Mister and Missus By E L James - 59

Tabitha makes a beeline for Alessia as soon as she walks into their classroom. “Good morning, Alessia. I’m so sorry about yesterday.”

Alessia shakes her head. “Don’t worry.”

“Did you know you’ve gone viral?” Tabitha gushes.

“No. What? Where?”

“Here. I Googled you last night after my dreadful faux pas. And look. This is what I found.” She holds up her phone, and there’s a video of Alessia playing the piano at Dimitri’s party. It’s an Instagram reel in the name of GrishaEgonov.

“You’re very good,” Tabitha says.

“Thank you,” Alessia says automatically. She’s staggered. She doesn’t remember him filming her—she was too caught up in the music. The post has over eighty thousand likes and thousands of comments. The caption reads Lady Alessia, Countess of Trevethick. Beautiful and talented.

She gapes at Tabitha, who grins. “Grisha’s not wrong.”

“Good morning, everyone.” Jennifer Knight brings the room to attention, ending their conversation. “Today, we’ll be discussing written communication and the correct forms of address, whether by email or snail mail.”

Abigail Chenoweth, our tenant farmer from Rosperran farm, and Michael Harris, Tresyllian Hall’s estate manager, are beyond excited at the prospect of making gin. I conclude my conference call with them, pleased that, if we get this project right, we might bring some welcome revenue to the estate and provide employment for the locals from the surrounding villages. There’s a great deal of work to be done to obtain the necessary licenses, planning, and all that bollocks, but I’ve got to say, I’m stoked: my first project for the estate—and all inspired by my wife.

My phone buzzes. It’s Caroline. “Caro.”

“Hi, have you seen that video of Alessia?”

What now?

“Video? No?”

“She’s on Grisha’s Instagram.”

“Well, I’d look at it, but I’m talking to you. What’s she doing?”

“What do you think she’s doing? She’s playing his grand piano—and don’t worry, darling, that’s not a euphemism.” Caro cackles at her tasteless joke.

“And?” I know about the piano playing. I was there!

“The Stepsow has seen it. She wants to know if Alessia has applied to the Royal College of Music.”

Whoa!

“Yes. She has applied.”

“What name did she use?”

“Alessia Trevelyan.”

“Good. I’ll let her know.”

“You two are on speaking terms?”

“She called. I thought Daddy might be ill or worse, so I took the call. But no, she wanted to know about Alessia, and she was sounding me out about you DJing?”

“Why?”

“The Demon Spawn is eighteen this year, and she wants a rave in the grounds at Horston.”

“Your little sister is eighteen! How the hell did that happen?”

“Stepsister!” she snaps. “And yes. Cordelia’s of age to spread her demon spawn-ness. The world should tremble.”

“Caro, my DJ days are over, unless your stepmother gets Alessia into the school. In which case, I might reconsider. It’s the only way I can get her a visa without her returning to Albania.”

“Ah. I see. No more spinning the decks for you?” Caro sounds surprised.

“I don’t have the time. Besides, the arseholes who trafficked Alessia stole my decks, and I haven’t found a minute to replace them.”

“Oh.” Caro is momentarily silenced, but before I can say anything, she continues. “I’ll let her know. Although the Demon Spawn will be terribly disappointed. You know she has a huge crush on you.”

“Does she now?” What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

Caroline sighs, and I’m not sure why.

“Anyway,” she says. “I should have some ideas sketched out for you by the middle of next week.”

“Great. Thanks, Caro.” I hang up, relieved that she changed the subject from Cordelia’s crush, and open my Instagram app.

Alessia! Viral.

Does she know?

I search for Grisha and find his profile. There are several photos from the party—he’s posing, of course, with many of the famous actors, TV personalities, and models who were present at the party, but on his reels, there’s my wife playing Bach as if that’s what she was born to do.

Wow. The video has a hundred thousand likes.

Grisha’s right, though it pains me to say—Alessia is gorgeous and talented.

And mine.

I take a moment out of my day and watch the video again. Then again. The fourth time, a movement in the background catches my eye.

I grin. Something to show my wife.

