a sterling job of hiding his attraction to Alexander Henley. There’s still no mention of the pictures on his phone, still nothing more than fear that the guy is some kind of crazy psychopath out to spill virgin blood.
Maybe if I pull this off… maybe if he sees that I lived through a night with Alexander Henley and managed to walk back through the door as right as rain.
If I walk back through the door as right as rain.
If I get a night with Alexander Henley at all.
Brutus doesn’t growl at me this morning. I swear he could be smiling, his tongue flopping out the side, eyes bright, and my heart blooms at the triumph. I give him a fish treat without even thinking about his scary teeth, and he settles down nicely on his big cushion once he’s chomped it into nothing.
I’m getting used to the routine here. Polishing the table and washing out the whisky tumbler. Cleaning out the inkwell and shining it up to perfection.
The dusting and the vacuuming, and the gorgeous scent of Mr Henley on his dirty laundry.
The sad music of his alarm clock still playing more mornings than not.
There’s no pan on the hob this morning, and I’m a little disappointed until I notice the tray on the island. At first I think it’s his dirty breakfast bowl, but his is in the sink, already soaking.
Muesli and peach, and some fancy looking dark chocolate, and a note.
A NOTE!
My throat is so dry I can barely swallow.
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 have to read it through at least five times before it really sinks in.
He wants me to eat breakfast. His breakfast.
I have no idea why, and my mind spins, trying to work out if this is some kind of weird test to try my professionalism. To eat the muesli or not to eat the muesli?
Of course I have to eat the muesli. I want to eat the muesli.
I want to eat the whole damn lot and lick the bowl clean.
I follow his instructions exactly, chopping up the peach into neat chunks and adding it to the bowl along with the cereal. A dollop of yoghurt from the fridge, and I find the grater, unwrap the chocolate so carefully to use just a little.
My heart is a fluttery mess as I spoon up the first mouthful, my eyes still fixed on that note, looking for hidden meaning.
AH.
His note says he wants my thoughts. Like my opinion matters.
Why does my opinion matter to him?
Why does he even care?
I’d have lied about the breakfast even if it tasted like crap, but it doesn’t. It tastes delicious. The perfect mix of tart and creamy, a mix of tastes that blend into this yummy goodness.
I feel young again, excited like when Mum let me have the lump of cream from the top of the milk bottle on my cereals in the morning. A real treat.
I haven’t really eaten breakfast… not since they…
Not since we used to eat together in the morning, all of us crammed in the kitchen with our cereal bowls in our hands, bickering and laughing before we went our separate ways.
A normal family. A happy family.
And now it’s all gone.
No. That’s not true. Joe’s not all gone, and I’m not all gone, and while there are still two of us we’re still family. Just a much smaller one now.
But not as small as Alexander Henley’s, just him and Brutus in this huge place, eating alone.
I have no idea what to reply to him. No idea how to sound like a gushing food critic, so I don’t try.
Peach, muesli, yoghurt and chocolate are a delicious combination. Thank you so much, Mr Henley, sir.
Warmest regards,
Your cleaner.
I look at the note. Read it back to myself. Your cleaner sounds so dull. So cold.
I add an MM to the bottom, and hope that’s not too unprofessional.
AH and MM.
MH.
In my dreams.
I smile to myself, wrap the rest of the chocolate up neatly and put it in the fridge. I clear the muesli away into one of the cupboards and get rid of my peach stone, wiping the side down as though I’ve never been here.
