Buy Me, Sir(20)

He pulls an envelope from his inside pocket and slides it across the  table. "A gift. Take it. Enjoy it. I hate to worry about you, Alexander.  You know how it makes me uncomfortable to worry. I may have to keep a  closer eye on things … "

His threats mean nothing to me. "Are you quite fucking done? I have work to do."

His eyes are steely but so are mine. "For now."

"Good." I get to my feet. Again. "Next time you want to talk, book a fucking appointment."

"This is my office," he snaps. "Don't you forget it."

"Retired. Don't you forget it."

We stare each other down for long seconds.

"Your mother misses you."

"That's a shame."

"She misses the boys."

"I'll pass on her regards."

He shakes his head. "You're such a belligerent prick, Alexander."

"We both know where I learned it from."

"We both know where you learned a lot of things, boy. Call Claude. I don't expect to have to come here again."

"That would be nice." I gesture to the door. "Close it on your way out."

It slams with a thump that shakes the glass surround. His frustration makes me smile.

I put his envelope straight through the shedder unopened.



Melissa



I hardly recognised myself in the mirror this morning. The bleach worked  its magic, and the dye took well on top, and there I was, a new blonde  version of me. I've never been blonde before. It looks strange, alien.  Not that you'd ever know the difference under a hairnet and stupid cap.

Dean helped me cut my hair shorter, armed with nothing but a pair of  general purpose scissors my mum used to use to open stubborn food  packets. My new long bob looks pretty good for a home-done effort. A few  random snips to vary the length and the look is definitely a little  Debbie-Harryesque. Even Dean agreed.

I slapped on some pink lipstick and ruffled my freshly dried hair, and  he called up a couple of old pictures of her on the internet and said he  thinks I'll pass.

Charging up and down a billion stairs every day these past few months  has helped my physique. My legs are more toned than they've ever been,  and although I'm far from the perfect women pictured in the bedroom  drawer, I think I look alright.

If it's not enough, it's not enough, but I don't want to dwell on that.

I'm lucky that I have a similar jawline to Debbie. High cheekbones and  big eyes. My nose is a little bit pointier than hers, but I can  compensate for that with similar makeup.

There's a lot more to my plan than a makeover though, which is why I've  borrowed Dean's phone today. He has a much better camera, and I'll need  to take a fair number of shots.

The codes for the gemstone cabinet are in the little black book Cindy gave me.

I have the special buffing cloth in my apron pocket, inputting the  numbers so carefully to make sure the cabinet doesn't autolock me out of  there.

It opens with a click, and I get to work, snapping pictures as I go. I  make sure all the names are in focus, a clear enough picture of the  gemstones that I'll be able to look them back up at home and memorise  them.         

     



 

Alexandrite. Poudretteite. Topaz. Red diamond. Benitoite. Musgravite. Bismuth.

I'll never be able to afford anything like these, so I hope he's  interested in more mundane specimens as well as these weird little  rocks. It just has to be a common interest. A convincing one.

I close up the cabinet when I'm done, and then I photograph his music  collection. He doesn't have many CDs on the shelf, and most of them are  by the same band. A blues outfit called Kings and Castles. I check out  the listing on the back, and I'm pretty sure the one song  –  Casual  Observer  –  is his dreary morning wake-up soundtrack.

I like it, just like I thought I would.

I venture down to the kitchen last thing today, my heart calming now I've got my illicit practicalities out of the way.

His plate is on the island, the dirty cutlery arranged so nearly on top.  The sight of the pan on the hob makes me smile. Bacon fat. He had the  bacon.

I've loaded it into the dishwasher by the time I notice the piece of paper propped against the fruit bowl.

My stomach flips, because it can't be. It really can't be.

But it is.

A perfect scrawl, so beautifully penned on fine grain paper.

Thank you.

Please help yourself to breakfast.

To me?!

My fingers are shaky as I run them over the text.

He wrote it for me. For me. For the bacon. He liked the bacon.

