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At the other extreme, knowing her actual name might give me dangerous options, so I force myself to remain ignorant.
I name her Molly May instead.
I like that. Sweet Molly May.
Molly May enjoyed her breakfast, her note told me so.
This morning I didn’t leave another, just made sure there was an empty bowl and spoon on the tray on the island, trusting she’ll know what it’s there for.
I’m disappointed to find nothing in its stead when I return. No sure way of knowing if Molly May ate her fill or simply put the empty bowl back in the cupboard.
I tell myself it’s done, our ridiculous little note exchange nothing more than a passing fancy. She’s most likely relieved, free to carry out her daily tasks without having to concern herself with looping her letters just so for her fool of an employer.
Despite my rational mind telling me it doesn’t matter shit whether my cleaner left me a stupid little thank you note or not, there’s definitely a pang of frustration in my gut.
It’s annoying.
Distinctly annoying.
I console myself with the pornography I’ve committed to avoid, then finish myself off to the fantasy of little Molly May with my hands around her throat, retching streams of saliva all over her stripy uniform.
It’s the best orgasm I’ve had in months, and that’s distinctly annoying too.MelissaThe notes stop.
I try to shrug it off and pretend it doesn’t matter.
I’m sure it doesn’t matter, not to him. He was just a powerful man taking a moment to make his lowly cleaner feel comfortable.
The disappointment only makes my plan all the more important, because now I’ve had a taste, just the tiniest little taste of how good it feels to be known by Alexander Henley, I can’t bear to let that go.
So here I am, trying to hide my bellyful of nerves behind a calm smile as I teeter on my new-old heels through the centre of Chelsea en route to meet CF.
It’s dark, and I’m glad. It already feels like everyone is staring at me, like they know I’m an outsider, that I don’t belong around these parts, with my second-hand gown and the jacket that needed stitches on the inside seam.
I have to take a minute to calm my breathing when the posh signage for Finch Hamilton auctioneers comes into view.
The main entrance claims it’s closed for the day, but there’s a little light shining above the posh oak reception desk I spy through the window. The door is locked when I try it, so I press the intercom.
“Side entrance,” a voice barks, and it’s him, CF, I recognise him from my first phone call.
The side entrance is dark, and I’m slow on my heels. The door is already open when I reach it, and Claude Finch is a huge shadow beyond, big and broad and dressed in a pinstripe suit. He beckons me in, then locks it.
He slips the keys into his inside pocket, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. He’s older than I expect, a silver fox with a slick moustache. He looks as though he should be wearing a monocle.
“I’m Amy,” I lie, keeping my smile confident and hoping he doesn’t realise my legs are wobbly.
“Alright, Amy,” he says, “come on through.” He points to a door at the back of the corridor, and I walk on ahead of him. I feel his eyes on me, know he’s hanging back to check out my ass in this slinky dress.
Judging me. He’s definitely judging me.
It feels grimy, but I don’t care. I just want to be good enough.
His office smells of old leather, his desk covered in guides to antiques and reams of paperwork. The seat he offers me squeaks as I lower myself into it. He stares at me from across the desk, opening his hands to offer me the floor.
I feel so small. So pathetic.
“I want to… I’m hoping to…”
“Sell yourself,” he says. “Yes. I have buyers.”
Buyers.
My nerves jangle. I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say.
Claude sighs and I feel like I’ve already failed. “So, tell me, Amy, have you ever offered your services for sale before? My clients have… particular tastes. We are a niche agency.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m, um…” I can’t find the words, and I wonder if I should say them at all, because he might not want me if I’m inexperienced. He might tell me to come back when I’ve sucked a few dicks and know what the fuck I’m doing.
Maybe he’ll offer me his, and I don’t want it. I really don’t want it.
“You’re what?” he prompts, and he’s impatient. The kind of guy that wants it straight or he’ll chuck you out on your ass.
“I’m a virgin,” I tell him. “But I can learn… I’m a fast learner…”
His eyes widen, and I’m petrified he’s going to tell me to fuck off out of here. “A virgin? A genuine, honest-to-God, un-fucking-touched virgin?”
