The Interview

Aunt Doreen. She’s truly an unreliable narrator because it was long—very long—before we found out what was going on. While Amelia insisted I go home, suggesting I must have better things to do, I didn’t leave. I’m sure I have better things to do, more important things at any rate, but I find I can’t leave her out in some random street, facing such uncertainty.

So I stay. I drink countless cups of weak-as-piss tea and eat more rich tea biscuits than I’ve had in a decade. I listen to the oldies gossip and almost choke on a mouthful of tea when one of Doreen’s lesser fans takes me aside to tell me I ought to protect “young Amelia’s impressionable mind” because Doreen is a “goer” and a “man stealer.” Apparently, all the men of a certain age in this borough know Doreen can “suck a golf ball through a garden hose.”

Might it be a family trait?

More tea drinking. More gossip. More worried looks from Amelia.

I let Sadie’s grandson sit in the driver’s seat of my car to pretend he’s Batman and agree with the oldies that it’s a good thing it’s not raining. There are definitely better uses of my time, but I just can’t get my feet to take me.

A little after four in the afternoon, news is brought to us by means of a community police officer. She’s wearing a high viz jacket about ten sizes too big, which makes her look like a little girl wearing her father’s coat. But she has the appropriate amount of authority in her tone to get the older ladies to pay attention. We’re told that the houses in Doreen’s street, plus three others, are off-limits until the almost eighty-year-old bomb, that is likely highly volatile, is moved off-site for a controlled detonation.

Cries of dismay go up, but it’s not the young WPC’s fault, so no one gives her a second look as she moves along to deliver the news elsewhere.

“But we don’t have any of our things.” Amelia looks genuinely dismayed.

“Well, I did think ahead,” Doreen says, reaching for a blue, white, and red checkered shopping bag. Large and square, you could probably fold a dead body in it. “Not much, of course. Just a few things. Here.” She thrusts a phone charger Amelia’s way.

Amelia blinks. “Anything else?”

“I thought there was more,” Doreen says, digging deeper into the bag, “but this is all my stuff. My makeup bag…I wouldn’t go anywhere without that.”

“Too right,” strikes up one of the chorus.

“Me either,” agrees another.

“I have my good shoes and a change of undies, my slippers, plus my nightie and face cream. And my vibrator, of course.”

“Aunt Doreen!” Amelia declares, her face a picture—a picture of a thousand burning suns.

“What’s wrong with you?” the older woman demands. “I’m sorry I didn’t get more of your things, but by the time I’d chased Brian around the house—”

“Who’s Brian? Actually, you know what?” Mimi holds up her hand. “Don’t answer that.” She also seems to be resisting a shiver of discomfort.

“The cat.” Doreen gestures to the pet carrier on the floor. “The ginger tom cat you’ve become such friends with.”

“I thought his name was moggy.”

“I did tell you,” I murmur, which earns me a frown from both women. “It sounds like Doreen’s vibrator was just at hand. As far as packing goes.”

Mimi scrunches her nose in distaste.

“Well, yes, it was,” Doreen begins, making Mimi look like she might pass out from embarrassment. “I keep it on my armchair next to the fire. You know I do,” she says, turning to Mimi. “I asked you to switch it on the other night.” That squeak? That might’ve been from me as I try not to lose my ever-loving shit. This is hilarious! “Remember I said it helps with my lumbago?”

“The vibrating seat pad with the infrared heat!” Mimi says in a moment of relieved eureka!

“What did you think I was talking about?” Mimi shakes her head, but it doesn’t stop the older woman from barrelling on. “For goodness’ sakes, did you think I was talking about a dildol?”

“Dildo,” one of the senior sisterhood helpfully puts in. Mimi is now puce, and I think I might not be far behind. This is the most entertaining conversation I’ve heard in forever, and it’s seriously taking some effort not to give in to a belly laugh, the kind that makes you bend forward because you feel like you can’t breathe. Oh, man. Talk about entertaining.

“Dildo,” Doreen corrects.

“Aunt Doreen,” Mimi pleads, pressing her face into her hands.

“I’m no prude.” She glances between Mimi and me. “I doubt he is, either. But I don’t own a dildol—a dildo,” she amends with an annoyed shake of her head. “I don’t need one, not when I have Frank!”

The woman of the garden hose comment looks like she’s just swallowed a brick. Geriatric jealousy in the suburbs? This would make a hilarious TV show.

“Give over,” heckles another woman. “The man is seventy-five if he’s a day!”

“And I’m older than that,” she says, puffing out her chest. “Let me tell you, Barb, many a good tune is played on an old fiddle.”

“Or a garden hose,” I find myself barking out, unable to help myself this time as I bend at the waist and give in to a shoulder-shaking, belly-aching roar.

“What’s up with him?”

“If you don’t stop snickering, I’m going to scream.”

“I can’t help it,” I protest, flicking the indicator to turn left. “You’ll have to distract me if you don’t want me thinking about this afternoon. God, I hope I have half as much life in me when I’m Doreen’s age.”

Mimi harrumphs and folds her arms, turning her gaze to the passenger window. It’s only there a beat before she turns to me again. “Do you think I’ll be able to get back to the house tomorrow?”

Of course I insisted she stay with me until given the all clear to return to the house. I’m hardly a knight in shining armor, whisking her away from a perilous situation on my white steed. I’m more like a selfish knight who’s up to no good. I also want to know what’s going on in that head of hers.

