by Jade West
Chapter Thirty-Four
Alexander
I confirm first thing Monday morning that the boys will be changing schools. Brenda draws up the letters I dictate to her, and I sign them off with a shaky hand before she faxes them through to their headmaster.
I send Claire an email telling her it’s done, and also telling her the boys are free to attend Terry’s shitty kids’ club on a Sunday afternoon.
My whole world is spinning on its fucking axis.
My mouth is parched no matter how many Americanos Brenda brings me from the coffee shop next door.
I’m listless in my client meetings and I’m clumsy with the board report amendments that need my bastard input.
I hate how out of control I feel. I hate the wriggling worm of vulnerability in my gut.
I hate how painful it feels to find my heart still beating.
I’m staring into the abyss today, but whereas I normally rely on Brutus to be my sobering factor, I now have another anchor in the storm.
The insanity with Amy is the only thing keeping me actually sane.
The Puppet Master title the industry slapped on my head over a decade ago suits me well, but not as well as it did, and not anywhere near as well as it suits my slimy fucking father.
His grubby fingers are in everything, twisting everything.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise when he blasts his way into my office before lunch. It shouldn’t come as a surprise when he slaps a copy of the paperwork Brenda faxed across to the school onto my desk.
“What the fucking hell is this, boy? Have you lost your fucking mind?!”
It takes all of my restraint not to reply in the affirmative.
“The boys are changing schools,” I say. “I’ve discussed it with Claire, I’ve discussed it with them.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” His eyes are angry and wired. Just as they were all those years ago in the public toilets.
Just as they’ve been so many times since, when I haven’t played into his filthy fucking hands at every opportunity.
“It’s none of your cunting business, old man,” I tell him.
“Oh, but it fucking is,” he hisses. “Those boys are next in line to the family business. My fucking business.”
I laugh in his face.
And there, amongst the laughter, is the simple truth I’ve been avoiding my whole fucking life.
The truth of the peace I’ve granted my boys, even though they don’t realise it yet.
I want out.
“You’ll have to find another puppet to train in my stead. Thomas wants to be a footballer, and Matthew… well, Matthew doesn’t have the disposition for this shit. I see him as an artist maybe, or a celebrity chef. Maybe even a flower arranger.”
“Don’t test my fucking patience, boy.” My father’s disgust is actually etched into his features. A lifetime of scowling carved into stone under spiteful eyes. “You’ll withdraw your instruction with immediate effect. I’ll handle Claire and her lunatic educational preferences.”
“I won’t,” I say, “And you certainly won’t be doing fucking anything about Claire.”
The thump of his fist on wood makes my pens rattle. “Be careful, boy. Be very fucking careful.”
I don’t even blink. “We’re done here.”
It’s in my eyes and I know it. I know he sees every single flicker of hatred I have for him, and this shitty fucking business, and the way I’ve lived my seedy fucking life.
“We’re not done,” he seethes. “Not even fucking close.”
“I’m done,” I tell him, and I hate my beating heart. “I’m done with bailing out cunts and crooks.”
“What the–”
“I’m done with shaking hands with addicts, and fraudsters, incompetent fuckwits with more money than sense.”
“Don’t–”
“I’m done with rapists and murderers, I’m done with people hiding behind expensive suits. And I’m fucking done with you.”
“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING DONE!” he roars.
I laugh, because he looks even more unhinged than I feel.
“Oh, but I am,” I say. “I’m going to off my caseload onto Hugh Lister. He’s doing well. A rising star in your delightful organisation. I’m sure he’ll be able to handle it.”
His finger is white when he jabs it in my direction. “You don’t walk away from clients like yours, boy. And you can’t walk away from clients like mine.”
My gut twists.
“I haven’t had anything to do with clients like yours for fucking years.”
“That doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “You know things. Things that make you a fucking liability if you stop toeing the fucking line.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
My eyes are like steel. His are like stone.
“I couldn’t keep you safe, boy.”
“You wouldn’t try,” I say.
He doesn’t even attempt to deny it.
“What in the name of holy fucking Christ is going on with you?” he asks, and he’s searching. Digging.
I hate the way it makes me shiver.
I force bravado. “I’m thinking I might take on some legal aid cases. Represent the good guys for a change. Who’d have thought?” My laugh comes out twisted.
His pupils are like pinpricks. “Something happened to you, boy. What the fuck is it?”
“Something happened to me a long fucking time ago and you fucking know it. You were there.”
His smile is grotesque. “You liked it, boy. You moaned like a little fucking sissy bitch as you shot your load over that piss-stained wall.”
“Get out of my office, you disgusting old cunt.”
We stand-off. Eye to eye. Scowl to fucking scowl.
Hate.
So much fucking hate.
So much fucking disgust.
He shoves the paperwork in my direction before he steps away. “Retract your fucking statement to the school, boy.”
