And that’s enough.
Money for Joe and hope for me. It’s as good as it gets right now.
He takes off the plastic gloves and moves away from me, staring out the window at the shitty street below with an expression like death.
I slip on the gloves without a word and apply the rest of the dye.
“I need to do this…” I tell him.
“You really fucking don’t,” he snaps. “You could do back to college, study like before.”
I shake my head. “I can’t and you know it. Not with Joe, and my head is… fried… I just can’t…”
“Your head is full of that fucking asshole of a man.”
“Better that than the alternative. If I stop, Dean, even for just one second. If I stop… hoping… if I stop dreaming… then I won’t get up, I won’t be able to breathe.”
He sighs, and his eyes are softer when they land back on mine. “Don’t say that, Lissa. You’ve got Joe, you’ve got me.”
“And I love both of you, but I have to do this. Please don’t stop me doing this…”
He groans. “Like I could if I wanted to.”
And I’ve got him. I know I’ve got him.
The victory doesn’t feel great.
I apply the last squirt of dye and wrap my hair in the plastic cap. “I’m sure they pay well, I mean it’s Chelsea, right? I’ll earn enough to make sure Joe’s ok. And us, we’ll be ok, too. I can get a babysitter and you can go back to college… you can have a life, too.”
“Please don’t pretend this is for me.”
So I don’t. I don’t pretend anything. I stop speaking, sitting quietly as the dye matures.
“Is there anything I could say to change your mind?” his voice is quiet. Heavy.
“No.”
He exhales a long breath. Shakes his head.
“Fine,” he says. “In that case, how can I help?”AlexanderI’m in relatively good spirits for an average Tuesday morning.
I put that down to the smell of fresh orchids. That and a hearty breakfast. Bacon and eggs on a nice thick slice of wholemeal. The breakfast of champions – as long as those champions aren’t overly concerned about their waistline.
Nothing a good session on the treadmill can’t remedy.
I tell myself there are a variety of factors contributing to my good morning, but there’s no illusion. That’s why I left a simple note this morning.
Thank you.
And then the afterthought. A radical impulse.
Please help yourself to breakfast.
It pleases me to think that maybe she’ll take me up on my offer. Maybe she’s sitting at my kitchen island right this minute, listening to the radio as she eats, enjoying the space considerably more than I have these past few years.
It’s not her cleaning standards that inspired the note, nor is it any one individual change she’s made to my space and routine. It’s her thoughtfulness.
Her thoughtfulness creates the illusion my house is a home again. That illusion is priceless.
I’m thinking about her mysterious presence all the way through my early client meetings. Wondering if the note made her smile. If she’ll leave one in return.
I wonder what her handwriting is like. What her smile is like. Whether she licks her fingers clean after she’s eaten.
I wonder what her name is.
I force myself not to look it up.
“Christ, man. And I really have to go on this ridiculous fucking speed awareness course?!” Mr Calder’s voice disturbs my equilibrium. “As if I haven’t got better things to do with my fucking time.”
His face is piggy and infuriating, his bluster doing its best to ruin my happy vibe.
Ungrateful prick.
I’ve got better things to do with my time than bail him out of his stupid fucking mistakes, but I’m not sitting in his office moaning about a perfectly commendable outcome.
“Unless you want to take your chances in court. We could call your mistress in as a witness, I’m sure she’d be able to tell them you weren’t all that drunk while she sucked you off at twenty miles an hour over the speed limit.” I smile sarcastically. “Take the fucking speed awareness course. You’re fucking welcome, Andrew.”
His mouth flaps open, and then he thinks better of a smart comeback.
He rises to his feet as I do, shakes my hand with a nod.
“Thanks, Henley. Much appreciated. I’ll get my secretary to book it in.”
“You do that.” And stop drinking and driving like a fucking imbecile.
I don’t smile.
He doesn’t linger.
The door swings on its hinges as he leaves, and his silhouette is replaced by an even bigger cunt. Just what I fucking need.
“Let’s talk.” My father closes the meeting room door behind him. He’s wearing a red tie today. I fucking hate the colour.
“Let’s not.”
I don’t even attempt to hide my disdain as he takes a seat opposite me. “People are talking about you.”
“Which fucking people?”
He laughs. “Ok, so I’m talking.”
“Talk all you want, I have no intention of listening.”