Their lessons finish early, and Tabitha invites Alessia to take tea. But Alessia politely declines and asks for a rain check; she has plans. She eyes her watch: 3:30 p.m. She has time—she’s researched the journey a few times on the internet. Out on the street, she bids goodbye to Tabitha and hails a passing cab, just like Maxim, and clambers inside.

“Where to, love?” the cabbie asks.

“Kew Green, please.” Alessia sits back in her seat and takes out her phone. She texts Maxim.

Hello My Lord

We finished today early.

I am going out.

Axx

Alessia wants to see where her great-uncle lives. Maybe even meet him. During her lessons today, she’d written him a letter, and she hopes to post it through his door. Once they’ve made contact, she’ll tell her husband that she’s tracked him down, and only then. After all, Maxim didn’t want her to contact the private detective.

And she did.

Her phone chimes.

It’s a text from her husband.

Good afternoon, My Lady.

I love when you text me.

Out where? Curious minds need to know.

I’ll come and join you if you wish.

Mx

Oh no.

I am going to Kew.

I will not be long.

See you later.

xxxx

What the hell is Alessia doing in Kew? The last time I was near that part of the world was when I drove out to Brentford after those arseholes showed up at my flat, and Alessia fled. You are your father’s son. A knight in shining armor—a sucker for a damsel in distress.

The memory of my mother’s words sours my mood and my concern for Alessia mushrooms.

What are you doing in Kew?

Alessia huffs. Her husband worries too much—she can tell by the brusque tone of his text. She thought she would reassure him by letting him know she was going out, but it appears to have added to his anxiety. She texts back.

It is a surprise.

Do not worry!!! 😀

xxxx

Alessia’s text is moderately reassuring.

For heaven’s sake, Maxim. She’s a grown woman.

Okay.

Stay safe.

Text when you’re coming home.

Mx

PS: Not sure I like surprises!

Alessia sighs with relief. This is more like it. He seems to have recovered his sense of humor. Feeling reassured, Alessia stares out the cab window and spots a mother pushing a stroller. She wonders what Maxim would be like if she was with child. He’d probably be a great deal worse.

Maxim’s child.

She loves the idea.

Just not yet. She was shocked when he mentioned it at the weekend, and she’s glad he’s eager for children. But the temptation to study at one of the best music schools in the country is too great a lure.

Parenthood can wait.

But if he insisted, she would capitulate. She wants children too.

Yes. She could see herself doing this.

Her parents would be thrilled, and so would Maxim.

But he agreed to wait. He wants to show her some of the world too.

My phone rings, and it’s a number I don’t recognize. “Trevethick.”

“Lord Trevethick, it’s Ticia Cavanagh.”

“Hello, Ticia. Please call me Maxim.” Jesus, we’ve bumped uglies, for heaven’s sake. “What gives?”

“I’m calling to let you know that, as we thought, all your marriage documents are completely bona fide. We’ve done the research. You are legally married.”

I laugh, more from relief than anything else. “That is good news.”

After all that, Demachi and Tabaku’s plan worked.

“I wondered if you’d made any movement on finding a place for Lady Trevethick—”

“Alessia, please.”

“For Alessia to study. I’m concerned about the rabid press interest you’re attracting.”

“Oh. You’ve seen it?”

“Yes. ‘Oh’ is right. You realize that if the Home Office finds out Alessia was here illegally earlier this year, they could refuse her a family visa. And you may also be in trouble, as you breached immigration rules, given that she was working for you and didn’t have the correct visa in place.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Exactly. I’ll follow up with a colleague to find out how the police investigation into her traffickers is progressing and if they have anything that might connect your wife to the crime. This will all be done anonymously, but the cost will come out of your retainer. So, I’m asking if—”

“Go ahead. By all means. And if the retainer doesn’t cover it, let me know.”

“Okay. Good.”

“I’m hoping we’ll secure a place for Alessia at one of the music conservatoires in London.”

“I’ve seen the video. She’s very talented.”

I smile but shake my head. My wife has gone viral! “She is, and she wants to study at the Royal College.”

