Page 8 of The Alpha Escort Agency
“Hot.”
“Alice!”
“Fine! Alpha, typically Alpha, but he has this dark, very dark hair — shoulder length. And his eyes were unusual. Brown, but I can't describe them. He was seriously hot, Maria, seriously hot!”
Maria squeals on the other end. “I can't believe it — I'm so excited for you.”
“I thought you weren't keen on this idea.”
“I know, I know. I wasn't. I'm still not sure it's a good one, but he's hot, right? You are going to have amazing sex and an amazing heat. I can't wait to hear all the details. Anyway, tell me, what did you talk about?”
“He wanted to know my preferences.” She twirls a strand of her hair around her index finger, reliving their conversation.
“Your preferences?”
“Yes, my bedroom preference.”
“Ahhhh,” Maria is silent for a moment. “You know, I'm not sure a man has ever asked me that. Not outright, anyway.”
“No, me neither, and definitely not an Alpha.”
“Maybe hiring men is the way to go. Maybe it's the only way to ensure they'll treat you right. Maybe expecting them to be … reasonable, when it's not their job, is just too much. Maybe my expectations are too high.” She sighs.
“Why do you say that, Maria?” Alice releases her finger from her hair and sits up straighter in her seat.
“It's Ed.”
“Ed? Perfect Mr. Perfect perfect-pants Ed?”
“Well, he's not acting so perfect at the moment.”
“What's he done? Left the loo seat up?” Alice is not exaggerating when she describes Ed as the perfect man. Good looking, sweet, kind and with a well-paid job and, most important of all, head-over-heels in love with her best friend. The two have been devoted to each other for months.
"He's been acting strange. He's always on his phone — always sending messages, but he's being secretive about it. Whenever I come near him, he hides his phone away.”
“What are you saying?” Alice asks, uneasy for her friend.
“I don't know what I'm saying. I guess my spidey senses are tingling.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“No, because,” her friend hesitates, “what if it's bad, Alice?” Her voice disappears to a whisper. “What if he's cheating?”
“Ed — no way, Maria, he'd never do that. He's madly in love with you. Just talk to him.” There has to be another explanation, Alice thinks. She can't believe Ed would do that to Maria. He's only ever had eyes for her. However, she makes a vow to pay closer attention to her best friend.
At the end of the week, she waits for the rush hour to pass and then gets in her car and drives down to the little town on the edge of Southampton where her mother lives. The traffic is awful. Every man and his dog have decided to hit the South coast that evening hoping for a bit of sun, the last dregs of an Indian summer — everybody wants to go to the beach.
The traffic crawls and she sits, listening to the same songs over and over again on the radio, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Around her, other people sit in their own metal boxes. A family with kids snuggled up under duvets and cushions in the back, another where teens stare blankly at screens, their ears covered by oversized headphones. In one car a woman curls up on the passenger seat, leaning into the driver, their arms entwined, and in another an elderly couple talk animatedly. There are few lone drivers like her.
It's late in the evening by the time she pulls up outside her own family home, the one she lived in for the whole of her first eighteen years. It always makes her think of a child's drawing of a house, square with a triangular roof, chimney and neat rows of windows; its bright red door standing squarely in the middle of the building. The front garden is neatly mowed, with borders of Autumn crocuses, and along the streets are other identical houses. As a child, she found this comforting. Now she finds it disconcerting, especially since her dad has been gone — he seemed to take the soul of the house with him.
Her mum's still up, watching Graham Norton on the television. As Alice puts down her bag in the hallway and tiptoes into the living room, her mum looks up.
“Hello Darling,” she says as Alice bends down and hugs her. “Come and sit down and I’ll go get you a drink. What do you want? Glass of wine, cup of tea, hot chocolate?”
“Glass of wine, please.”
Her mother gets up and walks away into the kitchen and Alice stands surveying the room. There's a space beside her mum on the sofa and then there is the armchair — her dad's armchair. She doesn't want to sit in it, she's not sure anyone has sat in it since he's been gone. There's still the dark mark on one arm where he'd always rest his cup of coffee and the slight indent on the seat where his weight crushed the cushion over the years. He had that chair for as long as she can remember — she certainly can’t remember a time it didn't belong in the living room; him relaxing there, watching football or the news or a comedy show with her on the weekend. Sometimes she'd cuddle on his lap, sometimes she'd hunch on the floor resting against his legs. Now she perches on the sofa beside her mum.
