Buy Me, Sir

His eyes turn dark. “What in the name of holy fuck is wrong with you? Turning your nose up at Claude, ignoring your messages.”

“Ignoring your messages.”

“This silliness ends now. Claude’s offered you a free sample. You will take it.”

“I’m not interested in Claude’s free fucking sample. I’m done.”

“Like hell you’re done,” he sneers. “You don’t know how to be done.”

“Speak for yourself, old man. I’m doing just fine.” I bristle with false confidence, my arms folded tight.

He pulls an envelope from his inside pocket and slides it across the table. “A gift. Take it. Enjoy it. I hate to worry about you, Alexander. You know how it makes me uncomfortable to worry. I may have to keep a closer eye on things…”

His threats mean nothing to me. “Are you quite fucking done? I have work to do.”

His eyes are steely but so are mine. “For now.”

“Good.” I get to my feet. Again. “Next time you want to talk, book a fucking appointment.”

“This is my office,” he snaps. “Don’t you forget it.”

“Retired. Don’t you forget it.”

We stare each other down for long seconds.

“Your mother misses you.”

“That’s a shame.”

“She misses the boys.”

“I’ll pass on her regards.”

He shakes his head. “You’re such a belligerent prick, Alexander.”

“We both know where I learned it from.”

“We both know where you learned a lot of things, boy. Call Claude. I don’t expect to have to come here again.”

“That would be nice.” I gesture to the door. “Close it on your way out.”

It slams with a thump that shakes the glass surround. His frustration makes me smile.

I put his envelope straight through the shedder unopened.MelissaI hardly recognised myself in the mirror this morning. The bleach worked its magic, and the dye took well on top, and there I was, a new blonde version of me. I’ve never been blonde before. It looks strange, alien. Not that you’d ever know the difference under a hairnet and stupid cap.

Dean helped me cut my hair shorter, armed with nothing but a pair of general purpose scissors my mum used to use to open stubborn food packets. My new long bob looks pretty good for a home-done effort. A few random snips to vary the length and the look is definitely a little Debbie-Harryesque. Even Dean agreed.

I slapped on some pink lipstick and ruffled my freshly dried hair, and he called up a couple of old pictures of her on the internet and said he thinks I’ll pass.

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.