The Mister

Baba.

Her mood nosedives.

* * *

We lunch at Rick Stein’s Café. Alessia’s quiet, and when we order our food, she’s

a little subdued. I wonder if it’s because I’ve spent money on her clothes. Once the waitress has taken our order, I reach over and take Alessia’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Alessia, don’t worry about the money. For the clothes. Please.” She gives me a tight smile and takes a sip of her sparkling water.

“What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head.

“Tell me,” I insist.

She shakes her head again, turning away to stare out the window.

Something is off.

Shit. Have I upset her?

“Alessia?”

She turns back to face me, and she looks distraught.

Fuck.

“What is it?”

She gazes at me, dark eyes clouded with misery, and it’s like a knife to my gut.

“Tell me.”

“I cannot pretend I am on holiday,” she says softly. “You buy me all these things, and I can never pay you the money. And I don’t know what will happen to me when we go back to London. And I am thinking about my father and what he would do to me”—she pauses and swallows—“and to you, if he knew what we had done. I know what he would call me. And I’m tired. I’m tired of being afraid.” Her voice is a raw whisper, and tears shine in her eyes. She looks directly at me. “That is what I am thinking.”

I stare back. Paralyzed, but empty and aching. For her.

“That’s a lot to think about,” I murmur.

The waitress returns with our food and cheerily places my Californian chicken sandwich in front of me and the butternut squash soup in front of Alessia. “Everything okay?” she asks.

“Yes. Fine. Thanks,” I say, dismissing her.

Alessia picks up her spoon and stirs her soup while I’m helpless and floundering for something to say. Her voice barely audible, she says, “I am not your problem, Maxim.”

“I never said you were.”

“That is not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, Alessia. Whatever happens between us, I want to be sure you’re okay.”

She gives me a sad smile. “I am grateful. Thank you.”

Her response angers me. I don’t want her gratitude. I think she’s got some old-fashioned notion about being my mistress. And what her father has to do with us, I don’t know. It’s 2019. Not 1819.

What the hell does she want?

Fuck. What do I want?

I watch as she lifts her soup spoon to her lips, her face pale and sad.

At least she’s eating.

What do I want? From her?

I’ve had her beautiful body.

And it’s not enough.

It hits me. Like a sledgehammer. Right between the eyes.

I want her heart.

Fuck.

Chapter Seventeen

Love. Confusing. Irrational. Frustrating…Exhilarating. This is what it feels like. I am madly, crazily, ridiculously in love with the woman sitting opposite me.

My daily. Alessia Demachi.

I’ve felt like this since I first laid eyes on her standing in my hallway clutching a broom. I remember how disconcerted I was….How angry. How the walls closed in on me and I had to escape because I didn’t understand the depth of my feelings. This is what I was running from. I thought I was just wildly attracted to her. But no. It’s not just her body I crave. It’s never been just that. I’m drawn to her in a way I’ve never been to any other woman. I love her. That’s why I went after her when she fled to Brentford. That’s why I brought her here. I want to protect her. I want her happy. I want her with me.

Fuck.

It’s a revelation.

And she has no idea who I am or what I do. And I know so little about her. In fact, I have no idea how she feels about me. Yet she’s here with me, so surely that means something. I think she likes me. But then again what choice does she have? I’m her only option. She was afraid, and she had nowhere to run. And on some level I knew that, and I tried to stay away from her, but I couldn’t, because she’s carved her way into my heart.

I’ve fallen in love with my cleaner.

Well, this is a fine fucking mess.

And now she’s finally opening up to me—but in spite of all I’ve done, she’s still afraid. I’ve not done enough. My appetite evaporates.

“I am sorry. I did not want to be the kill buzz,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.

“Kill buzz?”

She frowns. “My English?”

“I think you mean buzzkill.”

Her smile is halfhearted.

“You’re not,” I reassure her. “We’ll figure this out, Alessia. You’ll see.”

She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. “You are not hungry?”

I eye my chicken sandwich, and my stomach rumbles. She giggles, and it’s the most wonderful sound in the world.