“Good luck with that. In the meantime, it might be helpful if you could be a little more under the radar.”

“Point taken. We may go to Cornwall. We’ll be off the grid there. Thanks for the warning.”

“You’re welcome… Maxim.” She hangs up, and my brain feverishly starts processing this information. Perhaps going to Dimitri’s was a mistake.

Of all the times to go viral!

Alessia fingers her grandmother’s cross at her neck. Butterflies are forming in her stomach the closer she gets to Kew. The cab stops at a red light, and Alessia can see Kew Bridge before her and the road to Brentford off to her right. She remembers how happy she was living with Magda and her son for those few precious weeks. Michal has told her via Facebook that he and Magda are doing well in Canada. He has a bunch of new friends and is learning to skate. He has ambitions to play ice hockey like his new stepfather, Logan. From his posts, he looks happy, as does Magda.

Idly she wonders about grumpy Mrs. Kingsbury, and Mrs. Goode too. Her old clients. Do they have new cleaners?

Alessia shakes her head. She’s come a long way since then.

The lights turn green, and the cab moves on, crossing Kew Bridge before stopping and turning into a side road. It draws up outside a large old house that would not look out of place on Cheyne Walk. It’s one of several surrounding a pretty green pasture, flanked by enormous sycamore trees. Alessia pays the exorbitant fare with her credit card and climbs out of the cab.

It moves off, leaving her facing her great-uncle’s house. The house is immaculate. There’s a neatly trimmed tree at the front, and through the bay window, Alessia can see a baby grand piano.

A piano!

He plays too?

Her heart starts pumping with excitement, anticipation, and also, a little fear, but in that moment, she decides to call on him.

He might tell her to go away.

She grips the little gold cross that had belonged to her Nana, his sister, and with her mind made up, she walks the short driveway to the gleaming black door and pushes the doorbell. It rings faintly inside, and seconds later, an older woman, her hair in a tidy bun, answers the door.

“Hello. Can I help you?” she asks.

“I am here to see Tobias Strickland.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she asks sternly.

“No. I was hoping he’d see me. I am his sister’s granddaughter. Um…his great-niece.”

Given that Leticia Cavanagh is concerned, I call Tom Alexander to see if he’s made any headway with finding Alessia’s young friend and if he has an update on the police investigation.

“Trevethick. How goes it? I take it you found your wife.”

“I did. Grisha offered her his driver, and he took her home.”

“What? Why?”

“Don’t you read the press, Tom?”

“Are you joking? Of course not. I told you. Never bother with that nonsense, unless I have a client who makes headlines. Suggest you do the same. Ignore the arseholes.”

“You’re right. But if you happen across a lurid headline, Charlotte, my ex—”

“The actress? Not very good? Always plays herself?”

I chuckle despite myself at Tom’s bluntness. “Yes. That’s the one. She jumped me.” There’s an awkward pause in the conversation, so I continue, “Alessia witnessed that and got the wrong idea. Anyway, I’m not here to dredge up recent history. I want to know if you’ve made any headway with the police investigation and finding Alessia’s young friend.”

“Certainly nothing on the girl. But the details that Alessia gave us were so vague, I’d be surprised if we tracked her down. I spoke to Spaffer—he’s actually working the case. They’re still gathering evidence. He says he’s getting inquiries from a private detective about the same case.”

A frisson of alarm runs down my back.

“Journalists?” I ask.

“He doesn’t know. But there was a recent raid on a place in South London; they found four young women there.”

“Shit. Really?”

“Yes. They’re now in the care of the Salvation Army.”

“Any of them Albanian? Any of them Bleriana?”

“I don’t think so. But without speaking to them directly, we can’t be sure.”

“What will happen to them?”

“To be honest. I don’t know.”

“It’s fucking grim.”

“It is, old boy. It is. We’ll keep working. See if we can trace these women.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Oh, and while I remember, you don’t need to worry about that journalist who called you.”

“Really?”

“No. He’s got nothing.” Tom sounds definitive.

Okay then.

“Thanks for the update.”

