Breaking Joseph

by Lucy V. Morgan

  I emerged from beneath the duvet to grab a t-shirt, and his sharp intake of breath made me wince.

  “What’s he done to you now?” Aidan ranted. “What next, a cattle brand?”

  Fuck. My hand flew back to where the lash had dragged leathery tongues. Then I pulled the t-shirt over my head and hid it safely away.

  “I wish you’d stop treating me like some sort of abuse victim,” I muttered.

  “I think you’ll find that’s what you are.”

  “Somebody else might be. In the same circumstances. But he only did what I wanted.” In the near dark, I rolled over and looked him square in the eye. “If he’s so horrible, then why did I feel so good with him? I didn’t have to try–” My voice cracked. “Don’t think I never noticed, the weird things I like. But that’s part of it all. He liked them too.”

  “Liked what, roughing you up?”

  “And that’s bad, is it? If we both want it?”

  “No. I get that.” He sighed. “Give me some credit, like. But he’s made you–shit–”

  “All he made me do was be honest–about myself, about everything. I didn’t even like him to begin with, Aid. But I do, now. I…I love him.”

  Aidan cringed at me. “Really?”

  “Yes.” I swallowed a chunk of air. “I don’t mean that being honest about things makes them all okay. I know it doesn’t. But he gets me, Aid. I feel like he understands.”

  “Look. I know how it feels when you do what we do, and people are funny about it. I’m sure it’s ten times worse for girls. But just because he was okay with the whoring is no good reason to love him, Leila.”

  Christ, he used my real name. “That’s not what happened.”

  “Are you sure? Because that’s what it sounds like.”

  He made a fuss of rearranging his pillows while I wracked my brains for a response that wasn’t fuck you. I needed conviction on this. Anything else did Joseph an awful disservice.

  “You remember what I said,” he went on, “in New York. Guys like him don’t love anyone.”

  “All you know about him, you’ve heard secondhand from Matt, and he’s hardly unbiased.”

  “To be fair though, he’s been a complete arsehole to Mattman.” He glanced at me as I settled at his shoulder. “How do you explain that?”

  “He admitted as much. And he’s trying to be better.” Or was trying. For me.

  He whistled absently. “Leopards and spots, Lei-Lei. Leopards and spots.”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist! Haven’t you ever been in love?” I propped myself up on a hand. In the shadows, I couldn’t tell whether he looked sarcastic or just sad, but something within me softened as his mouth twisted at the words.

  “Of course I have.”

  “Go on then. Your turn to spill.”

  “What? What do you want to know?”

  “A he or a she?”

  “A she,” he said quietly. “Long time ago, now.”

  I bit my lip. “What happened, then?” I shouldn’t have asked, and probably wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for the demonic wine.

  “Fizzled out.” He was blatantly lying, and I knew not to push it further. One of us desperately needed to lighten the mood.

  “So you’re not even a little bit in love with Matt?” I teased.

  “Define a little bit.” He grinned.

  “As a ratio: how often do you fantasize about making him little packed lunches with filthy notes in, compared to how often you dream about sucking him dry?”

  “That’s a shitty definition of love. Promise me you’ll never go into the greetings card business. But in answer to your question–yeah, maybe a little bit.” He trailed off with a small smile.

  “Er…ratio, please?” It was strange to have his copper curls tossed so artfully over my pillows, and I gave one a quick tug.

  “As if. Anyway, it’s not like it’s ever going to happen, is it?” A little of that sadness crept back into his voice. “I’m not that much of a moron. I know full well he wouldn’t be friends with me if I wasn’t so connected to you, or if he didn’t have this weird fascination with infidelity.”

  “Fascination?”

  “You’ve totally fucked him over in that respect, you know. He’s a bit obsessed. Why do you think he wanted to screw you with the Marquis in the first place? So he could watch it in action. You should hear him on the subject after a couple of drinks–it's like he's narrating a bloody documentary. His mom has a lot to answer for.” He paused. "And now, so do you. Whether you asked for it or not."

