Mister and Missus By E L James - 11

I turn the Jaguar left onto the A4 and speed along the three-lane highway. Alessia is hunched down in the passenger seat with her arms wrapped around herself, but at least she’s remembered to put on her seat belt. She’s staring out at the passing industrial buildings and car showrooms, but occasionally she wipes a sleeve across her face, and I know she’s still crying.

How can women cry so quietly?

“Do you want me to stop for tissues?” I ask. “I’m sorry I don’t have any.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t look at me.

I understand why she’s emotional. What a day. If I’m astounded by today’s events, she must be overwhelmed. Completely overwhelmed. I think it’s best if I leave her alone to gather her thoughts. Besides, it’s late, and I have to make some calls.

I press the phone icon on the touch screen and find Danny’s number. The sound of its ringtone echoes through the car via the hands-free system. Within two rings she answers.

“Tresyllian Hall,” she says in her familiar Scottish brogue.

“Danny, it’s Maxim.”

“Master Maxim… I mean—”

“It’s okay, Danny, don’t worry,” I interrupt her, with a quick glance at Alessia, who’s now looking at me. “Is the Hideout or the Lookout available this weekend?”

“I think they’re both available, my—”

“And next week?”

“The Lookout is booked for a weekend clay shoot.”

“I’ll take the Hideout, then.”

Appropriate.

“I need”—I glance at Alessia’s pale face—“I need two of the rooms made up and some of my clothes and toiletries brought over from the Hall.”

“You’ll not be staying at the Hall?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Two rooms, you say?”

I had hoped for one…

“Yes, please. And could you ask Jessie to stock the fridge for breakfast and maybe a snack tonight. And some wine and some beer. Tell her to improvise.”

“Of course, milord. When will you be arriving?”

“Late tonight.”

“Of course. Is everything all right, sir?”

“Everything’s fine. Oh, and, Danny, can we get the piano tuned?”

“I had all of them tuned yesterday. You mentioned you wanted them all done when you were here.”

“That’s great. Thanks, Danny.”

“You’re welcome, my—” I press the OFF button before she finishes.

“Would you like to listen to some music?” I ask Alessia. She turns red-rimmed eyes to me, and my chest tightens. “Okay,” I say, not waiting for her answer. On the media screen, I find what I hope will be a soothing album and press PLAY . The sound of acoustic guitars fills the car, and I relax a little. We have a long drive ahead.

“Who is this?” Alessia asks.

“A singer-songwriter called Ben Howard.”

She stares at the screen for a moment, then goes back to gazing out the window.

I reflect on all my past interactions with Alessia in light of what she’s told me today. Now I understand why she’s been so reticent around me, and my heart is leaden. In my fantasies I’d imagined that when I was finally alone with her, she would be laughing and carefree, gazing at me with adoring doe eyes. The reality is very different.

Very. Different.

And yet… I don’t mind. I want to be with her.

I want her safe.

I want her…

That’s the truth.

I’ve never felt like this before.

Everything has happened so fast. And I still don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. But I know I can’t abandon her to those lowlifes. I want to protect her.

How chivalrous.

My thoughts take a darker turn as I dwell on morbid fantasies of what she might have had to endure and of what she might have seen. This young woman in the hands of those monsters.

Fuck. I grip the steering wheel tighter as anger surges like sulfuric acid in my gut.

If I ever get hold of those men…

My rage is murderous.

What have they done to her? I want to know.

No. I don’t want to know.

I do.

I don’t.

I glance at the dashboard.

Shit . I’m speeding.

Slow the fuck down, mate.

I ease my foot off the accelerator.

Steady.

I take a deep, cleansing breath.

Calm down.

I want to ask her what she’s endured. What she’s seen. But now is not the right time. All my plans, all my fantasies will be for nothing if she can’t bear to be with a man… any man.

And I realize that I can’t touch her.

Fuck.

Alessia tries but fails to stem her tears. She’s dazed, drowning in her emotions.

Her fear.

Her hope.

Her despair.

Can she trust the man sitting beside her? She has placed herself in his hands. Willingly. And she’s done that before—with Dante—and that didn’t turn out so well.

She doesn’t know Mister Maxim. Not really. He’s shown her nothing but kindness since she met him—and what he’s done for Magda is beyond what any reasonable man could be expected to do. Until she met Maxim, Magda had been the only person in England whom Alessia trusted. She had saved Alessia’s life. She had taken her in, fed and clothed her, and found her work, through a network of Polish women who live in West London and help each other.