“Get the fuck out of my office,” I repeat.
He stops in the doorway, and his expression gives me the chills.
“I’m going to find out what in the name of Christ is going on with you, and then I’ll put a fucking end to it. I promise you that.”
Or put an end to me.
A chill rips up my spine.
And it’s there.
It’s always been right there.
The faces of my demons aren’t those of porn stars, or rent boys, or drinking enough whisky to blackout into oblivion.
My demons all look like my fucking father.
And so do fucking I.
I hold my expression for a long minute after my door closes behind him, and then I rip up his fucking paperwork.
Melissa
I’m nervous.
Of course I’m nervous.
I’m dancing a stupid crazy dance, right on the edge of a cliff, and now I’m pulling Dean along with me.
I only have a short window and I’m well aware of it. I feel the clock counting down to zero on all my stupid lies.
I heard Sonnie downstairs at Alexander’s on Sunday morning. I pretended to be asleep with my heart in my throat, praying to God he didn’t call me down there.
But one day he will.
One day I’ll run out of luck, and no amount of gemstone trivia is going to bail me out.
Dean has his conditions and I’ll keep them.
I’ll hand in my resignation just as soon as my plan reaches its final destination.
And in the meantime I dance the crazy dance.
Mr Henley seems strange on Wednesday evening.
He’s quiet as he takes me. Quiet as he kisses me after.
Quiet as he holds me.
“Are you alright?” I ask in the darkness.
He takes a breath before he answers. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Okay,” I say, and squeeze his fingers a little bit tighter.
I wonder if he’s growing tired of
me already. I wonder if he’s getting sick of paying so much money to have me here.
It only makes me more determined to see this craziness through.
To be the woman his ex-wife wasn’t.
To be the woman he will fall in love with.
He’s all I want. That’s all I want.
But Mr Henley is quieter still on Friday night at the soup kitchen.
He looks so brooding as he stirs the pot, and he doesn’t smile on the streets, not even once.
I hate it.
I hate feeling so insecure after things were going so well.
I hate not knowing what’s going on with him.
I tell him so in a roundabout way as we take a cab back to his.
“I’m sorry,” I add straight after. “It’s none of my business. I just… care.”
He takes my fingers in his. “You’re better off out of it,” he tells me.
His tone gives me shivers.
“But I want to be in it,” I whisper. “I want to be with you.”
He doesn’t even reply to that.
It only makes me more determined than ever.
I send a confirmation text to Mrs Stanley’s daughter Helen when he’s letting Brutus out for his final poop of the evening, telling her we’ll be on for a few hours of babysitting tomorrow night.
I hate the niggle in my belly. I hate the thought of leaving Joe with a stranger, even though she’s not one.
But it’ll just be for one night, and he knows Helen. He knew her before…
She’ll be fine, and he’ll be asleep anyway. He’s good at sleeping right through.
Mr Henley holds me tighter than ever as I drift off to sleep tonight, and I don’t understand it. I don’t understand any of it.
I wish I could tell him that I love him. That I’m right by his side, whatever he’s facing, whatever this… is…
But not yet.
Soon. But not yet.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Alexander
I’m not going to let this shit with my father ruin the evening I have planned for Amy. Nor ruin it for me, either.
I shake off my mood as I get ready. I practice my smile in the mirror, making sure I can pull this off without a hint of exhausted paranoia in my eyes.
My father’s not a man of false promises. The old cunt is a lot of things, but a bluffer isn’t one of them.
There’s every chance I’m going to pay the ultimate price for leaving this business.
But that’s not for tonight.
Tonight is about Amy.
I position the knot of my tie just fucking so.
I fasten my cufflinks with a smile for Brutus.
I’ve just let him out for a piss when she knocks at the door.
She looks incredible in black. Her dress sparkles like the finest grade diamonds, and so do her eyes.
“Claude’s message said dress to impress,” she tells me, and does me a twirl on her way in. “Will I do?”
My throat feels scratchy as I look her over. Her shoes shimmer to match her dress. Her makeup is perfectly natural.
“You look beautiful, Amy.”
She runs a finger down my tie and it makes me shiver. “So do you.” She gives Brutus a scratch behind the ears. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“A surprise?”
“Yes. A big one, I hope.”
We’ve barely any time before the cab pulls up, and that suits me just fine, because any longer standing with this beautiful creature in my hallway would render me incapable of leaving this house without taking her upstairs with me first.
I set the alarm on the way out. I check the street before I join Amy in the taxi.
I feel ghosts on my shoulder, waiting for me, but I brush them off as I take her hand in the backseat.
“Are you okay?” she asks me, and I’m glad the cab is too dark to see her eyes.
“I am now.”
“I’m going to have an amazing evening,” she says.
“You don’t even know where we’re going yet.”