  “He can’t be that bad,” I said. “Even if he didn’t help with that photo…he was with another girl in New York. He told me so.”

  “He was not. He brushed off a couple of trannies in the meatpacking district, but that was the grand sum of our action.” He began to chuckle. “He’s telling you porkies to make you jealous. Silly boy.”

  “You probably shouldn’t have told me that,” I mumbled.

  “No. Especially since I’m not meant to be competing in the skeleton stakes, but still…that’s what you’ve done to him, you mean bitch. Remember that when he’s trying to talk to you.”

  Like I was in a fit state to take responsibility for anyone’s feelings. Like I even should.

  Should I?

  “He does like you, you know,” I said. “As a friend. You seduced him with your Gabe Tovey fetish.”

  Aidan pretended to weep. “I snared him singing Custard Dreams when I was thinking about parting his arse cheeks. Such a bittersweet tale of love, loss and…spunk.”

  “I’m glad I’ve got you here to cheer me up, Aid.” I sighed. “I need it. I really am screwed.”

  He extended his arm and I curled into him, inhaling. He smelled like sweet aftershave mixed with yeasty pizza.

  “We’ve all been there.”

  “But do we all get out?”

  “Yes. And the answer…” he whispered. “It’s…it’s in my pants, Lei-Lei.”

  “Yeah. I’m over the pity.” I elbowed him in the groin.

  “Ah well.” He laughed, clutching himself. “It was worth a try.”

  Chapter 14

  Tuesday passed in a blur of closed curtains, daytime television and leftover pizza. Matt kept calling and I kept diverting him to voice mail–either he felt exceptionally guilty or Aidan was right, and he hadn’t helped Poppy and Isobel after all. There was no way to know about that without discussing it all with him, though, and I just couldn’t afford to do it.

  On Wednesday it was time to shower, dress, and meet some recruitment consultants. I needed to find a way to finish my training. I needed today to go well.

  Two days, I’d been absent from the daylight world. Or so I thought. As the raw sun rushed into my eye sockets, I realized I’d been gone for a lot longer. I used to be a lawyer and I used to be a whore; these things had been my shields and my definitions. Now neither protected me and I was literally tugged along as I joined the throng of suits. Just a bit of tumbleweed, unnoticed. Unnecessary.

  “Good morning, Miss Vaughn.” The consultant smiled as she ushered me into a pretentious little office of mahogany and glass. “You’ve brought a CV, yes?”

  “And all my ID.” I flexed sweaty hands in my lap as she perused the CV, tucking her glasses up her wrinkling nose.

  “So you have a law degree,” she thought aloud. “And the LPC. You’ve been at Bach and Dagier–oh, very nice–for…what did you qualify into?”

  Ho ho. It’s a funny story. “I didn’t actually qualify.”

  “Oh?” She glanced up.

  “I had to leave.”

  “May I ask why?”

  This was the answer that had bugged me for two days, and I still didn’t know what on Earth to say. “I…um. I got into some personal troubles with colleagues. It was within my best interests to leave.”

  The consultant took her glasses off and blinked at me. “Were you sacked, Miss Vaughn?”

  I winced. “I’m not entirely sure.”

&
nbsp; “I see.” She laid my folder back down, drumming her fingers on it. “I’ll be honest. In the current climate–I’m sure you know how competitive things are–your chances of finding another contract are very slim. With that in mind…I don’t think I’ll be able to help you.”

  I exhaled and attempted a smile. “Thanks for your time,” I managed.

  “Indeed.” She stood up, gesturing to the door. “Best wishes.”

  One down…

  * * * *

  The next consultant was a tall man with a shiny bald head. I kept drifting into delirious little fantasies about polishing it.

  “Right,” he said, as I repeated my vague little excuse. “You don’t know if you’ve been fired?”

  “I tried to resign,” I explained, “but they got a bit angry and accused me of things I couldn’t possibly have done. Either way…erm. I don’t think I’ll get a reference.”

  He scratched that smooth scalp. Surely he oiled it in the morning. “Hmm. Reckon you could fudge one?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He glanced down at my CV again. “Miss–sorry. Leila. Anybody who could vouch for you?”

