Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
He’s here? How can he still be in bed? At this hour?
Surely he’s late for work.
She glances at the piano, feeling cheated. Today was the day she was going to play. She didn’t have the nerve on Monday, and she longs to play. Today would have been the first time! In her head she hears Bach’s Prelude in C Minor. Her fingers tap out the notes in anger, and the melody resonates inside her head, in bright reds, yellows, and oranges, a perfect accompaniment to her resentment. The piece reaches its climax and then diminishes to a close as she throws a discarded T-shirt into the laundry basket.
Why does he have to be here?
She knows that her disappointment is irrational. This is his home. But focusing on her disappointment distracts her from thinking about him. He’s the first naked man she’s ever seen, a naked man with vivid green eyes—eyes the color of the still, deep waters of the Drin on a summer’s day. She frowns, not wanting the reminder of home. He had looked directly at her. Thank God he didn’t wake. Taking the laundry basket, she tiptoes to his half-open bedroom door and pauses to see if he’s still asleep. She hears the sound of the shower in the bathroom.
He’s awake!
She contemplates leaving the apartment but dismisses the idea. She needs this job, and if she were to leave, he might fire her.
Cautiously she opens the door and listens to the tuneless humming that echoes from his en suite bathroom. Heart racing, she ducks into the bedroom to collect his clothes that are scattered over the floor, then hurries back to the safety of the laundry room wondering why her heart is pounding.
She takes a deep, calming breath. It was a surprise finding him here asleep. Yes. That’s it. That’s all. It has nothing to do with the fact that she has seen him naked. It has nothing to do with a fine face, a straight nose, full lips, broad shoulders…muscular arms. Nothing. It was a shock. She never expected to encounter the owner of the apartment, and to see him like that is unsettling.
Yes. He’s handsome.
All of him. His hair, his hands, his legs, his backside…
Really handsome. And he had looked directly at her with such clear green eyes.
A darker memory surfaces in her mind. A memory from home: ice-blue eyes flinty with anger, fury raining down on her.
No. Don’t think of him!
She puts her head in her hands and rubs her forehead.
No. No. No.
She fled. She’s here. She’s in London. She’s safe. She will never see him again.
Kneeling down, she loads the dirty clothes from the laundry basket into the washing machine, as Krystyna showed her. She goes through the pockets of his black jeans and pulls out the loose change and the customary condom that he seems to carry in all his pants. In the back pocket, she finds a scrap of paper with a phone number and the name Heather scrawled on it. She slips it with the change and the condom into her pocket, tosses one of the detergent capsules into the wash, and switches on the machine.
Next she unloads the dryer and sets up the iron. Today she’ll start with the ironing and stay hidden in the laundry room until he’s gone.
What if he doesn’t go?
And why is she hiding from him? He’s her employer. Perhaps she should introduce herself. She’s met all her other employers, and they aren’t a problem, apart from Mrs. Kingsbury, who follows her around critiquing her cleaning methods. She sighs. The truth is, all the people she works for are women—except him, and she’s wary of men.
“Bye, Krystyna!” he calls, startling her from her thoughts and the shirt collar she’s ironing. The front door closes with a muffled bang, and all is quiet. He’s gone. She is on her own, and she sags with relief against the ironing board.
Krystyna? Doesn’t he know that she’s taken Krystyna’s place? Magda’s friend Agatha organized this job. Hasn’t Agatha told him about the change of staff? Alessia resolves to check this evening if the owner of this apartment has been informed. She finishes another shirt, hangs it on a clothes hanger, then goes to check the console table in the hall and finds he has left her money. Surely that means he won’t be returning?
Her day brightens immediately, and with renewed purpose she runs back to the laundry room and grabs the pile of freshly ironed clothes and his shirts and heads to his bedroom.
The master suite is the only nonwhite room in the apartment: all gray walls and dark wood. A large gilt mirror hangs above the biggest wooden bed that Alessia has ever seen. And on the wall facing the bed, there are two large black-and-white photographs of women, their naked backs to camera. Turning away from the photography, she assesses the room. It is in complete disarray. Quickly she hangs his shirts in the closet—a closet that is bigger than her bedroom—and places the folded items on one of the shelves. The closet is still a mess, and it’s been like this since she started here with Krystyna last week. Krystyna always ignored the mess, and though Alessia wants to fold and put away all the clothes, it’s a big project, and she doesn’t have time now, not if she wants to play the piano.