I smile so hard my cheeks hurt, and I'm not hungry, not in the  slightest, but his offer is too generous to ignore. I don't want to  ignore him. I couldn't ever do that.

I take the pan back from the dishwasher and fry myself up some bacon,  cut myself a thin slice of bread and add a single egg to the pan.

It gets the attention of a grumbling Brutus, who flops down at my feet as I try to manoeuvre. I guess he wants some bacon too.

It's the strangest feeling, eating breakfast at Alexander Henley's  kitchen island. My feet tap against the base of the bar stool, nervous  even though I'm the only one here.

The bacon tastes better than any bacon I've ever had before.

Brutus seems to agree with me. He takes the rind in one greedy swallow.

I clear down the sides thoroughly, then stand with a cheap biro in my hand, wondering what on earth I should write in reply.

I tear a page from my notebook, because I want to take his home with me,  and I try for my very best handwriting, even though my hand is  trembling.

Thank you very much, Mr Henley, sir.

I don't sign my name. Because why would I? I'm just a nobody.

I prop it up against the fruit bowl, right where his had been, and then I do it. I just do it.

I input Claude's number into Dean's handset, and take a swig of water before I press to call.

Three rings and all I can feel is my own thumping heart.

I'm ready for it to go to voicemail, half hoping it goes to voicemail.

But it doesn't.

"Claude Finch."

I clear my throat. "Mr Finch? I'm sorry to call so randomly, it's just  I'm …  I'm looking to sell something …  and I was hoping you could …  help … "

I hear him rustling through paperwork. "If you could call the main sales line, I'm sure they'll be able to take your details."

My throat is so dry. "I was hoping maybe you'd be …  the right person … "

"That depends. What kind of item are you looking to sell?"

My voice is so weak. Such a whisper. "Well, I'm …  I'm looking to sell …  me … "

A pause. Such a long pause.

I feel the panic rising.

"Where did you get this number?"

"I, um …  a friend … "

"What kind of a friend?"

"A female friend …  she said I should … "

"This isn't for discussion on the telephone," he snaps. "Please forward a  photo of the item to this email address." He rattles off a series of  letters and numbers that I scrabble to write down.

I read it back and he grunts, and then he hangs up.

I feel so wired I can't keep still. Pacing up and down Mr Henley's  kitchen as I open the random email account Dean set up for me and attach  the photo in my best underwear he took last night.

The nerves take over as soon as it's been sent, and the pressure builds  to breaking, my whole plan resting on a random guy and his reaction to  one semi-slutty photo.

I feel like I've bared my whole soul for nothing, like he'll laugh at  me, tell me of course I'm not good enough, I'm not of the calibre  they're looking for.

I'm getting ready to take Brutus for his walk when the handset vibrates in my apron pocket.

1 new email.

The sender is CF.

I can hardly bring myself to open it.         

     



 

Bring the item along to the saleroom with a copy of your ID.

There's a date and time listed underneath.

I'm so excited I nearly pee myself on Alexander Henley's freshly mopped floor.





Chapter Fourteen





Alexander



Brutus and pornography are usually my only two incentives for stepping  foot through my front door every evening. Tonight I have a third. A most  ridiculous third.

I drop my keys on my smoking table and deactivate the alarm, and then I  head straight through to the kitchen, which of course is immaculate,  without so much of a clue as to whether someone sat and ate bacon in my  absence this morning. I open the fridge, and a glance at the packet of  bacon thrills me.

Two slices missing.

An egg, too.

It makes me smile, which is unusual. My muscles feel tight and out of practice.

My note is missing, and in its stead, propped so neatly against the fruit bowl, is a torn scrap of notebook paper.

Thank you very much, Mr Henley, sir.

Shit.

My cock aches, hardening at the memory of her nervous apology at the office.

Her script is flowery, a tiny circle over the i in sir. The letters are evenly spaced, the curves drawn with effort.

She cared how it looked.

I imagine her gripping her pen, the precise flow of her fingers.

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.