The Mister

by James, E L

  “I’ve already written and told her that you arrived safely. That was a lie.”

  Alessia flushes. Magda does not know the full story of her journey to Brentford. “Please,” she says. “I don’t want to worry her.”

  “Alessia, if they catch you, you’ll be deported to Albania—” Magda stops.

  “I know,” Alessia whispers, and a trickle of sweat runs down her spine as fear tightens her throat. “I cannot go back,” she mouths.

  “You realize that Michal and I are leaving in two weeks. You have to find somewhere else to stay.”

  “I know. I know. I’ll find something.” Anxiety flutters in Alessia’s stomach. Every night she lies in bed going through her options. So far she has saved three hundred pounds from her cleaning work. She will need the money for a deposit on a room. With Michal’s help and the use of his laptop, she will try to find a place to live.

  “I’ll get supper started,” Magda says with a sigh as she stubs out her cigarette. The smoke swirls out of the ashtray, blending with the tension in the room.

  “Let me help,” Alessia responds.

  * * *

  Later Alessia is huddled on her cot, staring at the ceiling. With her fingers she worries the gold cross she wears around her neck. The light from the streetlamp shines through the sheer curtains across the old, peeling wallpaper. Her mind races as she tries not to panic. Earlier, after an hour searching online, she’d found a room in a house that is near Kew Bridge station. Magda says that it’s not far from here. Alessia has an appointment to see it on Friday evening when she’s back from cleaning the Mister’s apartment. She can barely afford it, but she needs to move, especially if the immigration department is catching up with her. She cannot be deported. She cannot go back to Albania.

  She cannot.

  She turns over to escape the shaft of light and snuggles up in the thin duvet to preserve as much warmth as she can. Thoughts swirl in her head, overwhelming her. She wants them to stop.

  Don’t think about Albania.

  Don’t think about this journey.

  Don’t think about the other girls…about Bleriana.

  She closes her eyes, and immediately she sees the Mister asleep on the sofa, his hair a mess, his lips parted. She remembers lying on him. She remembers his swift kiss. She imagines that she’s lying on him again, inhaling his scent and kissing his skin and feeling the steady beat of his heart against her breast.

  I missed you.

  She groans.

  Every night he occupies her thoughts. He is handsome. More than handsome—he is beautiful and kind.

  I love hearing you play.

  He drove her home. He didn’t have to do that.

  You could stay here.

  Stay with him?

  Perhaps she could ask him for help.

  No. Her situation is her problem. It’s not of her making, but it’s one she must deal with. She has made it this far on nothing but her ingenuity. And there’s no way in hell she’s going back to Kukës. Not to him.

  He’s shaking me hard. Stop this. Stop this now.

  No. Don’t think of him!

  He’s the reason she’s in England. She has put as many miles as she can between them.

  Think of the Mister. Only the Mister.

  Her hand travels down her body.

  Think only of him….

  What had he called her? What is it called?

  Synesthesia…She repeats the name over and over and over while her hand moves and takes her higher and higher.

  * * *

  The following morning she wakes to a white wonderland. It’s so quiet. Even the distant hum of traffic is muffled by the blanket of sparkling snow. As she looks out her bedroom window, still huddled under her covers, she feels the same rush of delight she always experienced as a child when it snowed in Kukës. Then she remembers that today she is cleaning Mrs. Kingsbury’s house. On the plus side, it’s in Brentford and only a short walk away. On the minus, it’s Mrs. Kingsbury, who follows her through the house criticizing her cleaning methods. But Alessia suspects that Mrs. Kingsbury grouses because she’s a lonely old lady, and in spite of her complaining she always offers Alessia tea and biscuits when she’s finished. They sit and chat, and Mrs. Kingsbury tries to keep her there for as long as possible. Alessia doesn’t understand why Mrs. Kingsbury lives on her own. She’s seen photographs of her family on her mantelpiece. Why aren’t they taking care of her? After all, Nana lived with her parents after her grandfather died…Perhaps Mrs. Kingsbury needs a lodger? Someone to look after her. She certainly has the room, and after all, Alessia is lonely, too.

