The Mister

She peeks up at him but doesn’t understand what he wants. His smile isn’t as broad this time, and his brow is furrowed.

“Hi,” she says, uncertain what’s expected of her.

He nods and shuffles from one foot to the other, hesitant. She thinks he might say something further, but he turns and leaves the kitchen.

* * *

What an idiot I am! I mimic “Hi” to myself in ridicule. I’ve thought of nothing but this girl all weekend, and the best I can come up with is, “I just wanted to say hi?”

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I wander back to my bedroom and notice a trail of wet footprints on the hallway floor.

Did she walk barefoot in the rain? Surely not!

My room is gloomy, and the view across the Thames is drab and uninspiring. The rain is lashing down outside. It had been pelting against the window early this morning and the noise had woken me. Shit. She must have walked through this atrocious weather. Again I wonder where she lives and how far she has to come. I had hoped to engage her in some conversation this morning to find out these details, but I can tell I make her uncomfortable.

Is it me or is it men in general?

/>   It’s a troubling thought. Maybe I’m the one who’s uncomfortable. After all, she chased me out of the flat last week and the idea that I fled to avoid her is disconcerting. I resolve not to let it happen again.

The fact is, she’s inspired me. The whole weekend I’ve immersed myself in my music. It’s provided a distraction from all my newfound and unwanted responsibility and a respite from my grief—or maybe I’ve found a way to channel my grief…I don’t know. I have three pieces completed, sketchy ideas for two more, and I’m tempted to put lyrics to one of them. I’ve ignored my phone, my e-mail—everyone, and for once in my life I’ve found solace in my own company. It’s been a revelation. Who knew I could be so productive? What I don’t understand is why she’s affected me like this when we’ve only exchanged a few words. It doesn’t make sense to me, but I don’t want to overthink it.

I pick up my phone from the bedside table and look down at the bed. The bedding is in complete disarray.

Bloody hell, I’m a slob.

Hastily, I make the bed. From the pile of clothes discarded on my sofa, I grab a black-hooded sweatshirt and slip it on over my T-shirt. It’s chilly. With wet feet she’s probably cold, too. In the hallway I stop and turn the thermostat up by a few degrees. I don’t like the idea of her feeling the cold.

She comes out of the kitchen carrying an empty laundry basket and a plastic caddy full of cleaning fluids and cloths. Head down, she walks right past me toward my bedroom. I regard her retreating figure in the shapeless housecoat: long pale legs, a gentle sway of slim hips…are those bright pink underpants I can see through the nylon? From beneath the headscarf a rich brunette plait snakes down her back to just above the line of her pink underwear, and it swings from side to side as she walks. I know I should look away, but I’m distracted by her underwear. They cover her backside and come up to her waist. They are possibly the largest knickers I’ve seen on a woman. And my body stirs like I’m a thirteen-year-old boy.

Fuck! I groan inwardly, feeling like a pervert, and resist the urge to follow her. Instead I head into the drawing room, where I sit down at my computer to work through my e-mails from Oliver and ignore my lust and my daily, Alessia Demachi.

* * *

Alessia is surprised to find that his bed has been made. Every time she’s been to his apartment, this room has always been a mess. There is still a pile of clothes on the sofa, but it looks tidier than she’s ever seen it. She opens the curtains fully and stares out at the river. “Thames.” She whispers the word aloud, her voice wavering a little.

It’s dark and gray like the naked trees on the opposite bank…not like the Drin. Not like home. Here it’s urban and crowded, so crowded. Back at home she was surrounded by fertile countryside and snowcapped mountains. She sweeps away the painful thought of home. She is here to do a job—a job she wants because it comes with the added bonus of the piano. She wonders if he’s going to be here all day, and the thought that he might bothers her. His presence will keep her from playing her favorite pieces.

But on the plus side, she gets to see him.

The man who’s been dominating her dreams.

She has to stop thinking about him. Now. With a heavy heart, she begins to hang some of the scattered clothes in his walk-in closet. Those that she thinks need washing she places in the laundry basket.

* * *

The aroma of evergreen and sandalwood lingers in his bathroom. It’s a pleasant, masculine scent. She takes a moment to inhale deeply and savor it like she did before. His striking eyes come to mind…and his broad shoulders…and flat belly. She sprays the bathroom mirror with Windolene and rubs energetically.

Stop! Stop! Stop!

He’s her employer, and he would never be interested in her. After all, she’s just his cleaner.

Her last job in his bedroom is to empty the trash. To her disbelief she finds the basket empty. There are no used condoms. She places it back beside his nightstand, and for some inexplicable reason the empty basket makes her smile.

