The Mister

by James, E L

  She opens the door but freezes on the threshold of the room.

  He’s here.

  The man!

  Fast asleep facedown and sprawled naked across the large bed. She stands, shocked and fascinated at once, her feet rooted to the wooden floor as she stares. He’s stretched across the length of the bed, tangled in his duvet but naked…very naked. His face is turned toward her but covered by unkempt brown hair. One arm is beneath the pillow that supports his head, the other extended toward her. He has broad, defined shoulders, and on his biceps is an elaborate tattoo that is partially hidden by the bedding. His back is sun-kissed with a tan that fades as his hips narrow to dimples and to a pale, taut backside.

  Backside.

  He’s naked!

  Lakuriq!

  Zot!

  His long, muscular legs disappear beneath a knot of gray duvet and silver silk bedspread, though his foot sticks out over the edge of the mattress. He stirs, the muscles in his back rippling, and his eyelids flicker open to reveal unfocused but brilliant green eyes. Alessia stops breathing, convinced he’ll be angry that she’s woken him. Their eyes meet, but he shifts and turns his face away. He settles down and goes back to sleep. Relieved, she exhales a deep breath.

  Shyqyr Zotit!

  Flushed with mortification, she tiptoes out of his bedroom and bolts up the long hall and into the living room, where she sets the cleaning caddy on the floor and begins to gather his discarded clothes.

  He’s here? How can he still be in bed? At this hour?

  Surely he’s late for work.

  She glances at the piano, feeling cheated. Today was the day she was going to play. She didn’t have the nerve on Monday, and she longs to play. Today would have been the first time! In her head she hears Bach’s Prelude in C Minor. Her fingers tap out the notes in anger, and the melody resonates inside her head, in bright reds, yellows, and oranges, a perfect accompaniment to her resentment. The piece reaches its climax and then diminishes to a close as she throws a discarded T-shirt into the laundry basket.

  Why does he have to be here?

  She knows that her disappointment is irrational. This is his home. But focusing on her disappointment distracts her from thinking about him. He’s the first naked man she’s ever seen, a naked man with vivid green eyes—eyes the color of the still, deep waters of the Drin on a summer’s day. She frowns, not wanting the reminder of home. He had looked directly at her. Thank God he didn’t wake. Taking the laundry basket, she tiptoes to his half-open bedroom door and pauses to see if he’s still asleep. She hears the sound of the shower in the bathroom.

  He’s awake!

  She contemplates leaving the apartment but dismisses the idea. She needs this job, and if she were to leave, he might fire her.

  Cautiously she opens the door and listens to the tuneless humming that echoes from his en suite bathroom. Heart racing, she ducks into the bedroom to collect his clothes that are scattered over the floor, then hurries back to the safety of the laundry room wondering why her heart is pounding.

  She takes a deep, calming breath. It was a surprise finding him here asleep. Yes. That’s it. That’s all. It has nothing to do with the fact that she has seen him naked. It has nothing to do with a fine face, a straight nose, full lips, broad shoulders…muscular arms. Nothing. It was a shock. She never expected to encounter the owner of the apartment, and to see him like that is unsettling.

  Yes. He’s handsome.

  All of him. His hair, his hands, his legs, his backside…

  Really handsome. And he had looked directly at her with such clear green eyes.

  A darker memory surfaces in her mind. A memory from home: ice-blue eyes flinty with anger, fury raining down on her.

  No. Don’t think of him!

  She puts her head in her hands and rubs her forehead.

  No. No. No.

  She fled. She’s here. She’s in London. She’s safe. She will never see him again.

  Kneeling down, she loads the dirty clothes from the laundry basket into the washing machine, as Krystyna showed her. She goes through the pockets of his black jeans and pulls out the loose change and the customary condom that he seems to carry in all his pants. In the back pocket, she finds a scrap of paper with a phone number and the name Heather scrawled on it. She slips it with the change and the condom into her pocket, tosses one of the detergent capsules into the wash, and switches on the machine.

  Next she unloads the dryer and sets up the iron. Today she’ll start with the ironing and stay hidden in the laundry room until he’s gone.

  What if he doesn’t go?

  And why is she hiding from him? He’s her employer. Perhaps she should introduce herself. She’s met all her other employers, and they aren’t a problem, apart from Mrs. Kingsbury, who follows her around critiquing her cleaning methods. She sighs. The truth is, all the people she works for are women—except him, and she’s wary of men.

  “Bye, Krystyna!” he calls, startling her from her thoughts and the shirt collar she’s ironing. The front door closes with a muffled bang, and all is quiet. He’s gone. She is on her own, and she sags with relief against the ironing board.

  Krystyna? Doesn’t he know that she’s taken Krystyna’s place? Magda’s friend Agatha organized this job. Hasn’t Agatha told him about the change of staff? Alessia resolves to check this evening if the owner of this apartment has been informed. She finishes another shirt, hangs it on a clothes hanger, then goes to check the console table in the hall and finds he has left her money. Surely that means he won’t be returning?

