After I pulled the desk chair over, I stowed away my bag and abaya, adjusted my rapidly slipping hijab, and gathered writing supplies. All set, I grabbed only my good-side crutch, so as to have a free hand, and entered the main office. My prison had obviously been aired out recently, but the stuffy feeling characteristic to closed-off spaces still remained. I was thankful for the smallest moment of escape.

When I hobbled out the door, Mr. Rodwell took one look at me and did a double take. “When did you change?” he asked, staring like he expected me to sprout wings and fly away.

I snorted and looked down. Today I wore the same outfit as yesterday. It might seem disgusting, but the clothes were still perfectly fine and no one knew I had worn them the day before, except some close confidantes. Hence, no problem at all.  “I didn’t. I just removed my abaya. This is a work atmosphere. I don’t need it.”

He cleared his throat. “I see. Fair enough. But a warning would be appreciated the next time you feel inclined to divulge your clothing.”

I scowled. What a presumptuous bastard.  “I did not divulge my clothing. As a matter of face, one might say that I just removed my coat.”

“Fair enough,” he repeated. “Now, if you have any intention of getting some work done today, I suggest coming here right now.” He cocked his fingers as his attention once again went back to the desk.

I tightened my grip on the book and pencil and slowly limped to his side, determined not to let his black mood affect me. He had a thick book open before him. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t anything official. In fact, it looked like a diary.

“So,” he started when I was close enough to see the spidery scrawl over the pages. “This is—”

I shifted my grip on the things in my hand, leaning forward. He looked at me, lips thin. “Do you need to sit down?”

“Excuse me?” I said, putting the pencil in my mouth to stop it from slipping from between my fingers.

He frowned impatiently. “I said, do you need to sit down, Miss Mahal? We cannot get any work done if you can’t even stand still for a moment.”

I couldn’t help feeling irritated myself. Be cool… Breath… You need to be cool.

“Actually, sir, as you might have noticed, it is not my fault that I can’t stand still.” I motioned with the book at my off-the-floor-leg.

He looked down at it and his frown deepened. “Fine,” he said, sounding like he was making a huge concession. “Come.”

He stood up so fast I didn’t get a chance to move back, causing me to teeter off-balance. His hand shot out and grabbed my arm, steadying me. At first, preoccupied as I was with trying to stay straight, I didn’t notice. But when my senses kick-started, I ripped my arm out of his grip. My heart rate spiked, and not in a good way. My breath came in short gasps. I looked at him with wide eyes and for a moment the face before me changed into something else.

I stepped back.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

His face was back to normal. The high cheekbones, the aquiline nose. He hadn’t had an aquiline nose. No, his had been shorter, fatter. I took a deep breath. Okay, it isn’t him. You are not there anymore. You are safe. He is far away. I blinked. Far away.

“Miss Mahal?”

“Y-yes.” I cleared my throat and shook my head. “Yes, I am sorry. I was just—”

“Save it.” He brushed past me and rounded the table. “We can sit here and get this done with.” He sat down on the couch, the leather moulding around his body, and looked at me with unreadable eyes, waiting.

Alright. I joined him, sitting at the far end. I was being a right idiot. There was nothing to worry about. Not from this man. But how many of those other men had looked just like him? Remember them? They probably showed the same face to the world to hide the monster inside. How do you know he isn’t one of them? I kicked the voice hard in the kidneys. It fell out of my left ear, leaving my head blissfully empty.

“Alright, Miss Maha—”

“Zara.”

He sighed so heavily his cheeks blew out. “What are you talking about now?” he said tiredly. “You know, Miss Mahal, with all this interrupting, I am really regretting my change of mind yesterday.”  

“I am sorry. I just meant to say, please call me Zara.”

His eyebrows dipped. “And why exactly would I do that?”

“It’s just… well, back in Pakistan we all used to call each other by our first names, mostly. Seeing as I am going to be working here, it would make me feel much more comfortable if you would just use my name. You see, when you say ‘Miss Mahal’, it sounds like you’re calling someone else.” I gave a short laugh.

He didn’t look impressed. “Miss Mahal?”

“Yes?”

“I really don’t care.”

I let my breath rush out, smile dropping, and met his gaze. His eyes were wide and clear. He really did mean it; he didn’t care.

“I should have known better than to expect you to understand,” I said, voice hard, unable to stop myself.

It took him a moment to reply. When he did, it was only to say, “Yes, you should have.”

We were both silent for a split-second, a second that lasted a bit too long, before he lifted the tattered diary again. He must have picked it up when he left the desk and I hadn’t noticed.

“Miss Mahal—” was it just me or did he emphasise the words? “—as you know, I haven’t had a secretary for a very long time. So, to say that my appointments are slightly disorganised,” he wrinkled his nose at the word, “would be an understatement.” He opened the book to a random page. The spiky scrawl made my head spin. “What I want you to do is to look through this book here and organise all of my obligations. I have done as best as I can, but…”

He handed it to me. I turned through the pages, the letters swimming before my eyes. “November 15th,” I read, “Charity bell.” I looked up at him. “Bell?”

