Best of 2017

by Alexa Riley

  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.

  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.

&
nbsp; 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.

  MELISSA

  DEAN 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.

  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.

&nb
sp; 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.

  And then I take Brutus out.

  Today’s the first time I don’t have to tug him over the threshold.

  I think he may actually like me.

  IT’S a rush to get home and change before heading out to my New Start meeting.

  My heart is in my mouth as I plaster a smile on my face and push my way between the swing doors.

  Amy Randall, Amy Randall, Amy Randall.

  “Hi, I’m Amy,” I tell the gathered volunteers, and one of them steps forward with his hand outstretched. His smile is big and bright.

  “Frank Peterson,” he says. “We spoke on the phone. Really pleased to have you here, we can always use another pair of hands.”

  I tell him I’m really pleased to be here, too. That I hope I can be of use.

  I’m lucky, because this place is so busy and understaffed that they barely have time to ask me any questions about my fake life. I smile and muck in as best I can, chopping up vegetables for soup and stirring the big steel pans.

  It’s hard work, but good work. The people here are full of smiles and effort. There’s a genuine sense of community that I haven’t felt for a long time, not since I was part of an estate clean-up team back at school in the summer holidays. It feels a lifetime away.

  It doesn’t take much time before I’ve forgotten all about being here on a mission, and instead believe I really am part of the team, just doing my bit, the same as they are.

  It becomes a lot more real when we load up the trays with soup mugs and venture out onto the street.

  It’s bitter cold out, even with my mum’s old fluffy scarf up around my ears. My fingers feel numb as I hand out food to the people who need it, and I get it, I get why Alexander Henley goes so far out of his way to do this.