And now Alessia is traveling miles and miles from that place of refuge. Magda has reassured her that Mrs. Kingsbury’s and Mrs. Goode’s houses would be covered by one of the other girls while Alessia is away.

How long will she be gone?

And where is the Mister taking her?

She tenses. Perhaps Dante is following them?

She tightens her arms around her body. Thinking of Dante reminds her of her nightmare journey to England. She doesn’t want to think about that. She never wants to think about it again. But it haunts her in moments of quiet and in her nightmares. What’s become of Bleriana, Vlora, Dorina, and the other girls?

Please let them have escaped, too.

Bleriana was only seventeen, the youngest of the girls.

Alessia shudders. The song on the car stereo is about living in the confines of fear. Alessia squeezes her eyes shut. Her stomach constricts with fear, the fear she’s been living with for so long, and her tears continue to fall.

We pull in to the Gordano Services on the M5 just after 10:00 P.M. I’m hungry in spite of the cheese sandwich Magda made for me back in Brentford. Alessia is asleep. I wait for a moment to see if she’ll wake now that the car has come to a standstill. Under the glow from the halogen lights in the car park, she looks serene and ethereal—the curve of her translucent cheeks, her dark lashes splayed out above them, and the stray lock of hair from her plait that curls beneath her chin. I contemplate letting her sleep but decide I can’t leave her alone in the car.

“Alessia,” I whisper, and her name is a prayer. I’m tempted to stroke her cheek, but I resist and whisper her name once more. She wakes with a gasp and a wide-eyed start, looking frantically around her. When her eyes meet mine, she stills.

“Hey. It’s me. You’ve been asleep. I want something to eat, and I need the loo. Do you want to come with me?”

She blinks several times, her long lashes fluttering over expressive but unfocused eyes.

She is gorgeous.

Rubbing her face, she looks around the car park, and her whole body suddenly tenses and radiates anxiety. “Please, Mister, don’t leave me here,” she says quietly.

“I’ve no intention of leaving you here. What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, paler now.

“Let’s go,” I say.

Outside, I stretch as she clambers out of the car and almost runs to my side, her eyes scanning the surroundings.

What’s happened?

I offer her my hand, and she grabs it, holding tight. Then to my delight and surprise, she curls her other hand around my biceps and clings to me.

“You know, I was Maxim earlier,” I say, trying to make her smile. “I much prefer it to Mister.”

She flashes me an anxious look. “Maxim,” she whispers, but her eyes dart all over the car park.

“Alessia, you’re safe.”

She looks doubtful.

This will never do.

Releasing her hand, I grasp her shoulders. “Alessia, what’s wrong? Please tell me.”

Her expression changes, her wide eyes haunted and bleak.

“Please,” I beg, watching the vapor from our breath mingle between us in the frosty air.

“I escaped,” she whispers.

Shit! The rest of her story—I’m going to hear it here in a service station off the M5. “Go on,” I encourage her.

“It was a place like this.” She looks around again.

“What? A motorway services?”

She nods. “They stopped. They wanted us to wash. To be clean. They were being… um… kind. Or so some of the girls thought. They made it seem like it was for our… um… What is the word? Our… um… good. Benefit. Our benefit. But if we were cleaner, we would bring a higher price.”

Fuck. This is going to make me angry again.

“Before. On the journey. I heard them talking. In English. About why we were going to England. They didn’t know I understood. And I knew what they were going to do.”

“Shit!”

“I told the other girls. Some of them did not believe me. But three of the girls did believe me.”

Bloody hell! There are more women!

“It was night, like now. One of the men, Dante, took three of us to the restrooms. We ran. All of us. He could not catch us all. It was dark. I ran into the woods. I ran and ran… I ran away. I don’t know about the other girls.” Her voice is tinged with guilt.

Oh, God.

I can bear no more. Overcome by what this young woman has braved, I fold her into my arms and hold her tightly. “I’ve got you,” I whisper, feeling raw and exposed and enraged on her behalf. We stand for seconds, minutes—I don’t know how long—in the cold car park, and finally, tentatively, she wraps her arms around me and relaxes into my hold, hugging me back. She fits perfectly in my arms. I can rest my chin on her head, should I so choose. She looks up at me, and it’s as if she’s seeing me for the first time. Her dark eyes are intense. Full of questions. Full of promise.

My breath catches in my throat.

