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)
Dear Mr Henley,
I saw this and thought of you. I hope it’s even half as nice as your breakfast recipe.
Thank you for being so generous with your muesli.
MM.
I’m convinced I’ve made a professional faux pas as soon as I am back on the underground, but my calendar tells me it’s too late to undo my mistake even if I wanted to.
Alexander
I don’t bother heading back to the office after court today. My driver picks me up as soon as I’m done, which is just as well since I narrowly avoid a pointlessly antagonistic run-in with Ronald bastard Robertson on the steps outside. I’ve got no time for his crap.
Nor have I any time for the congratulatory calls my father attempted several times today after the quarterly board report showed we’re twelve percent up on last year’s turnover.
It would have meant something once.
All of this meant something once.
Winning meant everything to me.
My head’s fried with the whole sorry lot of it as I step through the front door, dropping the keys on the smoking table and giving Brutus a pat on the head as I make my way through to the kitchen for a glass of water.
I’m not expecting it. Not in the slightest.
The bacon was a thoughtful professional gesture, but the cupcake waiting for me on the cake stand is something entirely different.
I stare at it as though it’s some kind of optical illusion, as though it may disappear in a puff of smoke and leave me gawping like a fool.
I read the note before I dare touch it.
Dear Mr Henley,
I saw this and thought of you. I hope it’s even half as nice as your breakfast recipe.
Thank you for being so generous with your muesli.
MM.
She saw this and thought of me.
The strangest stabbing feeling in my ribs. A beautiful revulsion. A beautiful pain.
Thought of me.
I can’t remember the last time someone thought of me.
I can’t remember the last time I received a gift that wasn’t a branded fountain pen.
I lift the bowl so carefully to uncover the cake.
Dark chocolate and orange.
I smile.
Of course.
Brutus grumbles as I tease down the cake paper, but he can grumble on.
“You’re allergic,” I tell him, and he cocks his head. “And you can go fuck yourself, boy, this is all for me.”
Sinking my teeth into that muffin is the greatest culinary pleasure I’ve ever experienced. Not because I have a particularly sweet tooth, and not because I’m even particularly hungry, but because it’s such a thoughtful gift.
A vanilla filling. Thick, like creamy yoghurt.
My smile grows wider.
She thought of me.
Melissa
An email from Claude tells me my medical was satisfactory. I’ll be up for auction on Friday evening.
I wonder how it works, trying to shake off the horrible little fear that Alexander Henley won’t even be there to bid. He’ll be out on the streets, dishing out hot meals, nowhere near the Chelsea saleroom.
But Claude would know that, there must be… early bids, remote bids… I’m not sure how it even works, but I’m sure it does.
I breathe.
I’m definitely sure it does.
There’s a breakthrough today as I step through the door. Brutus comes padding up before I’ve even deactivated the alarm, and his tail is wagging. It’s actually wagging.
I dare to ruffle his ears as I grab him a fish stick and he doesn’t even flinch.
He likes me. For real, he likes me.
And so does someone else.
The sob chokes as soon as I see it, a crazy sense of excitement zipping through me at the sight of a plate on the kitchen island.
It’s a cookie. Chocolate chip and topped with pink icing.
Thank you it says in iced yellow letters.
There’s a note, but it takes me a few moments to calm down enough to read it.
MM,
Touched, genuinely.
I saw this and thought of you.
With my thanks,
AH.
It’s the greatest cookie I’ve ever eaten in my life.
Chapter Seventeen
Alexander
Every evening I receive a gift.
A cake, a fresh pineapple, a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice from the health-food deli two streets down.
Every morning I leave one in its stead.
A Belgian truffle, a tub of candyfloss, a selection of vintage cheese.
Finally, on Friday morning, I leave her a bottle of wine.
It’s an expensive one, thoroughly extravagant. Ridiculously extravagant.
I write her a note along with it telling her to enjoy her weekend.
It’s the craziest phenomenon, how this little gift exchange brightens my disposition.
I’ve been excited when I walk in through the door at night, smiling as I set out her daily surprise on the kitchen island before leaving for work.
So it’s no surprise that I’m feeling the disappointment now the weekend looms, knowing the house is about to turn cold again.
My Friday morning is a ballache of client meetings, followed by an afternoon that proves to be a fucking pain in the ass to boot.
Board meeting. My disgusting father nodding at me across the meeting room table.