8. Chapter 8

Three days at the Tyler residence, and I was going stir crazy. Mr and Mrs Tyler were lovely people, but I had no idea how to relax around them in the way I'd gotten used to with Bradley. Was I just an employee? Or was I allowed to act as friendly as I did with Bradley normally? I had no idea.

The biggest problem was that my boss in this whole thing was lying in bed with the biggest case of the grumps I'd ever known. We were only a room apart, but I hadn't seen him. He would only take his food on a tray outside the door. The door on my end of the en-suite bathroom was always locked when he was in there, and he locked the corresponding door when he wasn't so I couldn't even sneak into his bedroom to check on him. I hadn't heard the shower run in three days, which was starting to worry me. But the silence was the thing that was starting to piss me off, and my sympathy was wearing thin.

When I woke up on my fourth day, I decided I needed to do something, anything to get rid of the mind-numbing boredom and stress.

First order of the day was a shower. And not just any shower—a refresh shower. I rolled out of bed and headed for the en-suite. With a jiggle of the handle, I made sure the door on Bradley's side was locked before retrieving my toiletry bag. I took my trusty electric razor out, then turned the shower on. God, rich people lived in luxury. I got a right soaking as jets seemed to spray from every corner of the stall.

I trimmed down what little stubble I had on my face after a couple of days without a shave, then set the razor guard to trim. I worked on my pits, pubes and ass until I was satisfied that the lawns were mowed and tidy, then started on my skincare routine. My whole body was exfoliated and moisturized from head to toe, pole-to-hole. Finally, I washed my hair down with whatever silly three-in-one shampoo Bradley had in the corner of the shower. It was the one fly in the ointment, that I'd forgotten he would have that crap here rather than the expensive stuff I stocked his bathroom with at home.

Typical top,I thought, chuckling to myself as I turned off the shower. Wait, was he a top? I could have been stereotyping because of his hyper-masculine presence. Because I just screamed bottom from every pore, and I was happy with the stereotype. It cut out a lot of the usual negotiation.

I dressed in my usual smart-casual-ish attire and walked downstairs to the kitchen, which was even bigger than Bradley's. The place was pretty barebones on account of the fact that Mr and Mrs Tyler brought in a chef daily who brought all her own ingredients, but a quick scout through the cupboards gave me what I needed.

The best thing about rich people was that they always seemed to have the best equipment, even if it went completely unused. Mrs Tyler might have known how to use the toast maker, but I doubted she'd ever been anywhere near the very expensive stand mixer that was tucked away in the pantry cupboard. Equally, I doubted that Mr Tyler had ever felt the need to use the oven, which was spotless inside. When you were surrounded by so much wealth, it was easy to forget what little luxuries I'd come from. And how losing this job would send me right back to that place.

My thoughts trailed back to my father, and I shook my head as if I could whisk the thoughts away. Baking. I could bake. Baking made everything better. I felt better when I was being creative, so I went off memory for the first recipe rather than checking my phone for the method. My gran, a rare light in my childhood life, had taught me how to bake a cake in the most basic way of all: six eggs, twelve ounces of everything else. Simples.

I threw everything in the mixer with a little vanilla extract and then searched the big pantry cupboard for more ingredients. There were dozens of unopened jars of jam, bags of pasta…I could have spent all day in there. In fact, I planned on it if Bradley wasn't going to get his arse out of bed.

I grabbed a jar of jam, a jar of olives and some fast-acting yeast. While the cake was baking, I could make a start on some olive bread and—

"Jesus Christ, you scared me!" I almost dropped the jar of olives as I opened the door and found Melody glancing at the batter in her stand mixer with a look of amusement. "Sorry, Mrs Tyler, I should've asked before I used your kitchen and your food, I just…I didn't think you were awake yet."

"I am not my son," she told me. "My alarm wakes me at eight-thirty a.m. sharp every day. I do not wallow."

"Of course, Mrs Tyler. Sorry, would you mind switching that off?" I pointed at the mixer, which was on the verge of knocking too much air out of the cake batter. She reached one long-nailed hand out toward the controls, looked slightly confused at the prospect, then stood out of the way to let me do it. I juggled the jars and bag of yeast as I put them down on the counter and knocked the machine off. I raised the mixer, and took out the whisk, running one finger through the batter clinging to the attachment and brought it to my mouth. I paused when I remembered I had company—very posh and intimidating company.

"Want some?" I asked awkwardly. I held the whisk out to Melody, who looked utterly horrified. I sheepishly threw the attachment into the sink, very aware of the splat as the batter flicked off the whisk and across the polished steel.

Silence followed. Awkward, horrific silence. And then, she smiled. "I'm glad you're making yourself at home, Arthur. To answer your first question, use any of the facilities in the house as much as you wish. The gym ,pool, cinema room are yours. The weather outside is just perfect to use the tennis courts, and whatever sweet treats you want to make are fine by me. I just have one condition."

"Yes?" I asked, wondering just how much work she was going to expect for the price of luxury. I'd seen people go off to be chalet boys and girls in France expecting to have free time to ski, only to end up scrubbing rich people's shit from the toilet from morning to night, with no time for themselves. I was still on the clock for Bradley, so if Mrs Tyler wanted me to make myself useful around the house I would.

"Please help my son get better," she whispered, so quietly I could hardly believe she'd said it. "He may be wallowing at the moment, but I fear he never prepared for this. The fact that his career would not end with a bang, a win or a loss, but with a whimper of nothingness. I'm sure he's read the papers, and the fans imploring the powers that be to award him a win, but I don't think any of that is going to get him out of this slump."

"What will?" I asked, trying not to sound defeatist. "I've been knocking on his door, sending texts, even calling him when I'm stood two metres away. But I've gotten nothing. I don't know what to do with him without pushing boundaries. I don't want to impose."

"Really?" Mrs Tyler asked. "Tell me, what did Bradley get me for Christmas…let's say two years ago?"

"A Cartier brooch, the fragrance you'd been looking for and a bottle of 1981 Moet," I answered automatically.

"And Gez? What did he get?"

"The Calvin Klein laptop bag and a trip to Addison and Myrtle Crane's Italian vineyard."

"Do you think Bradley could so confidently tell us what he bought? Or was he as surprised as I to so suddenly be receiving wonderful gifts from a son who typically thinks a gift card to the local pub is sufficient?" Mrs Tyler fixed me with her lovely eyes.

"Sorry, Mrs Tyler. Perhaps I shouldn't have overstepped…" I tailed off as her unwavering stare continued. "Do you…want me to overstep?"

"Yes!" she practically shouted, throwing her hands up in defeat. "I know you and Bradley are friendly. I know your relationship isn't strictly professional. You know how far you can push him. You know how to get on just the right side of his temper. So, push him. I don't care about how professional you are, not under my roof. Just make my son happy again. Please."

A solitary tear threatened to escape the corner of her eyes, but she blinked and it was gone. Perfectly poised, that Melody Tyler. She dusted imaginary debris off her trousers—she really hadn't been near enough dry ingredients for them to have gotten anywhere near her—and walked out of the kitchen. However, she stopped at the door and turned to look at me. "Remember, call me Melody. And make my son better. That's all I ask of you, Arthur."