What is she thinking?

Her eyes move to my lips, and she raises her head, her objective clear.

“You want me to kiss you?” I ask.

She nods.

Fuck.

I hesitate. I’ve vowed not to touch her. She closes her eyes, offering herself to me. And I can’t resist. I plant a soft, chaste kiss on her lips, and she melts against me with a moan.

It’s a wake-up call to my libido. I groan, staring down at her parted lips.

No.

Not now.

Not here.

Not after what she’s been through.

Not in a service area on the M5.

I kiss her forehead. “Come on. Let’s eat.” Surprised by my restraint and taking her hand, I lead her into the building.

Alessia trails beside Maxim, clinging to him while they cross the asphalt. She focuses on his comforting embrace and tender kiss, not what happened the last time she was in a service station. She tightens her hold on him. He makes her forget, and for that she’s grateful. The doors to the concourse open, and they step into the building, but she halts, bringing them both to a stop.

The smell . Zot. The smell.

Fried food.

Sweet food.

Coffee.

Disinfectant.

Alessia winces as she recalls being hustled to the restrooms. Not one bystander noticed her plight.

“You okay?” Maxim asks.

“I have the memories,” she says.

He squeezes her hand. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Come on. I really need the lavatory.” He gives her a rueful smile.

Alessia swallows. “I do, too,” she says shyly, and follows him to the restrooms.

“Unfortunately, I can’t take you in there with me.” Maxim tilts his head at the entrance. “I’ll be right outside here when you come out, okay?” he says. “You go.”

Alessia, reassured, takes a deep breath and walks into the bathroom, giving him a last glance before she turns the corner. There is no line for the stalls. Only two women, one older, one younger, are there, washing their hands at the basins. Neither of them looks as if she’s been trafficked from Eastern Europe.

Alessia chides herself.

What was she expecting?

The older lady, who must be at least fifty, turns to use the hand dryer, catches Alessia’s eye, and smiles. Feeling encouraged and more confident, Alessia heads into a cubicle.

When she exits, Maxim is there, leaning against the opposite wall, tall and muscular, one thumb hooked in the belt loop of his jeans. His hair is ruffled and messy, his vivid green eyes intense. He grins when he sees her, his face lighting up like a child’s at New Year’s, and he holds out his hand. Gladly, she takes it.

The coffee shop is a Starbucks; Alessia recognizes it from the many she’s seen in London. Maxim orders a double espresso for himself and, at her request, a hot chocolate.

“And what would you like to eat?” he asks.

“I am not hungry,” she replies.

He raises his eyebrows. “You didn’t have anything at Magda’s. I know you didn’t eat anything in my flat.”

Alessia frowns. She threw up her breakfast as well, but she isn’t about to tell him that. She shakes her head. She’s too upset by the day’s events to eat.

Maxim huffs in frustration and orders a panini.

“Actually, make that two,” he says to the barista, giving Alessia a sideways look.

“I’ll bring them over,” the barista replies, directing a coquettish smile at Maxim.

“We’d like them to go.” Maxim hands her a twenty-pound note.

“Of course.” The barista bats her eyelashes at him.

“Great, thanks.” He doesn’t return her smile but turns his attention to Alessia.

“I have money,” Alessia says.

Maxim rolls his eyes. “I’ve got this.”

They move to the end of the counter to wait for their order. Alessia wonders what she will do about money. She has a little, but she needs what she has for a deposit on a room. Though he did say that he could find her a room.

Did he mean a room in his apartment? Or somewhere else?

She doesn’t know. And she has no idea how long they will stay or where they’re going or when she’ll be able to earn more cash. She’d like to ask him, but it’s not her place to question a man.

“Hey, don’t worry about money,” Maxim says.

“I—”

“Don’t. Please.” His expression is serious.

He’s generous. Once again Alessia wonders what he does for a living. He has the big apartment, two cars. He organized the security for Magda. Is he a composer? Do composers make a lot of money in England? She doesn’t know.

“I can see your brain working from here. What is it? Ask me? I don’t bite,” Maxim says.

“I want to know what is your job.”

“What I do for a living?” Maxim smiles.

“Are you a composer?”

He laughs. “Sometimes.”

“I thought that’s what you did. I liked your pieces.”

“You did?” His smile broadens, but he looks a little embarrassed. “You speak very good English,” he says.

“Do you think so?” Alessia flushes at the unexpected compliment.

“Yes, I do.”

“My grandmother was English.”

