Best of 2017

Charging up and down a billion stairs every day these past few months has helped my physique. My legs are more toned than they’ve ever been, and although I’m far from the perfect women pictured in the bedroom drawer, I think I look alright.

If it’s not enough, it’s not enough, but I don’t want to dwell on that.

I’m lucky that I have a similar jawline to Debbie. High cheekbones and big eyes. My nose is a little bit pointier than hers, but I can compensate for that with similar makeup.

There’s a lot more to my plan than a makeover though, which is why I’ve borrowed Dean’s phone today. He has a much better camera, and I’ll need to take a fair number of shots.

The codes for the gemstone cabinet are in the little black book Cindy gave me.

I have the special buffing cloth in my apron pocket, inputting the numbers so carefully to make sure the cabinet doesn’t autolock me out of there.

It opens with a click, and I get to work, snapping pictures as I go. I make sure all the names are in focus, a clear enough picture of the gemstones that I’ll be able to look them back up at home and memorise them.

Alexandrite. Poudretteite. Topaz. Red diamond. Benitoite. Musgravite. Bismuth.

I’ll never be able to afford anything like these, so I hope he’s interested in more mundane specimens as well as these weird little rocks. It just has to be a common interest. A convincing one.

I close up the cabinet when I’m done, and then I photograph his music collection. He doesn’t have many CDs on the shelf, and most of them are by the same band. A blues outfit called Kings and Castles. I check out the listing on the back, and I’m pretty sure the one song – Casual Observer – is his dreary morning wake-up soundtrack.

I like it, just like I thought I would.

I venture down to the kitchen last thing today, my heart calming now I’ve got my illicit practicalities out of the way.

His plate is on the island, the dirty cutlery arranged so nearly on top. The sight of the pan on the hob makes me smile. Bacon fat. He had the bacon.

I’ve loaded it into the dishwasher by the time I notice the piece of paper propped against the fruit bowl.

My stomach flips, because it can’t be. It really can’t be.

But it is.

A perfect scrawl, so beautifully penned on fine grain paper.

Thank you.

Please help yourself to breakfast.

To me?!

My fingers are shaky as I run them over the text.

He wrote it for me. For me. For the bacon. He liked the bacon.

I smile so hard my cheeks hurt, and I’m not hungry, not in the slightest, but his offer is too generous to ignore. I don’t want to ignore him. I couldn’t ever do that.

I take the pan back from the dishwasher and fry myself up some bacon, cut myself a thin slice of bread and add a single egg to the pan.

It gets the attention of a grumbling Brutus, who flops down at my feet as I try to manoeuvre. I guess he wants some bacon too.

It’s the strangest feeling, eating breakfast at Alexander Henley’s kitchen island. My feet tap against the base of the bar stool, nervous even though I’m the only one here.

The bacon tastes better than any bacon I’ve ever had before.

Brutus seems to agree with me. He takes the rind in one greedy swallow.

I clear down the sides thoroughly, then stand with a cheap biro in my hand, wondering what on earth I should write in reply.

I tear a page from my notebook, because I want to take his home with me, and I try for my very best handwriting, even though my hand is trembling.

Thank you very much, Mr Henley, sir.

I don’t sign my name. Because why would I? I’m just a nobody.

I prop it up against the fruit bowl, right where his had been, and then I do it. I just do it.

I input Claude’s number into Dean’s handset, and take a swig of water before I press to call.

Three rings and all I can feel is my own thumping heart.

I’m ready for it to go to voicemail, half hoping it goes to voicemail.

But it doesn’t.

“Claude Finch.”

I clear my throat. “Mr Finch? I’m sorry to call so randomly, it’s just I’m… I’m looking to sell something… and I was hoping you could… help…”

I hear him rustling through paperwork. “If you could call the main sales line, I’m sure they’ll be able to take your details.”

My throat is so dry. “I was hoping maybe you’d be… the right person…”

“That depends. What kind of item are you looking to sell?”

My voice is so weak. Such a whisper. “Well, I’m… I’m looking to sell… me…”

A pause. Such a long pause.

I feel the panic rising.

“Where did you get this number?”

“I, um… a friend…”

“What kind of a friend?”

“A female friend… she said I should…”

“This isn’t for discussion on the telephone,” he snaps. “Please forward a photo of the item to this email address.” He rattles off a series of letters and numbers that I scrabble to write down.

I read it back and he grunts, and then he hangs up.

I feel so wired I can’t keep still. Pacing up and down Mr Henley’s kitchen as I open the random email account Dean set up for me and attach the photo in my best underwear he took last night.

The nerves take over as soon as it’s been sent, and the pressure builds to breaking, my whole plan resting on a random guy and his reaction to one semi-slutty photo.

I feel like I’ve bared my whole soul for nothing, like he’ll laugh at me, tell me of course I’m not good enough, I’m not of the calibre they’re looking for.

I’m getting ready to take Brutus for his walk when the handset vibrates in my apron pocket.

1 new email.

The sender is CF.

I can hardly bring myself to open it.

Bring the item along to the saleroom with a copy of your ID.

There’s a date and time listed underneath.

I’m so excited I nearly pee myself on Alexander Henley’s freshly mopped floor.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ALEXANDER

BRUTUS AND PORNOGRAPHY are usually my only two incentives for stepping foot through my front door every evening. Tonight I have a third. A most ridiculous third.

I drop my keys on my smoking table and deactivate the alarm, and then I head straight through to the kitchen, which of course is immaculate, without so much of a clue as to whether someone sat and ate bacon in my absence this morning. I open the fridge, and a glance at the packet of bacon thrills me.

Two slices missing.

An egg, too.

It makes me smile, which is unusual. My muscles feel tight and out of practice.

My note is missing, and in its stead, propped so neatly against the fruit bowl, is a torn scrap of notebook paper.

Thank you very much, Mr Henley, sir.

Shit.

My cock aches, hardening at the memory of her nervous apology at the office.

Her script is flowery, a tiny circle over the i in sir. The letters are evenly spaced, the curves drawn with effort.

She cared how it looked.

I imagine her gripping her pen, the precise flow of her fingers.

I should stop this silliness before it starts, accept my interest as nothing more than the idle fantasy of a desperate mind, but of course, I can’t do that.

My cupboards are embarrassingly barren, and for the first time in months I take a detour from my usual dog-walking route, looping Brutus’ lead over a post outside the late-night store while I nip inside and grab a handbasket.

I run through the things I like. Some organic muesli and some fresh peaches. A pot of luxury Greek yoghurt that I think Claire bought me once when we were on some weird health kick. Dark chocolate with orange segments, the most expensive on the shelf.

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nbsp; I’m losing my fucking mind and I know it as I check out. Selling out my sanity for some grandiose illusion that a moment with a terrified cleaner in a dark office meant something. That the note in my pocket is anything other than a kind young girl being polite to her employer.

Brutus sniffs the shopping bag as I retrieve his lead, and it amuses me to think the grumpy old beast knows so much more about the mystery woman than I do. What’s surprising in itself is that the teething period with a new member of staff in the house has been surprisingly dog-issue free. I was expecting at least one emergency call out as she’d found herself trapped in a room with a growling Brutus on the other side of the door. But no. Nothing.

Maybe he likes her.

I trust his judgement as much as I trust my own. We’re two peas in a very cynical pod, him and I, and yet he’s accepted an intruder without spilling any of their blood over the carpet.