  Dressed only in Michal’s tatty SpongeBob SquarePants pj bottoms and his old Arsenal football shirt, she gathers her clothes for the day and bolts down the stairs and through the kitchen into the bathroom.

  Magda has been generous with Michal’s old clothing. She often complains he’s growing too fast, but it’s been to Alessia’s advantage. Most of the clothes she owns were once his. Except socks. Michal wears huge holes in them, so he can’t hand them down. She has two pairs of her own, but that’s all.

  Don’t you wear socks?

  Alessia flushes, remembering the Mister’s comment from yesterday. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him she can’t afford new ones. Not while she’s saving for a deposit on a room.

  She switches on the electric shower that is mounted over the bath and waits a few moments for the water to heat up. She strips off her clothes, climbs into the bathtub, and washes as quickly as possible beneath the trickle of water.

  * * *

  My hands are braced on the shower wall. I’m panting while steaming hot water cascades over me. I’ve been reduced to jerking off in the shower…again.

  Fuck. What has become of my life?

  Why don’t I just go out and get laid?

  Her eyes, the color of a rich espresso, peek up at me through long lashes.

  I groan.

  This has to stop.

  She’s my fucking daily. Last night I tossed and turned alone in my bed again. Her laugh echoed over and over in my dreams. She was carefree and happy, playing the piano for me, wearing nothing but those pink panties, her hair falling long and lush past her breasts.

  Ah…

  Even my grueling workout this morning had done little to get her out of my system.

  There is only one way.

  That’s not going to happen.

  But the smile she gave me when she stepped out of the car, it gives me hope, and I’ll see her tomorrow. With that positive thought, I turn off the shower and grab a towel. As I shave, I check my phone. Oliver has messaged me. He’s stuck in Cornwall because of the weather, which means I can spend the morning replying to condolence e-mails and then have lunch with Caroline and Maryanne. And this evening I’m going out with the lads.

  * * *

  “Finally got you out of your lair. Should I address you as ‘Lord Trevethick’ or ‘milord’ now, bro?” Joe says as he holds up his pint of Fuller’s in salute.

  “Yes. I don’t know whether to address you as ‘Trevethick’ or ‘Trevelyan’ now,” Tom grumbles.

  “I’ll answer to either,” I reply with a shrug. “Or my name—you know, Maxim.”

  “I should call you Trevethick from now on…though it will be hard to get used to. It is your title, after all, and I know my father is bloody touchy about his!”

  “Thank fuck I’m not your father.” I raise a brow.

  Tom rolls his eyes.

  “Won’t be the same without Kit around,” Joe mutters, his ebony eyes glinting in the firelight and serious for once.

  “Yes, rest in peace, Kit,” Tom adds.

  Joseph Diallo and Thomas Alexander are my oldest and closest friends. After I’d been expelled from Eton, my father sent me to Bedales. There I met J
oe, Tom, and Caroline. We boys bonded over our love of music and, at the time, our lust for Caroline. We formed a band, and Caroline…well, she’d eventually chosen my brother.

  “Rest in peace, Kit,” I murmur, and add under my breath, “I miss you, you fucker.”

  The three of us are ensconced in the snug at the Coopers Arms, a warm and welcoming public house not far from my flat. Nursing our pints by the blazing fire, we’re two rounds in, and I’m beginning to feel the beer buzz.

  “How are you holding up, mate?” Joe asks, tossing his shoulder-length dreads to one side. Joe, as well as being an excellent swordsman, has a promising career as a men’s fashion designer. His father, an émigré from Senegal, is one of the most successful hedge-fund managers in the UK.

  “Good, I guess. But I’m not sure I’m ready for all the responsibility.”