“Oh. Well, that explains it. What was she doing in Albania?”

“She visited in the 1960s with her friend Joan, who is Magda’s mother. As children Magda and my mother sent letters and became friends. They live in different countries but have remained very good friends, though they have never met.”

“Never?”

“No. Though my mother would like to, one day.”

“Two ham-and-cheese paninis,” the barista says, interrupting them.

“Thanks.” Maxim accepts the bag. “Let’s go. You can tell me more in the car,” he says to Alessia as he picks up his coffee. “Bring your drink.” Alessia follows him out of the Starbucks, sticking close.

In the car Maxim downs his espresso, puts the empty cup in the cup holder, and, removing half of his panini from its paper wrapper, takes an enormous bite.

Its appetizing aroma fills the car.

“Hmm,” Maxim murmurs in exaggerated appreciation. As he chews, he throws Alessia a sideways look. She stares at his mouth and licks her lips.

“Want some?” he asks.

She nods.

“Here, help yourself.” He passes her the second panini, then starts the car, a smirk on his face. Alessia allows herself a cautious bite of the sandwich. A string of melted cheese sticks to her lips. She uses her fingers to scoop it into her mouth and licks her fingers. Realizing how ravenous she is, she takes another bite. It’s delicious.

“Better?” Maxim asks, his voice low.

Alessia grins. “You are cunning like the wolf.”

“Cunning is my middle name,” he says, looking pleased with himself, and Alessia can’t help but laugh.

Boy, that’s a good sound.

At the petrol station, I pull up beside the high-octane pump. “This won’t take a minute. Eat.” I grin and get out of the car. But Alessia scrambles out after me, clutching her panini, and comes to stand beside me at the pump.

“Miss me already?” I quip, trying to lighten the mood. Her lips curl in the semblance of a smile, but her eyes scour our surroundings. She’s apprehensive, and this place is making her more anxious. I fill the tank.

“It is expensive!” Alessia exclaims when she sees the cost.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” And I realize I’ve never paid attention to how much fuel costs. I’ve never had to. “Come on, let’s go pay.”

In the queue for the register, Alessia stands beside me, taking the occasional bite of her sandwich and gazing at the shelves in what looks like wonder.

“Do you want anything? Magazine? A snack? Something sweet?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “There is so much to buy here.”

I look around. Everything seems so commonplace to me. “Don’t you have shops in Albania?” I tease.

She purses her lips. “Of course. In Kukës there are many shops, but not like this.”

“Oh?”

“This is tidy and ordered. Very neat. Pathological.”

I grin. “Pathologically tidy?”

“Yes. The opposite of you.”

I laugh. “The shops aren’t tidy in Albania?”

“Not in Kukës. Not like this.”

At the register I slide my credit card into the chip and PIN machine, conscious that she’s watching my every move.

“Your card is magic,” Alessia says.

“Magic?” And I have to agree with her. It is magic. I’ve done nothing to earn the money that’s paying for the petrol. My wealth is merely an accident of birth.

“Yes,” I murmur. “Magic.”

Back at the car, we climb in, and I wait before pressing the ignition.

“What?” Alessia asks.

“Seat belt.”

“I forget. It’s like the nodding and the shaking.”

What is this?

“In Albania we shake our head to say yes, and we nod to say no,” she explains.

“Wow. That must be confusing.”

“Your way is confusing. Magda and Michal had to teach me.”

Clutching the other half of my panini, I start the car and cruise down the slip road back onto the M5.

So she mixes up yes and no? I wonder if I should review any of our previous conversations, given this new information.

“Where are we going?” Alessia asks, staring ahead into the dark night.

“My family has a place in Cornwall. It’s another three hours or so.”

“It is a long way.”

“From London? Yes.”

She takes a sip of her hot chocolate.

“Tell me about your home,” I say.

“Kukës? It’s a small town. Nothing much happens… It’s… um… what is the word? Alone?”

“Isolated?”

“Yes. Isolated. And… rural.” She shrugs and seems reluctant to say more.

“Cornwall is rural. You’ll see. Earlier you were telling me about your grandmother.”

She smiles. She seems happier to talk about her grandmother. This is what I’d envisaged when I hatched our escape plan this afternoon, an easy and relaxed conversation where I find out more about her. I settle back in my seat and give her an expectant look.

“My grandmother and her friend Joan came to Albania as missionaries.”

“Missionaries? In Europe?”