Gathering up the laundry and her cleaning materials, she gazes for a moment at the two monochrome photographs on the wall. Both are nudes. In one a woman is kneeling, her skin pale and translucent. The soles of her feet, her behind, and the graceful curve of her back are all visible, and she holds her blond hair piled up on her head; a few stray tresses kiss her neck. The model, from this angle anyway, is beautiful. The second photograph is a close-up and shows the contour of a woman’s neck, her hair swept aside, and the arch of her spine from the first few vertebrae down to her backside. Her ebony skin is luminous, caressed by the light. She’s stunning. Alessia sighs. Judging by these photographs, he must like women, and she wonders if he is the photographer. Maybe one day he might take her photograph. She shakes her head at her fanciful thoughts and returns to the kitchen to tackle the chaos of take-away boxes, empty beer bottles, and washing-up.

* * *

I’ve set aside all the condolence letters and e-mails to answer at a later date—I cannot face them yet. And how the fuck did Kit manage to get his head around farming subsidies and animal husbandry and all the other crap that goes with cultivating and grazing thousands of acres of land? For a fleeting moment, I wish I’d taken farm management or business studies at university, rather than fine art and music.

Kit had been reading economics at the LSE when our father died. Ever the dutiful son, he’d dropped out of the LSE and enrolled in the Duchy of Cornwall’s university to study farming and estate management. With thirty thousand acres to oversee, I now understand that it was a sensible decision. Kit was always sensible, except when it came to riding his motorbike in the middle of winter through Trevethick’s freezing lanes. I put my head in my hands as I remember his broken body lying in the mortuary.

Why, Kit, why? I ask for the thousandth time.

The worsening weather through the glass wall reflects my mood. I stand and walk over to look at the view. On the river there are a couple of barges heading in opposite directions, a police launch cruising east, and the river bus heading to Cadogan Pier. I scowl at the scene. During all the time I’ve lived this close to the pier, I’ve never taken the river bus. As a child I’d always hoped my mother would take me and Maryanne, but it never happened. She was always too busy. Always. And she never instructed our various nannies to take us. That’s another grievance I have against Rowena. Of course, Kit wasn’t with us then—he was already at boarding school.

Shaking my head, I walk around the piano and spy the sheet music I’ve been working on all weekend. The sight of the pages lifts my mood, and to take a break from my computer, I sit down to play.

* * *

Of the three kitchens Alessia cleans, this is her favorite. The wall, base cupboards and worktops are made of pale blue glass that is easy to wipe down. It’s sleek and uncluttered—so different from the haphazard rural kitchen of her parents’ home. She checks the oven, just in case the Mister has baked something, but she finds it’s still pristine. Alessia suspects it has never been used.

She is drying the last plate when the music begins. She stops, recognizing the melody immediately. It’s from the manuscript she’s seen so many times on his piano, but the melody goes further than she’s read, the notes soft and sad, falling in mournful blues and grays around her.

This she has to see.

With quiet care she places the plate on the worktop and sneaks out of the kitchen toward the living room. She peers in and sees him at the piano. Eyes closed, he’s feeling the music, every note expressed on his face. As she watches him—his brow furrowed, head tilted, lips parted—he takes her breath away.

She’s captivated.

By him.

By the music.

He’s talented.

The piece is sad, full of longing and grief, and the notes echo through her head in subtler tones of blue and gray now that she’s watching him. He really is

the most handsome man she’s ever seen. He’s even more handsome than—No!

Ice-blue eyes stare at me. Furious.

No. Stop thinking about that monstrous man!

She halts the memory. It’s too painful. And she concentrates on the Mister as the melancholic melody draws to its end. Before he spots her, Alessia tiptoes back to the kitchen—she doesn’t want to make him cross again by being caught peeking and not working.

As she finishes washing the worktop, she replays his composition in her head. And now the only room she has left to clean is the living room—where he is.

Plucking up her courage, she grabs some polish and a cloth, ready to face him. She hovers at the entrance while he stares at his computer. He glances up and sees her, his face registering pleased surprise.

“It is okay, Mister?” she asks, and waves the can of polish in the direction of the room.

“Sure. Come in. Do what you need to do, Alessia. And my name’s Maxim.”

She gives him a quick smile and starts with the sofa, plumping the cushions and sweeping the odd crumb onto the floor with her hand.

* * *

Well, this is distracting….

How can I possibly concentrate with her moving about in such close proximity? I pretend to read the revised cost-to-complete for the remodeling of the Mayfair mansion blocks, but really I’m watching her. She moves with such easy, sensuous grace; bending over the sofa, lithe, toned arms reaching out and delicate, long-fingered hands cupping the crumbs from the seat cushions and brushing them off. A frisson runs through me, and my whole body is suddenly humming with a delicious tension, attuned to her presence in the room.