The people whose fate rests in these filthy hands and what I choose to do with them.
People may despise me for the outcomes I manipulate in order to fulfil my legal duty, but they respect my ability to deliver.
People do what I tell them because the alternative is unfavourable.
Plenty fear me, but not a single person who has truly known me has ever come out the other side loving me. Sad but true.
My boys still have that obligatory affection for their father that all young children have before they learn better. My boys will learn better as they get older, just as I did.
I’m feeling it already. My word is no longer God. My idea of fun is no longer their absolute benchmark for a good time.
Brutus stares out of the passenger window for the entire journey, giving occasional grumbles as though he’s sorry to leave them behind too. I’m probably reading too much into it. Seeing things that aren’t really there.
I’ve got into a habit of that lately.
It’s another sad truth that having the house feel like more of a home is beginning to highlight the fact it really isn’t one.
There’s a sadness around the scent of fresh orchids tonight as I walk in through the door. Their delicate floral radiance unable to counteract the knowledge that someone was paid to put them here.
Paid to turn my bedsheets down and stock up my kitchen with necessities – as nice as they may be.
And yet there is still a fragile spark of hope in me.
It’s dangerous.
Dangerous to feel touched by someone’s consideration.
Dangerous to want more of it.
“What’s she like, boy?” I ask Brutus as I eat yoghurt straight from the tub.
He stares at me, angling for whatever I’m having.
“Is she nice? Pretty?”
His lolling tongue tells me nothing other than he wants yoghurt too, and it’s grotesquely adorable enough to let him lick the remnants from the pot.
I guess I’ll have to find out for myself what she’s like.MelissaI’ve been poked and prodded and jabbed with needles at some expensive clinic in Harley Street, all paid for, no questions asked.
They said nothing about my general state of health, making no comment whatsoever as they weighed me, and took my height, and checked in my eyes and ears, and… everywhere else…
They asked me about my menstrual cycle and informed me I’d been listed to receive a contraceptive injection. I let them jab me in the ass with it without argument.
I’m just glad it’s over as I race across town to finish up at Mr Henley’s house after lunch.
I’m rarely out at this time of day, normally up to my elbows in scrubbing and polishing. That or playing with myself in his bed, although I’m trying to do less of that now. Trying.
My work handset shows me he’s in court all day today, and my internet search this weekend told me he’s got some big case going on. They showed a picture of him leaving the courtroom, steely and immaculate as his client – some rich oil tycoon – trailed behind.
I wish I still had the dream of being a lawyer ahead of me. I wish it was me in an expensive suit representing clients in court, the excitement of the trial, the hushed negotiations behind the scenes.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to live the excitement through him, maybe he’ll confide in me as we lie in bed at night, asking my opinion as he whispers client secrets in my ear.
Or maybe I’ll end up trapped in a hotel room with some random guy who wants to fuck me up in exchange for twenty grand.
There’s a sweet little street market open in Kensington as I head back to the house. I feel ok about glancing at the stalls today, feeling more presentable with my crappy uniform stuffed out of sight in my shoulder bag.
The clothes and jewellery are so out of my price range it’s not even worth a thought, but there’s a boutique cupcake stand at the far end, and I can’t resist a quick look.
That’s when I see it. A dark chocolate and orange swirled muffin with a vanilla yoghurt fondant.
I think of him.
Of course I think of him.
I don’t care that it’s unprofessional as I root in my handbag for my purse.
I leave it on the island as I finish up for the day, looking so pretty with its deep purple cupcake case. I make sure it looks inviting, placing it just so on a cute little stand I found in the cupboard, and cover it up with a clear glass bowl that I guess someone used to use for baking.
I hope I’m not totally overstepping my boundaries, hoping he’ll forgive me rooting around his kitchen to leave him a gift.
My throat is dry as I tear out a piece of paper from my notebook, my fingers shaking as I find the right words.