  “If by vouch, you mean lie, no. Not that I can think of.”

  There was Charlie, of course. Recent events dictated that he owed me a favour or seven, though he probably wasn’t aware of that. I couldn’t stoop to asking him for something so dodgy, though. Definitely couldn’t screw things up for somebody else, too.

  Nor did I want to explain to anyone else that I was in the shit with my job, or lack thereof. I just wasn’t ready to tell yet.

  “Okay.” He sat back in his chair. “I’m not sure we’ll get you back into a law office, though we can have a go. Have you thought about temping?”

  “Temping?”

  “Envelope stuffing, photo copying, admin. That kind of thing.” He took a very noisy slurp of coffee. “Then we can build up a reference history.”

  I couldn’t really say no. “If you think it’s a good idea, I’ll have a go.”

  “Excellent. I’ll book you in for some tests. There’ll be spelling, typing speed, some database stuff. You can use a computer, can’t you?”

  “I know where the on switch is,” I joked.

  A little bit of me just shrivelled and died.

  * * * *

  Thunder cracked overhead as I made my way to the next appointment. The sky groaned in anticipation and sweat poured off me, humid air stifling my breath. I had to dart into a public toilet to clean myself up. In a dirty mirror, I patted my brow down, smoothed my hair and reapplied lipstick. The girl staring back at me looked suitably confused.

  “Miss Vaughn,” trilled the receptionist in a singsong voice. “I’ll just fetch Ben for you. Sit over there–that’s it, right there, good girl!–I won’t be a minute.” She talked very loudly; maybe she was just used to booming down a phone?

  Ben arrived five minutes later in all his buff, suited glory. He extended a manicured hand.

  “You must be Leila. Thanks for coming down today.” He also spoke at an embarrassing volume and glanced around, confused. “Sorry, love. I was expecting your carer as well?”

  “My carer?” I spluttered.

  “Yeah. Do they know you’ve come on your own?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I’m sorry–what exactly are you implying?”

  It was then that I noticed his silver name badge: Ben Rafferty. Specialist in Employment for the Disabled.

  Oh fuck.

  “It’s just…on the phone, they said you sounded…” A violent blush seared his cheekbones.

  “I sounded mentally retarded.”

  “We try not to use those words here. But…” He shrugged. “Erm. Yes?”

  I must have called when particularly pissed. “Let’s just give this a miss, shall we?”

  “Let’s,” he agreed.

  I pumped his hand briefly and tottered back out into the rain.

  * * * *

  By the time I reached the fourth office, I’d stopped caring. Envelope stuffing would not pay my rent. I already knew what befell me, and as I followed the last consultant into his corner of the office, Charlotte seeped through to take my place.

  “I’m sorry,” the consultant said, “you had to leave because…”

  I studied the moustache that appeared to be eating his face. “I was prostituting myself. To my boss, among other people.”

  His eyes darted from my blank expression to the faint swell of my breasts. “What?”

  “I was whoring. Some colleagues found out and they blackmailed me.”

  “Oh.” His eyebrows rolled upward very slowly. “Okay then.” He snatched a pen and began to draw on the back of my CV: a long, wiggly line, a smaller one above it, and a smaller dash yet in the corner of the page.

  “This,” he pointed to the first small line, “is you. And this,” he tapped the wiggly line, “is shit creek. That there…” Now he touched the line at the top. “Is your paddle.”

  I squinted at him. “Nice analogy?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, reaching over to touch my hand with a fat paw. “I might be able to help you.”

  “Really?”

  He smirked at my cleavage. “Although it will require a few…favours.”

  I snatched my hand away. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded as I jumped up. “I thought you might say that.”

  * * * *

  Clemmie rang for the second time that evening, and if I ignored her much longer, she’d start to get suspicious.

  “Hey,” I said with feigned enthusiasm. “What’s up, slutface?”

  “Nothing much. The usual.” Water splashed. She was in the bath again. “Stupid James and his stupid face not moving out yet.”

  “That’s crap, Clem.”