The lady with the tidy bun must be in her fifties. She peers behind Alessia to see if she’s shielding anyone and then casts a critical eye over her, and Alessia is relieved when the woman steps aside; she seems to have passed inspection. “I’m not aware that Professor Strickland has a niece. Let alone a great-niece. You’d better come in.” She allows Alessia into the hallway.

The hall is much like Trevelyan House, where Caroline lives, and Alessia concludes they must have been built around the same time. “Follow me,” the woman says, and she leads Alessia down the hall into an airy room with a prominent fireplace, an impressive mantelpiece, and french windows that look out onto a lush back garden. Seated at a desk, in front of a laptop, is a man with a full mane of blondish gray hair, an outrageously curled mustache, and a beard. He looks up with polite interest. His eyes are the same baby blue as her beloved Nana’s, his mouth the same shape and creased from his readiness to smile—it’s her grandmother in male form. Alessia is blindsided; a well of emotion rises from her chest into her throat, and she’s unable to speak.

“Well, my dear,” he says. “What can I do for you?” When she doesn’t reply, he frowns in confusion, looking from Alessia to the woman who, Alessia suspects, is a servant of some kind. No. Staff. Not servant.

“She says she’s your great-niece, Professor.”

He pales and turns luminous wide eyes back to her. “Alessia?” he whispers.

What! He knows her!

Tears well in her eyes, and she nods, still unable to speak.

“Oh, my dear!” he exclaims, rising from his chair. He steps around the desk and takes both of her hands in his. “I never thought…” His voice trails off as he chokes up, and they stare at each other, holding each other’s hands. She takes in the smile lines around his eyes and his ridiculous mustache that peaks at each end. His neat beard. His impressive mane of hair just like her grandmother.

“Virginia?” he whispers.

He doesn’t know.

Alessia shakes her head.

“Oh no,” he says and tears pool in his eyes. He squeezes her hands while they face each other for several seconds, and myriad emotions flit across his face as he absorbs the sad news. Finally, Alessia’s tears fall, streaming down her face as she remembers her dear, dear Nana. Tobias pulls a cotton handkerchief from his pants pocket and wipes his eyes.

“My dear, you have quite undone me. My dear, dear sister. I wondered. I hadn’t heard from her for a long while. I hoped…” He takes a breath. “Mrs. Smith. Tea. Please. You’ll take tea, won’t you, my dear?”

Alessia nods, and she reaches for a tissue from her handbag. Mrs. Smith, whose gentle smile reveals her demeanor has transformed from suspicious to solicitous, hurries out of the room.

“That gold cross. It looks familiar. Was it hers?”

“Yes!” Alessia says. “It was.” Automatically, Alessia’s fingers fly to her throat, and she fiddles with the cross. “It’s very precious. I loved her dearly.”

He smiles. A sad smile. “I remember it. My parents were terribly religious. Ginny too. That’s why she went to Albania, to spread the Word during the Communist era.” He shakes his head as if to rid himself of some unpleasant memory. “Let’s move to the drawing room.” He ushers Alessia toward the door.

“So, I never had an address for Ginny, but she would write to me very occasionally. That’s how I know about you. I think she was concerned that my parents would go and ‘rescue’ her from the depths of Albania. They did not approve of her marriage at all.” Toby sighs. “Dreadful business. They lost a daughter.”

“She married well. She was very much in love with her husband. He was a fine man. Her daughter, my mother, was less lucky, though that seems to have changed.”

“Your mother. Shpresa?”

“Yes.”

“So, Alessia, tell me about yourself. How do you happen to be in England? Tell me all.”

“Honey, I’m home,” I call as I close the front door. It’s deathly quiet, and the unsettled anxiety I’ve felt since Alessia announced she was going out rears its ugly head. “Alessia!” I shout, just in case she’s deep in a wardrobe or one of the bathrooms. But the flat has a ringing emptiness that I never noticed until Alessia moved in.

Hell. We forgot to set the alarm.

And she said she’d text. Scowling, I take out my phone and call. But it rings through to voicemail. “Where are you?” I ask and hang up, blowing out a breath in frustration.

Alessia can look after herself.

