Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 126154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
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.