“Waiting for him in bed and staying out of his way, otherwise.”
“Is that what his previous girlfriends did?”
The woman sends me a searching gaze so intense that it feels like scorching heat is raking across my face. “Micah employs sex-workers to take care of his needs. He might pay for a girlfriend experience, but he doesn’t have girlfriends.”
I don’t know whether to feel appalled or flattered at the information. Probably neither. Is there nobody in his inner circle except employees? It seems such a lonely existence, but it also rings true.
If he’s used to paying girls, then it’s no wonder he didn’t bother to leave me instructions on what to do or an explanation of where he was going. You don’t do that with your newest member of staff.
The thought is oddly calming.
“Can I ask your name?”
“Agnes.”
She pours me a cup of coffee, offering milk and sugar, both of which I shake my head to. One sip tells me it’s better than anything my father ever bought. “Thank you. This is wonderful.”
“It’s just a standard grind,” she says but the tinge of pink in her cheeks shows she’s pleased. “Do you take cream and sugar with your porridge?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never tried it before,” I admit, burying my nose into my mug so I have an excuse not to look at her. “But if bears like it, I’m in.”
“I’ll take that as a request for both.” She puts together a bowl and places it in front of me. “Careful, it’s hot.”
I’m not holding out high hopes for the grey sludge but after a few spoonfuls I decide it’s quite nice. The sugar and milk are nice, anyway, and the base is so bland it’s hard to take offence.
“Do you want another?” Agnes asks as I finish and I shake my head, slipping down from the stool. “What are you doing?”
“Rinsing my dishes and putting them in the dishwasher.”
She takes them out of my hand and clicks her tongue. “That’s not how you do it in my kitchen.” With a few quick motions, she gets them sorted and placed inside the tray in her preferred location. Then she turns back to me, staring quizzically. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.” It still feels strange to say the number. So grown up. An adult at last.
Judging from the tight-lipped expression on Agnes’s face, she doesn’t think the same. “Are you really his fiancé?”
I nod, a tear slipping from my eye before I can catch it. I wipe my sleeve over my eyes in case another thought of following the first. “He made a contract with my dad last night, down in Christchurch.”
“Is that where you live?”
My mouth twists as I say, “Not any longer.”
She leaves a long pause, looking at me through worried eyes. I wonder if she thinks I’m about to take her job and hope Micah doesn’t expect that. There are about four meals I know how to make, and the toasted sandwich last night was the best of them.
“There’s a television in the lounge, through there,” she says, pointing to the right. “It’s hooked up to a whole variety of streaming services. Or there’s a sound system. Consoles if you enjoy gaming.”
“Is there a Kindle? Usually, I’d spend my spare time reading.”
“There are books.” She walks out of the kitchen and points to the third door down on the left-side corridor. “That’s the library. I’m not sure if there’s a device but if it’s anywhere, it’ll be in there.”
I thank her and try out the room she indicated. At first glance, it’s a bookworm’s paradise. There are floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the walls, with a moveable staircase granting access to even the topmost row. They’re crammed full of books, every single inch of shelf-space filled, with more stacked on the three dark wood tables placed evenly across the room.
Large leather seats with copper rivets use up the remaining space. Four of them are arranged before an enormous fireplace. So large, I could stand in the hearth without endangering my head. Not that I would. It’s a false front, the actual heat source being a gas fire—turned off—while a plasma screen flickers with recorded flames.
The pleasant surprise soon turns to dismay as I scan the titles on offer. At first, I think there must be a filing system, just one beyond the abilities of a cursory glance. The longer I spend gazing at the array, the less I feel that’s the case.
Instead, I find a bewildering selection of titles and subjects, fiction and non-fiction alike, thrown together in no discernible pattern. There’s also no catalogue that I can see. No microfiche, cards, or even a computer available to lend order to the chaos.
It looks like someone decided there had to be a library and just bought books by the metre to fill it. I have to shove aside my disappointment to continue searching for something to stir my interest but, even when I do, I can’t concentrate. Warren’s phone has locked, but it doesn’t matter because no one’s sent a response.
