by Sara Forbes
"You're wondering why I'm a lowly cleaner?" I supply.
"No, no of course not." He flicks back a flop of hair from his forehead. "That would be terribly—"
"Snobbish?"
"Presumptuous," he says.
I laugh. "I can forgive you that. Most people don't get it. But if I could choose any job in the world, this is still what I'd do. I see it as creative work, combining aesthetics and problem solving. I'm making spaces beautiful, or least more tolerable, for people to work in. Busy people, like you. And while I work, my mind is free. I love it. It pays the bills and I'm my own boss."
"That makes total sense, the way you put it," he says warmly. "I wish everyone had the same work ethic and satisfaction with one's lot in life."
We're grinning at each other. I'm not that satisfied I want to tell him.
"Well, don't let me keep you. by the way, your first salary should already be in your account. So, if you wanted to you could check that and alert me if anything is out of place."
"Oh, I'm sure it isn't. As long as you didn't pay me in Bitcoin," I quip.
His eyes narrow. "Why do you say that?"
I chuckle. "Well, your screen." I point at the multicolored graph of a Bitcoin exchange which is surrounded by flashing ads for Bitcoin. If he was trying to hide it, he was doing a terrible job of it.
"You know anything about Bitcoin?" he asks.
"A little. My ex invested quite a lot in it in January 2018 at the all-time-high price. He lost most of it and was really pissed off about it too."
He nods. "He and many others."
Then it dawns on me. "Huh, so that's what it is. Those servers are mining Bitcoin."
He starts to say something, hesitates, then starts again. "That's partially correct."
"Wow. Don't they, like, use the same amount of energy as the state of Denmark or something?"
"They're energy intensive, that's for sure. But actually, most of the servers here are running optimization algorithms rather than mining. To enable us to invest wisely."
"Us? So there are more employees?"
"Remote ones, yes."
"So... there won't be any more employees here?"
He sighs. "Not in the near future, but eventually, yes. For now, it's just me."
Our gazes lock again. My heart is sinking. This isn't going to last. He'll move out and sell the building. It'll be easy for him because he won't have a troop of employees to relocate. I give him a month before the Platinum Star gets too much for him. He doesn't seem the type to put up with chaos. I bet nothing in his life is out of order.
Egan Harwood is the kind of guy my ex tried so hard to be. I wonder if he's also standing on the shoulders of some poor wretch of a girlfriend or wife who gave up all her dreams for him?
"Looks like I'm going to have a quiet time of it here then," I say, packing away the cord of the vacuum cleaner.
"I certainly hope so," he says.
12
EGAN
THE WEEKEND, STUCK IN THIS BUILDING, felt long. And as bad as it was for me—at least I could go out on errands and go home for showers—it can only have been ten times worse for Natasha. The lack of a shower is becoming a critical point. She tells me she's been making do, washing herself somehow in a washbasin, but this can't go on.
Natasha seems to have moved onto the second stage of grief—pain and guilt. She's blaming herself for what happened to Sergei, although that makes no sense whatsoever. I listen as she wails out what she should and shouldn't have done to prevent his arrest in the first place.
At least her appetite seems to have returned. She wolfed down the chocolate croissant I gave her this morning. I then offered her mine which she devoured as well. What a relief. Also, I bought better mattresses for both her and me. I've slept better last night than any night so far.
"The cleaner is coming again," I tell her as I finish my coffee. "You know the drill. But today she's going to be here on the third floor. So, we're going to have to tidy away your bed and all your stuff and lock them away in the filing cabinet."
"Can't we just lock the door?"
"No, it would rouse suspicion."
"Can't we just tell her about me?"
I shake my head. "This is strictly between you, me, and the inner circle. Got that?"
She hears me talking to the other guys all the time, so it's hardly a secret. And in a way, I'm glad that she appears in the background on video calls to them, providing proof that I'm not just sitting here twiddling my thumbs.
Natasha pouts. "I don't think she'd talk to someone if you asked her not to."
"On what basis can you possibly make such a judgement?"
"I saw her out the window."
"Natasha, stay away from the windows. How many times do I have to tell you?"
She folds her arms and stares straight ahead. Can't say I blame her. She hasn't talked to another human being since I picked her up. I'm not an entertaining conversationalist at the best of times—my exes will attest to that—and most of the time I'm hunched in silence over my laptop. My duty to Natasha is to speed up the process of getting her to that safe house and that's where most of my energy is going. But I probably could be better company.
But then again, Natasha's not the only one who's has had to sleep on a makeshift bed in a desolate office, living off takeaway food. Prison would be more enjoyable. My personality is not exactly at its best right now.
I rise and glance at the time. "Okay, time to tidy up."
"You stay here," Natasha says, rising. "I'll do it."
I stare after her. It's the first time she's offered to help with anything. Maybe she's not as traumatized as I'd played out in my imagination. And as I never help anyone who's capable of doing something themselves, I say, "Sure that would be great."
I go downstairs to my second floor office to tidy up all evidence of my sleeping there. Soon enough, the sounds reach my ears of Natasha busy upstairs, slamming things into the filing cabinet.