  “I get it,” Tom says. Red-haired and amber-eyed, Tom is the third son of a baronet, who followed family tradition by joining the army. As a lieutenant in the Coldstream Guards, he did a couple of tours of duty in Afghanistan and saw too many of his comrades fall. Two years ago he was invalided out of the army from wounds inflicted two years prior by an IED in Kabul. His left leg is held together by titanium, his temper not so much. Both Joe and I have come to recognize that pugnacious gleam in Tom’s eyes, and we know when it’s prudent to change the subject or get him out of the room. At his request we never mention The Incident.

  “When is the memorial service?” Tom inquires.

  “I was discussing that at lunchtime with Caroline and Maryanne. We thought after Easter.”

  “How’s Caroline?”

  I shift in my seat. “Grieving.” I shrug, giving Tom a level gaze.

  Tom regards me, eyes narrowed, his interest piqued. “Something you not telling us?”

  Shit.

  Following The Incident, not only is Tom belligerent but he’s become irritatingly insightful. “Come on, Trevelyan, you’re not playing with a straight bat. What is it?”

  “No. Nothing you need to know. How’s Henrietta?”

  “Henry? She’s great, thanks, but she keeps dropping bloody almighty hints that I need to buck up and pop the fucking question,” Tom replies with a doleful look.

  Joe and I both grin. “You’re a doomed man, bro,” Joe says, and claps him on the back.

  Of the three of us, Tom is the only one in a long-term relationship. Henrietta is a saint. She nursed Tom through the trauma of his injuries, and she puts up with all of his bullshit, his PTSD, his temper. He could do a lot worse.

  Both Joe and I like to play the field. Well, I used to. Unbidden, a vision of the raven-haired Alessia Demachi comes to my mind.

  When did I last have sex?

  I frown because I can’t remember. Shit.

  “And Maryanne?” Joe asks, distracting me.

  “She’s okay. Grieving, too.”

  “Does she need comforting?”

  Comforting like I comforted Caroline?

  “Mate!” I scoff in warning.

  House rules. Sisters are off-limits. I shake my head. Joseph still has a not-so-soft spot for my sister. She could do a lot worse, he’s a good guy, but I decide to burst his bubble. “She met some bloke while she was skiing in Whistler. He lives in Seattle. He’s a clinical psychologist or something. She plans to see him soon, I think.”

  Joe gives me a quizzical look. “Really?” He rubs his rakish goatee, his eyes full of speculation. “Well, if he makes it over here, we’ll have to see if this geezer measures up.”

  “He may be coming over next month. She’s pretty excited about it.”

  “You know, now that you’re the earl, you’ll need to provide an heir and a spare,” Tom says.

  “Yeah, yeah. Time enough for that yet.”

  That’s what I’ve always been. The Spare…Kit’s nickname for me.

  It turns out the title and lands needed the spare.

  “Yeah. There’s no way you’re ready to settle down, mate. You’re as much of a serial shagger as I am. And I need a wingman,” Joe says with a broad grin.

  “Come on, Trevelyan, you’ve shagged your way through most of London,” Tom taunts, and I don’t know if he’s disgusted or impressed.

  “Fuck off, Tom,” I say, and we all laugh.

  The pub’s landlady rings the bell above the bar. “Time, gentlemen, please,” she calls.

  “Back to mine?” I ask. Both Tom and Joe agree, and the three of us sink our pints. “You okay to walk back?” I ask Tom.

  “Fuck off. I got myself here, didn’t I?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “I’m running a fucking 5K in April, you wanker.”

  I hold my hands up in surrender. I keep forgetting that physically he’s mended….

  * * *

  It is clear and sunny but bitterly cold, a day where her breath precedes her in a cloud of vapor as she hurries along Chelsea Embankment. There are still large patches of snow welded in icy clumps to the sidewalks, but the roads have been sanded. Traffic has returned to normal, and London is up and running again. Alessia’s train was delayed this morning, and now she’s a little late. But she would have happily walked from Brentford just to see him.

  Alessia grins. She is finally at the front door to the Mister’s apartment, her favorite place in the world. She slips her key in the lock and braces herself for the sound of the alarm but is relieved at the silence. Closing the door, she’s surprised by the smell. The apartment reeks of stale alcohol.