  “I know. Anyway. We need to organize a date, missy. I want to hear all about the generous Mr J.”

  My pulse roared in my ears–the J who was no longer mine. I’d been doing so well, not thinking about that. Crap.

  “Yeah. I’m a bit tied up at work this week, but maybe at the weekend?”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll text you.” She paused. “That reminds me. Weird thing happened yesterday. I tried to mail you at work and it bounced back.”

  “Really?” I was trying so hard to sound casual.

  “Yeah, it said your address didn’t exist.”

  “That is weird. I’ve been getting other mails. I’ll get them to look into it.”

  I hated lying to Clemmie. It made me feel dirty.

  Sooner or later, though, I’d have to tell her everything…especially after the call I was about to make.

  * * * *

  William’s office was small and not really required, but he had to register the “business” somewhere. The trees grew lush in their shades of green as the cab sailed into the nicer parts of London, and as the smog lifted, the colours were infectious for it.

  The car deposited me on the steps of a grand old Edwardian building and I buzzed up to the Ladarna Entertainment Agency. Metro Paul’s whiny tones poured over the receiver, the door whirred, and I went up.

  “Leila.” William stubbed out his cigarette as he stood, cocking his head to beckon me over.

  “Hey.” I smiled nervously. “How’s married life?”

  The door closed behind us and Metro Paul scuttled off, which was no mean feat in such skinny jeans.

  “I’ll bring out the Evian!” he called dutifully.

  Will shook his head at me and then tugged me into a great bear hug. I whimpered before I could contain it. His sympathy mingled with my embarrassment, and the two made for an uneasy cocktail. When he released me, he looked older than he had before.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I’d told him about the blackmail on the phone. He needed to know, and had more of my trust than most.

  “It’s okay.” I sank into the seat by his desk. “I knew the risks I was taking when I started, Will. You made them quite cle
ar.”

  “Doesn’t make it any less rubbish though, does it?” His Scottish accent gave the words rough edges. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “I don’t really have anything else left to do.”

  “That isn’t good enough, and you know it.”

  Glasses clattered on the silver tray as Paul laid it on the desk. He stooped to pour water over ice and lemon, and then blotted at a splash with a folded napkin.

  “Can I get you anything else? We’ve got some of those sandwich biscuits from Marks and Sparks.” He clapped his hands together. “Lovely, they are. Everybody likes jam.”

  Will cringed at me. “Not right now, Paul, thanks.”

  “Okay!” he sang, trotting back out. “But let me know. They’re lemon curd.”

  “How do you put up with him?” I asked.

  “He’s the only one conscious enough to arrive for work before midday,” Will said. “And he’s rather decent at rimming too.”

  “I’ll pretend you haven’t said that.” Lemon permeated the taste of the water in a sharp little wave. “Where were we?”

  “I was trying to imply that this might be the last nail in your lawyerly coffin.”

  “Oh. That. Look. If I let those girls take my photo to the partners…I’d have been found out, one way or the other. But this way, nobody needs to know and I’ll find a way to finish my training eventually. I’d rather not go back to doing this but I need the money–and I’m good at it, Will. I at least need to do something I’m good at. If I don’t have a job, then nobody can catch me, so until then…” I gestured to the thin air. “I’m all yours.”

  He flicked open a velvet-covered diary. “Well. If you’re sure. What kind of hours?”

  “Any. As many jobs as I can get, at least for now.”

  He nodded, scribbling. “Still want to avoid lawyers, accountants?”

  “If you can. For what it’s worth,” I added, mournfully.

  “Same services?”

  “The very same.”

  “And you’re happy to work with Aidan, yes?”

  I smiled. “If he’ll tolerate me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll manage.” He picked up the phone. “Let’s see if we can get him in for the photos, then.”

  We had agreed that I would redo my profile portraits for security reasons. There wasn’t much point in changing my name, since it would affect my chances of business and I’d still be recognizable, but new pictures would make my identity far less obvious to those who hadn’t hired me before. It also meant the shot Poppy and Isobel had wouldn’t go back on the site.