  Her day brightens immediately, and with renewed purpose she runs back to the laundry room and grabs the pile of freshly ironed clothes and his shirts and heads to his bedroom.

  The master suite is the only nonwhite room in the apartment: all gray walls and dark wood. A large gilt mirror hangs above the biggest wooden bed that Alessia has ever seen. And on the wall facing the bed, there are two large black-and-white photographs of women, their naked backs to camera. Turning away from the photography, she assesses the room. It is in complete disarray. Quickly she hangs his shirts in the closet—a closet that is bigger than her bedroom—and places the folded items on one of the shelves. The closet is still a mess, and it’s been like this since she started here with Krystyna last week. Krystyna always ignored the mess, and though Alessia wants to fold and put away all the clothes, it’s a big project, and she doesn’t have time now, not if she wants to play the piano.

  Back in his room, she opens the curtains and glances through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Thames. It’s stopped raining, but the day is gray; the street, the river, the trees in the park beyond are all muted grays, so unlike her home.

  No. Home is here now. She ignores the sadness that rises like a tide within her and places the items that she retrieved from his pockets into a dish on the nightstand. She then begins to clean and tidy his room.

  The last job in the bedroom is emptying the wastebasket. She tries to avoid looking at the used condoms as she dumps the contents into a black plastic trash bag. It was a shock the first time she did this, and it’s still a shock now. How can one man use so many?

  Ugh!

  Alessia moves through the rest of the apartment, cleaning, dusting, and polishing, but avoiding the one room she’s not allowed to enter. Fleetingly she wonders what’s behind the closed door, but she doesn’t try to open it. Krystyna was very clear that the room is off-limits.

  * * *

  She finishes mopping the floors with half an hour to spare. She puts the cleaning caddy away in the laundry room and transfers the washed clothes into the dryer. She removes her housecoat and undoes her blue scarf, stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans.

  Carrying the black bag full of trash, she deposits it by the front door. She’ll take it to the dumpsters in the designated area in the al
ley beside the apartment block when she leaves. Anxiously, she opens the front door and checks up and down the hallway. There’s no sign of him. She can do this. She wasn’t brave enough the first time she cleaned here alone. She was afraid he might return. But since he left and said good-bye, she’ll take the risk.

  She rushes down the hallway into the living room and sits at the piano, pausing to enjoy the moment. Black and shiny, it’s lit up by the impressive chandelier that hangs above it. Her fingers trace the golden lyre logo and the words beneath.

  STEINWAY & SONS

  On the rest there’s a pencil and the same half-finished composition that has been sitting there since the first day she came to the apartment with Krystyna. As she studies the pages, the notes sound through her head, a sad lament, lonely and full of melancholy, unresolved and unfinished in hues of pale blue and gray. She tries to connect the profound and reflective tune to the indolent but handsome naked man she saw that morning. Perhaps he’s a composer. She glances across the wide room to the antique desk in the corner cluttered with his computer, a synthesizer, and what might be a couple of sound mixers. Yes, they look like they belong to a composer. And then there’s the wall of old records that she has to dust; he’s certainly an avid music collector.

  She pushes these thoughts aside as she stares down at the keys. How long has it been since she last played? Weeks? Months? A sudden, acute feeling of anguish steals the air from her lungs, making her gasp, and tears form in her eyes.

  No. Not here. She will not break down here. She clutches the piano in an effort to fight off her heartache and her homesickness, realizing it’s been more than a month since she last played. So much has happened since then.

  She shudders and takes a deep breath, forcing a feeling of calm. She stretches her fingers and strokes the keys.

  White. Black.

  The mere touch soothes her. She wants to savor this precious moment and lose herself in her music. Gently, she pushes down the keys, sounding an E-minor chord. The sound rings clear and strong, a bold and verdant green, the color of the Mister’s eyes, and Alessia’s heart fills with hope. The Steinway is tuned to perfection. She launches into her warm-up piece, “Le Coucou”; the keys move with ease and a smooth, fluid action. Her fingers fly across the keyboard vivace, and the stress, fear, and sorrow of the last few weeks fade and finally mute as she loses herself in the colors of the music.

  * * *

  One of the Trevelyan London homes is on Cheyne Walk, a brisk stroll from my flat. Built in 1771 by Robert Adam, Trevelyan House had been Kit’s home since our father died. For me it holds many childhood memories—some happy, some less so—and now it’s mine to do with as I wish. Well, it’s held in trust for me. Faced once more with my new reality, I shake my head and pull the collar of my coat up to fight the biting cold, cold that seems to emanate not from outside but from within me.

  What the hell am I supposed to do with this house?

  It’s been two days since I saw Caroline, and I know she’s furious with me, but I will have to face her sooner or later. Standing on the doorstep, I contemplate whether or not to use my key. I’ve always had a key to the house, but to burst in unannounced feels like an intrusion.

  Taking a deep breath, I knock twice. After a few moments, the front door opens and Blake, the family’s butler since before I was born, answers the door.

