Annabel unpacks the Styrofoam cups and we get to work.
I’m not much of a chef. I choose my own meals based on simple acquired tastes and nutritional value, not from any desire for culinary expression.
Nobody on the street cares whether I have a five star rating on food genius though.
“How have you been, Ted?” Frank calls. His eyes are kind and well-meaning, but I hate small talk at the best of times, not least when I’m lying through my teeth – which is a lot of the time.
“Same old, Frank.”
He shakes his head. “You wanna tell that boss of yours to get stuffed. Works you too hard.”
“Bosses, eh? All the bloody same.”
He nods. “Profit, profit, profit.”
Frank starts up his trademark rant on how it should be people not profit, and my cover is safe for another week. He’s a union type, campaigning for justice and fair treatment for all. He doesn’t just do Friday night soup kitchen, he does all three branches and he works like a trooper.
Works and talks.
He talks a lot.
That’s the thing about people. Most prefer talking to listening. Set someone off on their own little monologue and nod in the right places, and you’ll have a friend for life.
These people think they know me. They’d call me a friend, and yet they don’t know anything much about Ted Brown. They don’t know where he lives, or which company he works for. They know he’s in his forties, has a couple of kids but no significant other.
They know he makes an average soup at best, but they don’t seem to care about that.
The thought makes me smile, and Annabel smiles back.
“It’s gonna be a cold one tonight,” she says.
I nod. Agree.
Freezing.
The irony is that the street is the only place I ever truly feel warm.MelissaCindy didn’t know everything of note about Alexander Henley.
She didn’t tell me about his Friday night moonlighting at a soup kitchen for the homeless.
She didn’t tell me that Alexander Henley wanders around the streets with a cap down low to cover his eyes, handing out hot drinks to people with nothing when he could be drinking champagne in some posh cocktail bar somewhere.
This blatant oversight is what renews my vigour to find out everything about Alexander Henley.
Everything.
Every. Little. Thing.
Dean doesn’t think an evening volunteering for charity makes any difference. He maintains I’m in too deep, that the man whose house has become my own fantasy playground is just as dangerous as the internet rumours make him sound.
He doesn’t know about the escorts. I didn’t tell him that bit. Not yet.
He hasn’t admitted to me that he’s got photos on his phone, so I feel ok about withholding the truth, just for a while. Just until I’m certain of my next move.
Brutus barely even growls this morning. He pads through to the entrance hallway as I disable the alarm, stares at me with mean eyes, but doesn’t make any move to see me off his property.
Progress.
It usually takes at least twenty minutes for him to stop growling at me, fish treats or no, even if I do get a little happy swish from his tail.
I’ve got fresh orchids as well as fish treats, and some outdoor-reared bacon that I charged to the expenses credit card.
My last impromptu food change seemed to be a win. Mr Henley now has two eggs every morning rather than just the one he had before.
Maybe Mr Henley likes smoked outdoor-reared bacon too. We’ll see.
I can’t stop beaming as I realise he’s topped up the water in the vases. He likes the orchids.
I change them for fresh, even though they’re barely wilting, and I wrap up the old ones. I’ll take them home until they’re long dead, a piece of this place in mine.
Yes, I like that.
I clean fast but thoroughly, taking just a moment to smell the scent on his clothes before I do his laundry. His Friday night clothes are right in the middle of the hamper, clearly stashed amongst the pile of shirts, as though that will camouflage them. I have a sniff of those, too. The worn denim shirt smells of vegetables, but I can still smell him, that spicy smell. It’s enough to make my tummy flutter.
And thinking of spice, I clean out his kitchen cupboard today, making a note of the opened spice jars amongst the sealed ones. He likes paprika. Paprika and… chilli. Turmeric too.
And then I head upstairs, to the storage room at the far end of the landing.
Cindy said we don’t clean in there. She shrugged when I asked her what was inside and told me nothing of note.
Boring paperwork, she said, and yawned at me.
I no longer trust Cindy’s idea of nothing of note, so I step on inside and survey the boxes.
Paperwork. Lots of paperwork. She’s right about that. But there’s more.