Can’t she?

She handled my mother. She handled Grisha.

The apprehension that’s become familiar since Alessia was kidnapped flutters in my chest. I text her, keeping it light.

Where are you?

The flat is cold and lonely without you.

Mx

Also, I’m hungry. That isn’t helping my mood. Feeling miserable, I drift into the kitchen, where the fridge is stacked with goodies.

No. I change my mind, head into the bedroom, and put on my running gear. A run will clear my head, and she’ll be back when I’m done.

“I cannot believe that you were living across the river. That’s extraordinary,” Toby says.

“Yes. I was happy there,” Alessia replies.

“West is best, I think the saying goes.” He smiles kindly.

Alessia glances at the time. It’s after six! “The time. I must go. My husband will be anxious.”

“I’m sure he will. Maxim, you say?”

“Yes. That’s his name.” Alessia hasn’t told Toby about Maxim’s heritage. She’s going to save that for their next meeting. “I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s a good man.” She stands and glances at the piano.

“Do you play?”

“Yes. I do. Nana taught my mother. Nana and my mother taught me. Do you?”

He chuckles. “Musicality runs in the family. Sadly, I don’t play as much as I used to.” He holds up his hands and waggles his fingers. “These aren’t what they were, but I’ve studied music all my life. It’s more a science to me now than an art, yet it started in a blaze of color for me.”

“You have synesthesia?”

“I do, my dear. I do.” He’s stunned. “But I call it chromesthesia.”

Alessia grins. “Chromesthesia. I have not heard this.”

“It’s specific. Sound to color synesthesia.”

“I have this!”

“Ha!” he hoots, and he takes her hands. “I have never met another synesthete! And when I do, we’re related! How do you see the colors?”

“They match a key. You?”

“Mine are less defined, but listen, we can discuss this at another time. I know you need to go. I’ll order you an Uber, and while we wait for it to arrive, will you play something for me?”

Alessia is giddy with joy as she climbs into the vehicle. Toby waves her off from the doorstep, and she waves frantically back until she can no longer see him. She hugs herself as the car turns and slowly eases into the traffic on the bridge. Toby is thoughtful, kind, musical, and super-smart, but most of all, he’s interested in her and her life in a way that her male relatives at home were not, and he cannot wait to meet her husband. She digs her phone out of her handbag to call Maxim and apologize for not texting. But it’s dead.

O Zot!

Well, there’s nothing she can do until she gets home. So she sits back and replays her entire conversation with Toby. Her great-uncle. Synesthete.

“Honey, I’m home!” I announce to an empty flat when I’m back from my exercise. The endorphins conjured by my run disappear as I head into the shower.

Where the hell is she?

By 7:00 p.m., I’m climbing the walls. I’ve left more messages but received no word from my wife. There’s no one I can call, nothing I can do. I’m powerless.

I hate not knowing where or how she is.

I pace the drawing room, and every time I pass the double doors that open onto the hallway, I glance at the front door, willing Alessia to appear.

I. Am. Going. Crazy.

Hell.

I step into the echoing silence of my hallway. And I’m suddenly overwhelmed. I don’t know where my wife is, and for some unknown reason, the memory of my mother’s Louboutins clicking across the hardwood as she left springs to mind—reminding me that I’ve already lost another family member this week.

Was that the last I’ll ever see of her?

And as much as Rowena annoys the hell out of me, that thought is depressing.

She’s my mother.

Mama.

Fuck.

How do we come back from this?

I shake off the bleak feeling and text her.

We need to discuss Kit’s memorial service.

When you’re over your snit,

perhaps you can give me a call.

And I want to add you faithless whore , but I don’t. She’s my mother. Next, I text my absent wife. Again.

I am going crazy here!

Call me.

Please.

M

Suddenly the key sounds in the door, and it opens to reveal Alessia. She looks fine. When we lock eyes, her warm smile lights up the darkened hallway and my heart. My relief and anger seize the day in equal measure.

Thank fuck she’s safe.

But as she steps into the hall, the anger triumphs, and my cry echoes off the walls. “Where the fuck have you been?”