“It’s ball,” he said through gritted teeth. “Charity ball.”

“Hmm…” I flipped the page. “November twenty—” I frowned and pulled the book closer. “What’s this number? I don’t think I have ever seen it before. Did you invent one of your own?”

He snatched the book from my hands. “Which one?” he asked, scanning the page.

“Oh, this one.” I scooted forward and pointed at the right place.

He located the number and then looked up at me, none too happy. He shoved the book back in my face. “That’s a one, of course. It’s twenty-one. Are you dyslexic or something?”

“Of course not. But I think you are. Where did you learn your handwriting from, the butcher’s cat?” I felt disturbingly triumphant at the jab.

He didn’t deign to reply. It did occur to me how many people would not have excused the comment—the warning bells were still ringing, if a little subdued. Standing up, he headed back to the desk. “There is no ne—”

“August 21st?” I exclaimed, still reading. I raised wide eyes at him. “You’ve got August right after November. And…” I flipped the pages again. “Oh my God, there’s July too! Right after,” I ran my index finger down the entries, “right after May. Are you sure you even know the order of the months?”

“Miss Mahal,” he said slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  “That,” he pointed at the thick diary in my hands, “is the only reason you are here right now. I can’t arrange things myself. I need someone to do it.” He looked like it killed him to say it. And not just any killing. I mean, slow killing, as if his innards were being pulled out an inch at a time as he watched. “And,” he said, “your job is to do it, not to make entirely unnecessary comments.”

I had to concentrate very hard not to smirk. “Yes, I see. Of course. I will get it done in—”

“Tomorrow,” he said.

I frowned, not understanding. “Sorry? Tomorrow what?”

“You will get it done by tomorrow.” Now he was smiling.

It took a moment for the words to sink in. “What?”

“Please don’t speak so sharply, Miss Mahal. Your voice hurts my head.”

“Do you even see the size of this book?” I asked, holding out the said object, which was easily three inches thick. “This is going to take me ages! And,” I pulled the book back and flipped to the first page, then the last, “it runs through a whole year more of appointments! If it’s even ordered yearly! How do you expect me to do it in one night?”

“I can except anything I want, Miss Mahal, and you are required to complete it.”

“Why, you—”

But before I could get out exactly what I thought of his miserable life, a knock sounded on the door. I whipped around to find Geric’s head poking through the opening.

“Er… Mr. Rodwell? The South Africans are here. And,” he grimaced, “they don’t seem very… er… happy,” he chose, “about you withdrawing your shares from their company.”

I looked at the addressed. And saw the first real smile, without a trace of sneer or sarcasm, on his lips. But it wasn’t the kind of smile people indulge in when they feel happy. Oh, no… it was the smile of triumph. Pure, unadulterated triumph.

I felt sorry for the South Africans.

“And did you do what I told you to do?”

Geric nodded eagerly, like a dog ever ready to please. “Yes I did, sir. I kept them waiting for exactly the right time, like you told me to. And I kept hinting that you might not want to do business with them at all, considering how preposterous their terms are. They are in the perfect state of mind now, and ready to accept everything you propose.” He grinned.

Mr. Rodwell brushed imaginary lint from his jacket shoulder. “Fair enough, Geric. You may go.” He fastened the jacket button.

As he swept a hand over the desk, picking up a card and a folder, he looked up. Geric was still there, waiting. Mr. Rodwell’s brows furrowed. “Why aren’t you gone, Geric? Take them to conference room number two. You know that.”

“Yes, sir,” Geric said in a small voice, his face falling. He left, closing the door behind him.

My face fell too. Oh, God. He had expected him to say thank you. He had expected to hear that he had done a good job. I looked at Mr. Rodwell, who was running fingers through his hair, the faint smile still on his lips. And the monster didn’t even notice!

“Why didn’t you appreciate him?” I heard myself ask. What was it with me and suicidal actions?

“Hmmm? What was that?”

“Geric. Why didn’t you say he had done a good job or something such? He was clearly expecting you to.”

“What are you talking about? Geric is a professional. He doesn’t need to be appreciated. He knows what his job is and he does it to the best of his potential.”

I couldn’t believe this man. “How much is your EQ? Because I think you might be a psychopath. Zero EQ.” What in the name of heavens was wrong with me?

He gave be a cool look. “Miss Mahal, I do not welcome that kind of talk. Now,” he straightened his tie, “please get back to work. You, it’s clear, are not a professional at all. How many times do I have to tell you to get to work?”

I had completely forgotten about the diary. I held it up again. “Yes, about that. I cannot do this in a day! This is impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible until you make it so, Miss Mahal.”

“But—”

He ignored me and walked out the door before I could figure out ‘but’ what.