It's only when the noise dies down that I realize I've been sitting here staring out the window for ten unproductive minutes. I shake myself and go up to check on Natasha's handiwork.
***
Within half an hour, Jess Wilkes arrives.
"What's the plan for today?" she asks. Some people learn quicker than others and she's one of the quick ones. I can definitely work with this. And with any luck, I can take her for a coffee after work. I'd like to know more about her. Call it professional curiosity.
"Third floor, then this floor. That should be enough for today."
"Very well." She turns to go.
"So..." I begin.
She swirls around again.
I run my fingers through my hair. "Do you clean many buildings in this estate?"
"No, this is the only one. We clean over at St. John's the other days. The hospital. I'm hoping to get Martha extra shifts there on the days I'm here."
"It's just the two of you?"
"For now. But we'll be expanding soon."
"Well, that's good."
"Yes, it is." Her face clouds over. "We really need to."
"Because?" I prompt.
Her eyes flash as she looks up. "Because of Martha's—my partner's— kids, mainly. She wants to get them into Wentworth College. It's a good school. They're terrifically smart and deserve the best education but it's expensive."
"If they're that smart, would a scholarship be on the cards?"
"I asked the same thing. But they don't offer any. Charlie and Lily would ace that if there were. Nope, it'll be all down to their mom's elbow grease if they get in. So that's what we're working toward."
"We? Surely it isn't your problem?"
She shoots me a you-don't-get-it look. "We're a team."
But I do get it. I don't support anyone now, but I spent years supporting my younger brother's advancement through school. Until he dropped out due to peer pressure from home. It's not a great conversation topic.
"Are you okay?" she as
ks.
I blink and find myself staring into her concerned eyes. "Yes, and sorry, I didn't mean to stall you in your work. Maybe we can chat later?"
A smile breaks across her face. "I'd like that, Mr. Harwood."
"Egan," I correct her.
"Sorry, Egan." This time her smile is more personal, warm. Perhaps with a hint of something else too.
That smile sustains me though a rough afternoon of hi-jinks on the Bitcoin exchange and more hassle from Sean who wants to dive into Syria before we conclude the Natasha project. Once again, I told him no. He's not one of the fast learners.
Three hours later, Jess comes up to the third floor where I'm in the middle of a call with Paul regarding a new cryptocurrency he wants to trade.
"Call you back in a minute, Paul," I say.
"Mr. Harwood?" comes her voice. Then she chuckles. "I mean, Egan?"
"Yes?" I push away from my desk and turn my chair to face her.
She comes toward me, holding something in her hand. As she dangles it from her fingers, I see it's a scrap of pink satin. "I found this in the ladies' bathroom upstairs."
My stomach plummets. It's a pair of panties. They must be Natasha's. "You did?" I ask stupidly.
"It must have been left there by Trent Security." She frowns. "Strange the movers didn't see them."
"Yes, quite strange." I start fiddling with my keyboard. I didn't do a check on the toilets and I should have. How stupid of me. And how remiss of Natasha too. I'm going to have to give her another lecture on being careful. Holy crap, her life depends on it, What part of that doesn't she get?
"Well, I'm all done," she says. "So, I'll just stash away my stuff and inquire with Trent Security if anyone lost a pair of knickers...shall I?"
"That's not necessary," I say quickly holding out my hand. "I'll deal with it."
She closes her fist over the scrap of pink satin. "I think it best if I handle it. Our reputation depends on complete honesty and if Trent suspect we've taken one of their employees' property it will ruin our pristine reputation."
"I'll make sure your pristine reputation remains intact," I say. "It's not your problem. The...garment was left here on my property."
"But I found them."
"On my property."
She narrows her eyes. "You know whose they are."
When I don't answer, she laughs. "It's not my business, Egan, if you've had company." She pointedly places the panties on my desk.
"Fine," I say testily. "I've had company."
Behind that smug smile it's pretty clear what she's thinking.
"Are you finished?" I ask.
"Yes. All done," she says, turns and marches away.
"See you Wednesday," I call after her.
"Sure thing." She disappears out the door.
13
JESS
THE PINK PANTIES ARE INEVITABLY the topic of office gossip next morning in our little office as we prepare to do our Tuesday shift in the hospital. And it's a juicy one.
"So, you reckon a prostitute?" Martha asks, her grin extra-wide.
"You jump to the wildest conclusions, Martha Smith. No, I'd say a high-class call girl."
"But why would he have to pay for it?" she asks.
"That remains a mystery," I say with a chuckle. Martha's in rare good form and I want to preserve the silly mood. "No, actually, I don't believe it's paid-for sex. I reckon he has a girlfriend come out to service him because he's too busy to go out. He never seems to go out."
"Oh boy. Just make sure you don't end up servicing him in-between hoovering and polishing his doorknobs."
"Martha," I groan. But I can't protest the way my face is heating up. This may have something to do with the fact that I lay awake for too many hours last night imagining a woman with him on the third floor—a woman wearing only pink panties and matching stilettoes, stroking his silken hair, a woman slowly unbuttoning his perfectly starched shirt. A woman, kneeling down in front of him and...and...it's all so incredibly dumb, but I may be a tiny bit jealous. Okay, a huge bit jealous.