  Crinkling her nose at the unexpected odor, she removes her boots and pads barefoot into the kitchen. The worktops are littered with empty bottles of beer and greasy pizza boxes.

  She jumps when she sees an athletic, attractive young man standing at the open fridge drinking orange juice directly from the carton. His skin is dark, he has long, knotted hair, and he’s dressed only in his boxer shorts. Alessia gapes at him. He turns toward her, and his face erupts in a broad grin of perfect white teeth.

  “Well, hi there,” he says, his dark eyes widening in appreciation.

  Alessia blushes and mumbles, “Hi,” then scurries into the laundry room.

  Who is this man?

  She scrambles out of her coat, and from her plastic bag slips on her cleaning uniform: housecoat and headscarf. Lastly she slides her feet into her sneakers.

  Alessia peeks around the laundry room door into the kitchen. The Mister, wearing a black T-shirt and his ripped jeans, is standing beside the fridge sharing the carton of orange juice with the stranger.

  “I just frightened your barefoot help. You tapped that yet? She’s hot.”

  “Fuck off, Joe. And I’m not surprised you frightened her. Put some clothes on, you fucking exhibitionist.”

  “Sorry, your lordship.” The stranger tugs at his hair and bows his head.

  “Fuck off again,” the Mister says mildly, and he takes another swig of orange juice. “You can use my bathroom.”

  The dark-haired man laughs and, turning to go, spies Alessia watching the banter. He grins again and waves at her, causing the Mister to look in her direction. His eyes light up, and a slow smile spreads across his face, and Alessia has no choice but to come out of hiding.

  “Joe, this is Alessia. Alessia, Joe.” There is a warning tone to his voice, but Alessia doesn’t know if it is directed at her or at Joe.

  “Good morning, Alessia. Please excuse my state of undress.” Joe gives her a theatrical bow, and when he’s upright, he has a wicked, amused glint in his dark eyes. His body is toned and lean—like the Mister’s. Each muscle of his abdomen is clearly defined.

  “Good morning,” she whispers.

  The Mister gives Joe a brooding glare. But Joe ignores him and winks at Alessia before he strolls out of the kitchen, whistling.

  “Sorry about that,” the Mi
ster says as he turns emerald eyes on her. “How are you today?” His slow smile returns.

  Her flush deepens as her heart somersaults. Any inquiry he makes about her well-being, even one so commonplace, lifts her spirits.

  “I am good. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you made it here. The trains running okay?”

  “They are a little late.”

  “Good morning.” A man with fiery red hair limps into the kitchen wearing only his boxer shorts and a scowl.

  “Good God,” the Mister mumbles under his breath, and he scrapes his hand through his tousled hair.

  Alessia regards this new friend who has joined them. Tall and handsome, his limbs are fair, with shockingly livid scars that crisscross his left leg and his left side like the tracks at a railway junction.

  He notices Alessia staring at his scars.

  “War wound,” he growls.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and she lowers her gaze to the floor, wishing it would open and swallow her whole.

  “Tom, do you want some coffee?” the Mister asks, and it seems to Alessia he’s trying to defuse the sudden tension in the room.

  “Bloody right. I need something for this god-awful hangover.”

  Alessia scuttles back into the laundry room to start on the ironing. At least she’s out of sight and won’t offend any of the Mister’s friends from in there.

  * * *

  I watch Alessia’s hasty retreat into the scullery, her plait bouncing from side to side and brushing her waist.

  “Who’s the pretty girl?”

  “My daily.”

  Tom nods with lascivious approval. I’m glad she’s gone back into her lair, away from Tom’s and Joe’s prying eyes. Their reaction makes me uneasy. Suddenly, surprisingly, I feel proprietary. It’s an unfamiliar emotion. I don’t want my friends ogling her. She’s mine. Well, she’s my employee.

  You’re the Earl of Trevethick now. She’ll need to go on the payroll.