I sighed.

***

When I got out of the taxi in the evening the cabbie had to open the door for me because I couldn’t move my fingers. I have no idea how I managed to make my way to the apartment but I do think it involved a lot of clawing at the banisters and a little crawling along the landing. Finally, I sat down beside the door, heaving sharp breaths. I had no energy left to get up and open it. Wincing, I turned and rapped my knuckles against the wood.

Feet moved on the other side. Then a timid voice asked, “Who is it? I have a knife.”

I screwed my eyes shut. Good God above…

“Ella, its only me. Open up.”  

“Granny!” Ella shrieked. “Granny Tonks, there is someone outside and they are talking with each other! I can hear them! Someone has come to kill us!”

My eyes flew open. Ooooh, no…

“Ella…” I started, speaking louder. But it was too late.

“What was that, honey?” a wheezy voice asked. “Kill us, you say? Don’t you worry. I will show them. I will. Don’t you worry. Where is me pipe? Me pipe? Aaah… Now, let me at 'em. I will see how they kill us. Out’o the way, sweetie… out’o the way. It might get bloody.”

I pulled myself to a standing position, suddenly energised, and dug around in my bag. Where are my keys?!

Again, too late.

There was a click and the door opened. A rolling pin came whizzing through the air toward my head. Bloody hell…

But Granny Tonks tripped and fell, missing smashing my head to smithereens by mere inches.

“Mommy!” Ella exclaimed, now revealed as Granny’s heavy body went down.

I looked at said body, sprawled across the threshold. A breath rumbled there somewhere. Thank God… “Congratulations, Ella,” I said. “You almost managed to kill me.”

“Oh, Mommy, I am so sorry,” she said, leaping over Granny to wrap her little arms around my middle. A snore rang out below. “Why didn’t you use your key?”

“I was just tired, honey,” I said, stroking her hair. “I didn’t mean to startle you and subsequently die a horrible death. I will make sure to be extra careful when I come home the next time.”

Ella pressed herself harder into me. “I am so sorry, Mommy,” she whispered.

I pulled her closer. “That’s all right, sweetheart. Now let’s get your Granny off the floor before the ants notice and carry her away.”

We got Granny settled in her great armchair somehow, though it did take up close to fifteen minutes. After, I removed my abaya and hijab, shook out my hair, and went to the kitchen to see what could be salvaged out of the fridge. On opening the door, I saw that it was a lost cause. I sighed. Yesterday’s pasta again, it seemed. I don’t know why I even bothered trying. I mean, I would find inside the fridge only what I put there, right?

While the pasta heating in the microwave, I picked up an envelope lying on the counter in all its conspicuous glory. It hadn’t been there in the morning. Who—

Oh, shit… what date was it?

I ripped open the side and pulled out the papers inside. It was exactly what I had feared.

Bills.

***

“Finally decided to show up, did you, love?” Melissa said, her pink smeared lips pursed.

“I am sorry about yesterday, Meli. I didn’t mean to not come. It just… well, it was entirely unintentional.” I placed my bag on the counter and got ready to get to the dishes.

“Do you ‘ave any idea how hard it was to cover for you? I ‘ad to run both ways so ‘ard I almost split in the middle, I did! And if Fred’d found out, you would have been dead!”

“But he didn’t, did he? And I will compensate, Meli, I swear. Somehow, I will.” I leaned against the sink and grabbed the brush. There was already a pile of soiled plates on the side.

“Easy for you to say. Don’t see you doin’ it though.”

“Oh, Meli, alright.” I turned to her. “What is it you want me to do?”

She looked at me mischievously, a little smile on her lips. Her heavily made up eyes twinkling. “Well, you see…” She couldn’t finish.

“What?” I asked, curious.

“No… forget it.” She waved her hand in the air, a doubtful look in her eyes.

“No, Meli, tell me. Please. If I can do it, I will. You did save my job.” I remembered I still had to tell her about my other job. I would tell her as soon as this conversation was over. It was more interesting than my budding prospects, as it was.

“Are you sure? You mustn’t tell anyone.”

I winked. “I won’t,” I said solemnly, like I was taking an oath to protect till death.

“Okay…” She gripped her hands together. “Well… I have always wanted this pink teddy for Hannah. It’s been in the mall and I see it all the time but John won’t let me buy it. So,” she looked at me eagerly, “if you bought it for her and gave it as a gift, I am sure he will let her keep it. It’s not that expensive,” she rushed to reassure.

John was Meli’s drunkard, good for nothing, controlling husband. He had gone to jail for domestic violence twice already and I knew it was due a third time.

“Is that all?” I asked, surprised. “You did a lot more for me than just that.”

“No, no, that’s it. I’ll consider us square.”

“Oh, Meli, if that’s all—”

Fred burst through the door, his stomach making a squelching noise as it scraped against the doorjamb.

“Melissa,” he hissed, “you bloody two-faced bitch...”