  “Lord Trevethick,” he says, bowing his balding head and holding open the door.

  “Is that really necessary, Blake?” I ask as I stride into the entrance hall. Blake remains mute as he takes my coat. “How’s Mrs. Blake?”

  “She’s well, my lord. Greatly saddened by recent events, though.”

  “As are we all. Is Caroline at home?”

  “Yes, my lord. I believe Lady Trevethick is in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see myself up.”

  “Of course. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Oh, and, Blake, as I said last week, ‘sir’ will suffice.”

  Blake pauses, then gives me a nod. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  I want to roll my eyes. I was the Honourable Maxim Trevelyan and referred to as “Master Maxim” here. “Lord” applied only to my father, then my brother. It will take me some time to get accustomed to my new title.

  I bound up the wide staircase and along the landing into the drawing room. It’s empty except for the overstuffed sofas and elegant Queen Anne furniture that has been in the family for generations. The drawing room opens onto a conservatory that has a spectacular view of the Thames, Cadogan Pier, and Albert Bridge. There I find Caroline, nestled in an armchair, wrapped in a cashmere shawl, and staring out the windows. She clutches a small blue handkerchief.

  “Hi,” I say as I stride in. Caroline turns a tearstained face toward me, her eyes red and puffy.

  Shit.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” she snaps.

  “Caro,” I begin, ready to placate her.

  “Don’t Caro me, you wanker,” she snarls as she stands up, fists clenched.

  Shit. She is really angry.

  “What have I done now?”

  “You know what you’ve done. Why haven’t you answered my calls? It’s been two days!”

  “I’ve had a lot to think about, and I’ve been busy.”

  “You? Busy? Maxim, you wouldn’t know busy if you tripped and stuck your dick in it.”

  I blanch and then laugh at the image.

  Caroline relaxes a little. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m angry with you.” Her lips form a pout.

  “You have a way with words.” I open my arms, and she walks into my embrace.

  “Why didn’t you call?” she asks as she hugs me back, her anger dissipating.

  “It’s a lot to take on board,” I whisper as I hold her. “I needed time to think.”

  “Alone?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t want to lie. Monday night I was with, um…Heather, and last night it was…What was her name? Dawn.

  Caroline sniffs and steps out of my arms. “I thought as much. I know you too well, Maxim. What was she like?”

  I shrug as an image of Heather’s lips around my cock comes to mind.

  Caroline sighs. “You’re such a whore,” she says with her usual disdain.

  How can I deny it?

  Caroline of all people knows about my nocturnal pursuits. She has a collection of choice epithets to describe me and regularly berates me for my promiscuity.

  Yet she still went to bed with me.

  “You’re whoring your way through your grief while I had to endure dinner with Daddy and the Stepsow alone. It was awful,” she quips. “And last night I was lonely.”

  “I’m sorry,” I answer, because I can’t think of what else to say.

  “You saw the lawyers?” She changes the subject, giving me a direct look.

  I nod, and I have to acknowledge that this is another reason I’ve been avoiding her.

  “Oh, no,” she whimpers. “You look so grave. I’ve got nothing, have I?” Her eyes are wide with fear and grief.

  I place my hands on her shoulders and break it to her gently. “Everything is in trust for me as heir.”

  Caroline lets out a sob and covers her mouth as tears fill her eyes. “Damn him,” she whispers.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll work something out,” I murmur, and hold her once more.

  “I loved him,” she says, her voice small and quiet, like a child’s.

  “I know. We both did.” Though I know she also loved Kit’s title and his wealth.

  “You’re not going to evict me?”

  I take the handkerchief from her hand and wipe each of her eyes. “No, of course not. You’re my brother’s widow and my best friend.”

  “But that’s all?” She gives me a wa
tery but bitter smile, and I kiss her forehead in lieu of answering her question.

  “Your coffee, sir,” Blake says from the entrance to the conservatory.

  Immediately I drop my arms and step away from Caroline. Blake enters, his face expressionless, and he’s holding a tray laden with cups, milk, a silver coffeepot, and my favorite biscuits—plain chocolate digestives.

  “Thank you, Blake,” I respond, trying to ignore the slow flush I feel creeping up my neck.

  Brazen this out.

  Blake places the tray on the table beside the sofa. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “For now, thank you.” My tone is sharper than I intended.

  Blake exits the room, and Caroline pours the coffee. My shoulders slump with relief at Blake’s departure. And I hear my mother’s voice ringing in my head: Not in front of the staff.

  I’m still holding Caroline’s damp handkerchief. I stare at it and frown, recalling a fragment from a dream I had last night—or was it this morning? A young woman, an angel? Possibly the Virgin Mary or a nun in blue standing in my bedroom doorway watching over me as I slept.

  What the hell does that mean?

  I’m not religious.

  “What?” asks Caroline.

  I shake my head. “Nothing,” I murmur, taking the cup of coffee she offers and giving her back her handkerchief.