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Authors: Erica James
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apology from a journalist? That’s a first.”
“You think I’m a journalist?”
“I think you’re a lot of things, but the word journalist will suffice for now.” He stepped away from the door. “Be my guest. Come on in and make yourself at home. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t sit down; I may need to rush to the nearest loo to be violently sick if your apology is too much to take.”
He watched her go over to the sofa, but she seemed to change her mind, and skirting round the back of it, she went to the fireplace. Perched on the worn green leather of the club fender, she looked up at him. “Usually I don’t get found out. What gave me away?”
“I heard you talking on your mobile.”
“You eavesdropped on me? That’s outrageous.”
“Hey, you’re in no position to try and take the moral high ground.”
She sighed. “You’re right. The thing is, I used to be an actress, now I do voice-over work, and sometimes I can’t help myself; I just love slipping into a character. I hadn’t intended to do it when I turned up here to work for you, but it was…” she hesitated. “Well, can we just say extenuating circumstances made me do it?”
“No we cannot!” he snapped. “And frankly, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that load of bull before I accept your apology.”
“I’m telling you the truth. And if you hadn’t been so rude to me when you opened the door I might not have got myself into this mess.”
“Oh, this gets better and better. Now it’s my fault.” He laughed bitterly. “Where have I heard that before?”
“You’re not a very happy man, are you?”
“My happiness has got nothing to do with you.”
She shrugged. “Just making conversation.”
“No you weren’t. You were looking for a way to make me open up to you. Well, forget it. I’m not that stupid. Confide in a journalist? I’d sooner stick a wasp up my arse!”
She shrugged again. “Each to his own. Can I ask you something?”
“I don’t think you’ve figured how this works. I’m the one asking the questions.”
Ignoring him, she said, “Why do you think I’m a journalist?”
“Because what else could you be? Certainly not an actress.”
She sat up straight. “Don’t you go disparaging my acting skills. Not when I convinced you every step of the way that I was Katya from Latvia. I was acting my socks off there. But you know what intrigues me?”
He rolled his eyes. “I can’t begin to think.”
“The question I keep asking myself is why you think a journalist would be so interested in you, to the extent she would adopt a false identity while shopping and cleaning for you. Who are you? Or more to the point, what have you done that makes you so incredibly newsworthy?”
CHAPTER NINE
“Who said anything about me being newsworthy?”
“You with your paranoia, thinking I was a journalist. Which I’m not. I swear it. Hand on heart.”
“Hand on heart,” he mimicked. “You expect me to believe that you’re telling the truth when you’ve done nothing but lie since you showed up here? Don’t make me laugh. By the way, you were breathtakingly rude to me.”
“Yes, I was. Sorry about that. But once I got into the character of Katya, I couldn’t stop myself. She just seemed naturally bossy.”
“Does that mean in the real world you’re nothing like her?”
She smiled. “I spend as little time in the real world as I possibly can.”
“Meaning what exactly? That you’re crazy?”
“Aren’t we all from time to time?”
He faltered in his response as the image of a rabbit’s head—all ten feet of its monstrous circumference grotesquely illuminated—popped into his mind. He blinked and chased the image away. “What’s your real name?” He asked. “In the real world?”
“Alice,” she replied. “Alice Shoemaker.”
“Yeah, right, and I’m Michael Shumacher. I’ve never heard a more made up name.”
“All names are made up,” she said
“You think I’m a journalist?”
“I think you’re a lot of things, but the word journalist will suffice for now.” He stepped away from the door. “Be my guest. Come on in and make yourself at home. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t sit down; I may need to rush to the nearest loo to be violently sick if your apology is too much to take.”
He watched her go over to the sofa, but she seemed to change her mind, and skirting round the back of it, she went to the fireplace. Perched on the worn green leather of the club fender, she looked up at him. “Usually I don’t get found out. What gave me away?”
“I heard you talking on your mobile.”
“You eavesdropped on me? That’s outrageous.”
“Hey, you’re in no position to try and take the moral high ground.”
She sighed. “You’re right. The thing is, I used to be an actress, now I do voice-over work, and sometimes I can’t help myself; I just love slipping into a character. I hadn’t intended to do it when I turned up here to work for you, but it was…” she hesitated. “Well, can we just say extenuating circumstances made me do it?”
“No we cannot!” he snapped. “And frankly, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that load of bull before I accept your apology.”
“I’m telling you the truth. And if you hadn’t been so rude to me when you opened the door I might not have got myself into this mess.”
“Oh, this gets better and better. Now it’s my fault.” He laughed bitterly. “Where have I heard that before?”
“You’re not a very happy man, are you?”
“My happiness has got nothing to do with you.”
She shrugged. “Just making conversation.”
“No you weren’t. You were looking for a way to make me open up to you. Well, forget it. I’m not that stupid. Confide in a journalist? I’d sooner stick a wasp up my arse!”
She shrugged again. “Each to his own. Can I ask you something?”
“I don’t think you’ve figured how this works. I’m the one asking the questions.”
Ignoring him, she said, “Why do you think I’m a journalist?”
“Because what else could you be? Certainly not an actress.”
She sat up straight. “Don’t you go disparaging my acting skills. Not when I convinced you every step of the way that I was Katya from Latvia. I was acting my socks off there. But you know what intrigues me?”
He rolled his eyes. “I can’t begin to think.”
“The question I keep asking myself is why you think a journalist would be so interested in you, to the extent she would adopt a false identity while shopping and cleaning for you. Who are you? Or more to the point, what have you done that makes you so incredibly newsworthy?”
CHAPTER NINE
“Who said anything about me being newsworthy?”
“You with your paranoia, thinking I was a journalist. Which I’m not. I swear it. Hand on heart.”
“Hand on heart,” he mimicked. “You expect me to believe that you’re telling the truth when you’ve done nothing but lie since you showed up here? Don’t make me laugh. By the way, you were breathtakingly rude to me.”
“Yes, I was. Sorry about that. But once I got into the character of Katya, I couldn’t stop myself. She just seemed naturally bossy.”
“Does that mean in the real world you’re nothing like her?”
She smiled. “I spend as little time in the real world as I possibly can.”
“Meaning what exactly? That you’re crazy?”
“Aren’t we all from time to time?”
He faltered in his response as the image of a rabbit’s head—all ten feet of its monstrous circumference grotesquely illuminated—popped into his mind. He blinked and chased the image away. “What’s your real name?” He asked. “In the real world?”
“Alice,” she replied. “Alice Shoemaker.”
“Yeah, right, and I’m Michael Shumacher. I’ve never heard a more made up name.”
“All names are made up,” she said
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