“Yes. The Communists banned religion. Albania was the first atheist nation.”

“Oh. I had no idea.”

“She came to help the Catholics. She smuggled books into Albania from Kosovo. Bibles. You know. What she did, it was dan gerous. She met an Albanian man and—” She pauses, and her face softens. “They fell in love. And… how do you say it? The rest is history.”

“Dangerous?” I asked.

“Yes. She has many hair-stand-up stories.”

“Hair-stand-up?” I smile. “I think you mean hair-raising.”

She grins. “Hair-raising.”

“And Magda’s mother?”

“She moved on to Poland as a missionary and married a Polish man,” she says, as if this is obvious. “They were the best of friends. And their daughters became the best of friends.”

“And that’s why you came to Magda’s when you escaped.”

“Yes. She has been a good friend to me.”

“I’m glad you’ve had someone.”

And now you have me.

“Do you want the other half of your panini?”

“No thank you.”

“Will you share it with me?”

Alessia eyes me for a moment. “Okay,” she says, and fishing it out of the bag, she offers it to me.

“You take first bite.”

She smiles and does exactly that, then hands it to me.

“Thank you.” I flash her a quick grin. I’m relieved that she seems happier. “More music?”

She nods while chewing.

“Your choice. Just press that button and scroll through the tracks.”

Alessia squints at the screen and starts exploring my playlists. She’s diligently absorbed in the task. Illuminated by the screen, her face is serious and earnest. “I do not know any of this music,” she murmurs.

I hand her back the panini. “Choose one.”

Her finger taps the display, and I smile when I see what she’s chosen.

Bhangra. Why not?

A man starts singing a cappella. “What language is this?” Alessia asks, and takes another bite. A melted piece of mozzarella escapes out of the corner of her mouth. With her index finger, she pushes it back into her mouth and sucks her finger clean. My body comes to attention.

I grip the steering wheel. “Punjabi. I think.”

The band kicks in on the track, and Alessia passes the panini back to me. She sways in her seat to the rhythm. “I have not heard anything like this.”

“I sometimes use this as part of a set when I’m DJing. More?” I ask, offering her what’s left of the sandwich.

She shakes her head. “No. Thank you.”

I pop the remainder into my mouth, pleased that I managed to get her to eat more.

“DJing?” she asks.

“You know, in a club. For people to dance to. I DJ a couple of nights a month in Hoxton.”

I glance at Alessia, who is staring blankly at me.

She has no idea what I’m talking about.

“Okay, I’ll have to take you to a club.”

Alessia’s look is still blank, but she continues to tap her feet to the beat. I shake my head. How sheltered was this girl’s upbringing?

Given what she’s experienced, not so sheltered. What horror has she endured? My mind races, my thoughts depressing me.

But then I recall her confession in the car park.

She escaped.

Escaped!

“They wanted us to be clean… we would bring a higher price.”

I exhale.

I hope, for her sake, that she managed to avoid any horror. But somehow I doubt it. The journey alone must have been a nightmare. I try to grasp the magnitude of what she’s been through and what she’s achieved. She escaped. Found a place to live. A job. And she escaped again this afternoon from my flat. While she has nothing, she’s one resourceful young woman: ingenious, talented, courageous, and beautiful. My heart swells with unexpected pride.

“You really are something, Alessia,” I whisper, but she’s lost in the music and doesn’t hear me.

It’s after midnight when I pull up the gravel drive and park outside the garage of the Hideout, one of the luxury holiday homes on the Trevethick estate. I don’t want to overwhelm Alessia with the Hall—maybe that can happen later. The truth is, I want her to myself. There are too many staff in the great house, and I haven’t figured out what I’ll say about her or to her about the estate. Right now she doesn’t know who I am, what I have, and what my birthright entails. And I like that… I like that a lot.

She’s asleep. She must be exhausted. I study her face. Even in the harsh glare of the garage’s security light, her features are soft and delicate in repose.

Sleeping beauty.

I could look at her for hours. She grimaces briefly, and I wonder what she’s dreaming about.

Me?

I consider carrying her into the house but dismiss the idea. The steps down to the front door are steep and can be slippery. I could kiss her awake. She should be woken with a kiss, like a princess. I’m being ridiculous, and I remember that I’ve vowed not to touch her.

“Alessia,” I whisper. “We’re here.”

Opening her eyes, she regards me sleepily. “Hello,” she says.

“Hello, beautiful. We’ve arrived.”