“That’s better.” I delight in her amusement, relieved that she’s recovered her sense of humor, and I turn my attention back to my meal.

* * *

Alessia relaxes. She can’t remember talking about her feelings to him before, and he doesn’t seem angry with her. When he glances at her, his eyes are warm, his expression reassuring.

We’ll figure this out, Alessia. You’ll see.

She looks down at her butternut squash soup, her appetite returning. She marvels at the chain of events that has brought her here. When her mother put her into the minibus on the freezing back road in Kukës, she knew that her life would change beyond all recognition. She had such hope for a new life in England. She didn’t expect the journey to be so hard, or so dangerous. And the irony was that she had been trying to run from danger.

And yet it brought her to him.

Mister Maxim.

He of the handsome face and easy laugh and brilliant smile. She watches him as he eats. He has impeccable table manners. He’s neat and tidy and chews with his mouth closed. Her English grandmother, who was a stickler for manners, would have approved.

When he looks across at her, his eyes are a luminous green. The most extraordinary color. The color of the Drin. The color of her home.

She could watch him all day.

He gives her a reassuring smile. “Okay?” he asks.

Alessia nods. She loves the warmth of his smile when he looks at her, and she loves the heat in his eyes…when he wants her. She blushes and looks down at her soup. She never expected to fall in love.

Love is for fools, her mother used to say.

Maybe she is a fool, but she loves him. And she’s told him. But of course he doesn’t understand her native tongue.

“Hey,” he says.

She looks up. He’s eaten his food.

“How’s your soup?”

“It is good.”

“Well, eat up. I’d like to get you home.”

“Okay,” she says, and she likes the idea of “home.” She’d like to make her home with him. Permanently. But she knows it’s not possible.

A girl can dream.

* * *

The drive back to Trevethick is more muted than their earlier journey. Maxim is preoccupied and listening to strange music playing over the sound system. Their stop at a supermarket called Tesco on the way out of Padstow has yielded all the ingredients Alessia needs to make tavë kosi, her father’s favorite dish. She hopes Maxim will like it. She gazes out at the passing countryside. Still cloaked in winter, the landscape reminds her of home. Though here the trees are cropped short and warped by the bitter Cornish wind.

She wonders how Magda and Michal are getting on in Brentford. It’s Sunday, so Michal will probably be doing his school homework or online gaming, and Magda will be cooking or talking to her fiancé, Logan, via Skype, or maybe she’s packing for their move to Canada. Alessia hopes they are safe. She glances at Maxim, who see

ms lost in his own thoughts; he would know how Magda and Michal are if he’s been in touch with his friend. Maybe he’ll let her use his phone later, and she can catch up with the news from home.

No, Brentford is not her home.

She doesn’t know where her next home will be.

Determined to keep her spirits up, she lets go of that thought and listens once more to the extraordinary sounds coming from the sound system. The colors are clashing: purples, reds, turquoise…it’s like nothing she’s heard before.

“What is this music?” she asks.

“It’s from the soundtrack of Arrival.”

“Arrival?”

“The film.”

“Oh.”

“Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“It’s great. A real headfuck. About time and language and the difficulties of communication. We can watch it at home. Do you like the music?”

“Yes. It’s strange. Expressive. And colorful.”

His smile is brief. Too brief. He has been brooding. She wonders if he’s dwelling on their earlier conversation. She has to know. “Are you angry with me?”

“No. Of course not! Why would I be angry with you?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. You are quiet.”

“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“I am sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong. If anything…” He trails off.

“You have not done anything wrong,” she says.

“I’m glad you think that.” He gives her a quick, sincere smile that dispels her doubts.

“Is there any food you don’t eat?” she asks, and wishes she’d found out before they went shopping.

“No. I eat pretty much anything. I went to boarding school,” he answers, as if this explains his entire ethos on food. But Alessia’s knowledge of boarding schools is limited to Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers, a favorite book series of her grandmother.

“Did you like it?” she asks.