The Man In The Mirror

I worked all day long, but my mind wasn’t on it.

I couldn’t wait to talk to the woman and establish a good working relationship. Before Jillian poisoned her against me. I knew Jillian’s methods. A drop of invisible poison at a time, daily. Drop. Drop. Drop. Until the victim is a dead man.

I didn’t know what time to call, but when I had gone to visit my son last night, I had seen the room next to him had been aired and the door left open so I knew she was in the room next to Zackary. I could see his room from my quarters, which meant I could also see hers. I knew she would eat with the rest of the staff so I waited for her lights to come on. At half-past nine her light came on.

I had gone from paralyzed and broken in every sense of the word, to the present where a ray of light had filtered into my darkness. I clung to the hope that through her, little by little, I could ingratiate myself into my son’s world until the day he became old enough not to fear me anymore.

I placed a call on the intercom system and waited for her response. She didn’t answer immediately so I walked over to the window and I could see her shadow standing in the middle of the room. I wondered if she was still unaware of how the system worked. Then she walked forward and in a few seconds her voice came through.

“Mr. King?” she said. Her voice sent a shiver down my spine. It reminded me of being in a wood-paneled private room in a restaurant in France waiting for the waiter to uncork a 2003 bottle of Le Clos Du Mesnil. Listening to the sound of Krug gurgling into a glass. First the luxurious scent, then the dry taste of Krug on my tongue. Crisp bubbles breaking on my tongue, silky liquid running down my throat.

I found myself for a brief moment, unable to respond, to even speak. I couldn’t understand the effect that one single word had on me. I knew she was most probably not beautiful and almost definitely a married older woman. Except for her PA, Jillian did not like young staff. Her reasoning was she liked experienced staff, but I think she hated any woman who was younger than her.

“Mr. King?” she called huskily.

I cleared my throat. It was a long time since I spoke to a woman and my voice sounded strange even to my own ears. “How is Zackary?”

“He’s asleep. I put him to bed at the prescribed time, Sir.”

“Please call me Brett.”

There was a slight pause. “All right, Brett.”

“What is your name?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Conrad.” She sounded young, but she couldn’t be.

“How was his introduction to you?”

She sucked in her breath. For some weird reason I could almost picture her smile, pure and unrestrained. “He was quite shy at first, but as the day went on he became a bit more interactive.”

“He is naturally very quiet,” I said.

“Hmmm.”

I could tell that she was uncomfortable, but I still did not want to let her go. “What was his day like?”

“Well, we had a strange introduction. He threw up.”

“He threw up? Why? Is he alright?”

“He’s not sick or anything. Mrs. Blackmore said that it was probably due to him being too excited to see his mother.”

“Right.” My heart sank. There was something unnatural and unhealthy about my son’s attachment to his mother. He was too delicate, too afraid of everything. I was aware he needed a father figure.

“I was wondering—” She hesitated.

“Wondering what?”

“It’s nothing,” she replied.

“No, speak your mind.”

“I just expected that a boy of his age would spend a lot of time playing outside the house. The weather was so lovely today, but of course, he is not allowed to play outside.”

I frowned. “What do you mean by he is not allowed to play outside?”

For a few seconds she was quiet and I let the silence ride. I was getting to the bottom of this no matter what. “It’s in my instructions. Zackary isn’t allowed to play outside the house. I believe Madam may be concerned it would expose him to germs and diseases.”

I felt the fury like a molten ball of lava in my gut, burning. I felt sick and my hand shook with my anger. Thank God, she was not in the castle. If she had been I feared I would have been able to control myself from going to her room and giving her a fucking thrashing she would never forget. But what would be the point, anyway? She’d probably get a sexual kick out of it. What the hell was she trying to do? What else was she doing without my knowledge? What other restrictions were in the nanny’s list.

“Take him outside to play tomorrow,” I said.”

She took a deep breath.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she responded. “I will do as you say tomorrow, Brett.”

“Thank you,” I said and cut the connection. For an hour I paced the floor. Then I called Logan, my personal assistant in London, and asked him to get me a bottle of Le Clos Du Mesnil.

“What year, Mr. King?”

“2003.”

Two hours later I heard the helicopter land on the helipad. I waited fifteen minutes then I walked out of my bedroom. When the discreet knock came, I opened the door and Logan came in. The champagne was already inside an ice bucket and he had brought two flutes with him. He set everything on the table. “Would you like me to pour, Mr. King?”

“No, that will be fine, Logan. Thanks.”

He nodded and left.

I sat in front of the window. The nanny’s window was already dark. I lifted my glass in her direction. Things were going to change around here. I warned Jillian before. Our arrangement was only good while our son benefitted by it. She was sailing dangerously close to the edge.

I tipped the glass and let the bubbles break on my tongue. It was years since I last tasted it. Since I even wanted it. I didn’t want that life back. I could see it clearly now. How shallow and meaningless it was.

I thought of Zackary’s nanny sleeping peacefully in her bed and I wished her well. She had no idea she had woken me up from my deep sleep.

Chapter 10

Charlotte

The sound of the helicopter blades woke me up from my sleep. I had dozed off after reading my book. I could hear it getting closer and closer and then landing. Without switching on my light, I walked over to the window, but it must have landed on the other side of the castle. The helicopter was switched off and calm was restored to the night. I looked at the time. It was nearly midnight.

I lay back down on the bed and wondered if someone had arrived. Seemed a weird time to be arriving. Then again it was a weird household. Perhaps it was Mrs. King coming back. I thought about my conversation with Brett King. His voice was deep and smooth. It sounded like the voice of a very sophisticated, suave man of great culture and knowledge.

Even though I had felt his anger throbbing through the intercom system his voice had remained incredibly calm. This was my first night in the country after a long time being in the city and I was struck by how incredibly quiet it was. I could literally hear myself breathe. The quiet was broken by my phone vibrating against the desk. I leapt out of bed. It was April. Taking it with me I plopped myself onto the bed.

“Are you still awake?” she asked.

I was instantly worried about her. “Yes, but why are you calling so late?”

“Why are you whispering?” she asked dropping her own voice.

“I don’t know. It’s so deathly quiet here, it feels wrong to disturb it.”

She giggled. “You’re mad.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Come on, tell me why you’re calling. Where is Yuri?”

“He’s downstairs, working. After you told me about that weird household I couldn’t sleep thinking about you. How did your first day go?”

I sighed and ran through my memories and impression of the day. They had all been inevitably overshadowed by my short conversation with Brett King.

“Oh Lord, what did she do?” she asked, thinking my sigh had been about Mrs.

King.

“Nothing. She went to some function, probably in London, and hasn’t come back yet. Unless, she was in the helicopter that just landed a few minutes ago.”

“Then why did you sigh like that?”

“I just spoke to the boy’s father over the intercom.”

“Wow! What was he like?”

My mind went back to Brett’s voice. “He was nice. He had a rich voice. One of those deep and smooth voices. I can imagine him wearing a velvet suit and sitting in a box in an opera house.”

“I wonder if he was handsome?”

“I have no idea,” I replied. “But he has something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t describe it. There is something magnetic about him. I could listen to him all night.”