“I don’t need to.” She rests her head on my shoulder and I close my eyes. Savour this moment.
Savour every moment.
Charing Cross Road is heaving when the cab drops us, but the venue I’ve booked is totally deserted.
She stares around in bewilderment as I stroll up to the bar.
“This is… quiet…”
“It’s by design, Amy.”
“It is?”
I smile as I order champagne from the solitary barman, and she raises her eyebrows as I take one for myself.
“A one-off,” I say. “A celebration.”
She raises her glass. “A celebration of what?”
“Life,” I tell her.
Her eyes flash with pain, and I wonder why the word hurts her so badly. It’s so stark to me in this one moment – how little I know about this woman. How little I know about her life.
But she is life.
She’s everything.
And she’s also a fucking mind reader.
“You are life,” she whispers and clinks my glass.
“I’m quitting my job,” I tell her, just like that. “I think it’s about time I lived a little.” I laugh at my own sick little joke.
Her eyes are like dinner plates. “You’re quitting?”
“I’m a lawyer,” I tell her, like she hasn’t pieced two and two together already. “I spend my life enabling very rich people to do whatever the hell they fucking want. Destroy whoever the fuck they want. But not anymore.”
She dithers as she sips her champagne. “And you can just… resign? These very rich people won’t want you to leave, right?”
“How is your drink?”
She nods. “Really good.”
I finish up mine, and the bubbles taste fucking divine.
“It’s time for the show,” I tell her, and take her hand.
Melissa
I’m scared and I don’t know why. I don’t really understand what’s going on, but I know it’s bad.
I know it’s really bad.
I also know for sure that I was wrong about Alexander Henley.
I was wrong about everything.
I thought I knew every single thing there was to know about this man, but I was a fool.
Because I know things. Stupid little things. Tiny pieces of shattered mirror I’ve been fitting together as I go.
But the mirror doesn’t make the man.
The man is right here at my side, and he’s not a collection of things. He’s not his interests, or his divorce paperwork, or the smell on his bedsheets.
He’s not the man they call the puppet master. He’s not the lawyer who loves his job the way I always assumed he’d love it.
And I’m pretty sure he’s a man who can’t just walk away.
I’m sure you can’t just walk away from those kind of people.
My heart is in my mouth as I follow him through to the back room, and the venue is still empty here. A roomful of empty tables, and only one of them has a candle on it, the one right in the middle with the very best view of the stage.
I can’t make out the huddle of people setting up, not without the spotlights, but I recognise the opening notes the moment they ring out.
I’ve heard this album so many times. On the underground on the way to Kensington and back again. At night in bed while I’m thinking of him.
He squeezes my hand. “I had to pull some strings for this,” he whispers. “Just as well they call me the Puppet Master.”
I feign ignorance, but he’s not even looking at me, he’s looking at them. “The Puppet Master?”
“Yes.”
“Why do they call you that?”
“Because my dirty hands pull everyone’s strings.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I squeeze that dirty hand of his and he squeezes mine right back.
I love his dirty hands.
I love him.
He pulls out my seat for me and takes the one at my side. His thigh presses to mine under the table, and his dirty hand is on my knee.
“This is really just for us?” I ask him, and he smiles.
“For you,” he says.
“For me?”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who loves this band as much as I do,” he tells me, and I feel rotten inside. My belly is full of worms.
“I do love them,” I say, and it’s not actually a lie. Not anymore.
I know that for certain when they start up the set. I feel every note in my heart. I feel the sadness in the lyrics. I feel how beautiful this is.
Everything is beautiful.
But nothing is so beautiful as Alexander Henley.
I watch him as he stares at the stage, and his mouth is open just a little, his eyes wide as he takes it all in. His foot taps along to the beat and mine taps with it, and his eyes are so happy I could cry.
So I do.
I do cry.
I cry for the beautiful sadness in the music.
I cry for all the lies I’ve told.
I cry for my lost dreams and the parents I’d give my life for, just to see them one more time.
I cry for the way I love Alexander Henley.
I cry happy tears for the way I get to hold him at night.
I’m wiping them from my cheeks when I feel his eyes on mine. “What is it?” he whispers as Kings and Castles start up their next song.
“This,” I tell him. “It’s perfect.”
“Yes.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Yes, it is.”
I know Dean is waiting for my text with the venue location, but I can’t give him this one.
I know Dean is hanging around the city for my instructions to head on in to wherever we are and give Alexander the eye.
I want to text him and tell him to go home to Joe, to tell him this was all a mistake and I’m going to tell Alexander my real name before the night is out, because I’m done with all the lies and the stupid games.
I want this to be real. More than anything in the world I want this to be real.
I’m staring at Alexander’s beautiful dark eyes as the opening bars of Casual Observer ring out from the stage.
I’m smiling as he smiles, ready for his arms as he pulls me close.
