The Mister

“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.”