Martha's staring at me.
"Uh, so what's new with you?" I ask, my voice high and breathy.
"Well." She slaps the desk, "I have some good news."
"Mm?"
Her eyes are shining. "They've announced a scholarship for Wentworth College. I came across it on the website this morning. I called the headmaster and he says it's open for applications. Closing date is the last date of Summer. That'll suit my kids just fine. If just one of them gets it, it'll be enough. They're really keen on going for it."
"Wow, that's great, Martha. Let me look."
I open the school's website in my list of favorites and I read the details of the scholarship. The Wentworth fund is in memory of some obscure Russian journalist. It's definitely legit with a gushing quote from the president of the school thanking the anonymous sponsors. By the time I'm finished reading, I'm jumping up and down in my seat every bit as excited as Martha.
Martha's mouth is set in a determined line. "I had them doing an extra hour of math last night for starters. They're totally into this, the challenge. They're competing against each other, of course."
She intercepts my look with a wave. "Don't worry, I'll make sure they stay friends and don't kill themselves in the process."
"I know you will, Sweetie. And I'll still keep looking for new jobs. I mean, you'll need to pay for extra tuition." I tell her as my euphoria simmers down to normal levels.
I don't want to burst her bubble but it's just like Martha to get excited and throw all her eggs in one basket. I have to be the sensible one here. I'm going to treat the scholarship as a perk if it happens, but we can't rely on it.
***
Tuesday rolls into Wednesday and it's time for my Platinum Star gig again. I put extra care into my morning grooming routine—an extra coating of mascara, some artful twists of the iron to give my hair some flair, that new blouse I bought at the weekend. It's not for him, it's for me I tell myself. Then I notice the time and I have to scramble down to my car so as not to be late.
One dash though London traffic later, I get to the back door of the office block and punch in the combination he gave me last week.
The light above the keypad flashes red. No go.
I hiss out a breath. Why does he keep changing it? I'm only one minute late. So annoying. Does he seriously want me to call him down from his work to open this door?
But then I remember—I know how to bypass it. The master code. It's still valid because I forgot to tell him about it. Hah. Guess he didn't read the manual. I type in the eight-digit master code and the light flashes green. It's probably the last time I can use this trick because I'll have to tell him about the master code now and he's sure to want full control of that.
All is quiet as I get inside the building, just the usual thumping of the heating and the extractor fans. The temperature here on ground floor seems pleasant enough—warmer than usual because of the furnace in the cellar but that's not a bad thing.
I make my way to the second floor to announce my being here and to get some silly instructions from him. With any luck, he'll just let me get on with my work today and let me clean from top to bottom as I see fit.
Smiling, I open the door to his office.
He leaps from his seat. "What the hell?" he yells. "How did you get in?"
"I didn't know the new combination so I overrode it."
"Overrode it?" He strides toward me clenching his fists, his face reddening. It's all I can do not to make a bolt for the stairwell. "How about you call me next time you want to know the combination? You can't just walk in here like this is your local...kindergarten."
"Well, I wouldn't know," I say coldly. "I don't have kids, Mr. Harwood."
He glares at me. "Give me that override combination so I can de-program it."
"No problem," I say dully.
"And then we're going to sit down and lay down some ground rules about security."
He's breathing hard, a vein pulsing in his forehead. Yet another power freak who thinks he can push me around and who goes ape-shit crazy at the thought of me having any kind of agency whatsoever.
"Look, I'm very sorry," I say. "The door was locked and I didn't want to be late for duty. It won't happen again."
"Too right it won't because you won't have the entrance codes." He frowns at me. "It's a serious breach of trust not to tell me you had a master key. Did you do this with your last firm? Trent Security?"
"Sure, yes. All the time."
"More fool them," he mutters.
"Kindly tell me what I need to do today." I say, summoning all the tattered remnants of my temper.
His jaw clenches. I can almost see the thoughts running across his brain—fire her—and his struggle to decide the most expedient course of action. I'm kicking myself of course for making this mistake. I should have just swallowed it and rang for his help getting in. But it seemed like he was deliberately making me dependent on him. And I can't stand that.
"Okay." He pats the air between us. "Okay..."
He lets that hang there as he contemplates something, frowning. I wait. I have nothing else to do.
"So..." I say awkwardly because someone needs to puncture the awkward silence.
He looks at me, as if surprised I can speak.
"What should I start with?" I ask.
Something more human flashes in his eyes. "Yes, uh, just the ground and first floors today. Nothing else. Come back to me when you're done." He turns to his screen.
I nod, turn and head for the door.
When I swing around at the doorway, he's still in the same position, staring at those crazy graphs, the perpetual battle between buyers and sellers. Fuck him.
Downstairs, I make a point of slamming detergents and cleaning utensils around as loudly as possible. Of course, my professional pride doesn't allow me to do anything but a perfect job, but I can still create a lot of noise doing it.
Once I'm done with the assigned tasks, I debate whether I should go up to the third floor. He hasn't asked me to. It would be disobeying his orders. It would be one of his "serious breaches of trust." But I really want to. My little act of rebellion would ease the sting of his bossing me about this morning.