Doreen offered to take Mimi to Frank’s house, who I understand is Doreen’s boyfriend. Though this seems a silly bit of terminology given he’s no boy and they’re both well into their senior years. Anyway, she’d said Mimi was welcome to stay there, too. Oddly enough, Mimi looked like she’d been offered the choice between the devil and the deep-blue sea—death by wolves or lions—when I’d suggested, as an alternative, she come home with me. It seemed the logical explanation. A win-win situation. She gets to avoid the senior citizen love-in and gain the pleasure of my company. I didn’t put it quite like that, obviously. I just suggested if she did decide not to come with me, she might have to endure Doreen and Frank monkey noises. The low-hanging fruit is always the easiest to grab.

“Hmm,” I ponder. “It’s hard to tell. Sometimes these things can take a couple of days, so I’ve read. If you’re uncomfortable”—though why would you be—“I could give Polly a call. See if you can stay with her.”

Mimi’s brows dip, and she gives an adamant shake of her head. “That would involve telling her why I’m with you in the first place. It’s not a conversation I really want to have.”

“Agreed.” Best not to give Pol any ideas.

“Should I be insulted or flattered?” she asks, now looking amused.

“Relieved. You should definitely be relieved.”

“You know you’re gonna need to explain why.”

“Right, well, when we all had lunch together, I could actually see her mentally shopping for tiny baby clothes.”

Mimi barks out a laugh as I knew she would. “You’re paranoid. Your mom so isn’t the type.”

“What type would that be?”

“Controlling, I guess.” Her expression falls a touch, no doubt remembering her own situation.

“Oh, she absolutely would be, if I let her.” I glance away. “She’s just good at hiding it.”

“I still can’t see it.”

“That’s because she’s so good at it. A silent assassin—a steel fist in a velvet glove.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“You’ve known her for only a little while. Take my word for it. She’s a mother of three sons in their thirties and has one daughter happily married. “Yet”—

I hold my forefinger up—“there isn’t a sniff of a grandchild on the horizon.”

“No!” Mimi scoffs.

“She might play the game well. I just want to see you happy,” I intone, pitching my voice a little softer. “But what she means is she wants us all to be knee-deep in nappies—diapers,” I amend, “and in need of a rescue visit from gorgeous grabby granny.” I make a snapping claw with my hand.

“Well, let’s definitely not call her,” Mimi replies easily.

“I’m glad were on the same page.” About babies and her accommodations. We just have to get rid of those ridiculous dating ambitions. “What about Heather? I could call her. She and Archer have a spare room.” I’m nothing if not reasonable, though I always have an angle.

“I’ve only met her once. I couldn’t impose like that.”

“Well, that leaves my place or a hotel. And the downside of a hotel is—”

“Turning up looking like a refugee?”

“I was going to say a hotel doesn’t have me.”

“Is that supposed to be a plus or a minus?” she asks cheekily. “I’m not sure.”

“Come on, Mimi. You enjoy my company.”

“Oh, so I’m back to being Mimi now?” She quirks a teasing brow, enjoying our exchange.

“Until you misbehave again.”

“Misbehave? Who do you think you are? Don’t answer that,” she adds quickly, blood rushing to her cheeks.

“Don’t remind you that I’m Daddy?” I murmur sultrily.

“Stop,” she whispers, her eyes dropping to her lap. She whispers a quiet, “Damn.” When I my gaze skims her way, she seems to have unraveled the hem of her dress. “It’s not like I could wear it to work anyway,” she mutters. “What the heck am I going to do for clothes?”

“Naked works for me.” She scowls at my offer. “I’ll join you if it’ll make you more comfortable.”

“And for work? What if I can’t get into the house tomorrow? What will I wear to work on Monday?”

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

“Does your sister have more clothes at your place?”

Perfect timing. “I was thinking more about this,” I say, silently thanking the parking gods as I pull up right in front of a boutique just off Brompton Road.

“If we’re going shopping for Lavender’s gift, this look won’t be well received in a place like this.” She adds a flourish of her hand down her torso.

“A black AMEX gets well received everywhere.”

“Can’t we do it another time? I don’t much feel like shopping.”

“Whoever does?”

“Then why are we here?” she asks wearily.

“Because sometimes you have to suck it up.”

“Shopping is fun, Whit.” She eyes me with disbelief.

“It’s an afternoon in purgatory.”

Disbelief turns to dismay. “Whit, I love shopping! It’s like my vocation in life. Nothing is more fun than picking out accessories or treating yourself to a new dress, then taking the goodies home to see how they work with the rest of your wardrobe.”

“Sounds like you should work in retail, maybe become a visual merchandiser. A personal shopper. A buyer. Surely a job you enjoy is better than admin.”

“I guess I just allowed my parents to choose a path for me.”

“But none of those avenues are high octane or dangerous.” What the hell has gone on in her life? What have I missed?

She gives an awkward shrug that doesn’t make me feel better.

“Why don’t you look into retraining?”

“You’re just trying to get rid of me.” Her brightness is false, more brittle than genuine.

“No, that’s not it. I feel fucking awful I wasn’t more present.”

“Stop.” The word seems ironclad. “You’re not my brother, Whit. You aren’t responsible for me.”

“No, you’re right, but Connor—”

“You know, I think I might ask you to call Heather,” she says, swiftly turning her gaze to the windscreen. “Maybe she can loan me sweats or something.” The jut of her chin; was she always this stubborn?

“I’ll call if you want me to.” Reaching over the console, I curl my fingers over her unresponsive hand. “But if it means anything to you, I’d much rather you stay with me.”

“I don’t need anyone to look after me.”

“I get that. I don’t mean to come across as overbearing. I suppose I’m just trying to understand what I’ve missed. “

“Let it go,” she says, turning to me now. “I’m living my life the way I want. That’s all you need to know.”

I sense that isn’t the case, but I’ll let it go for now as my attention is tweaked by movement in the shop’s window. “Should we go?” I make a gesture with my head to the boutique.

“I guess,” she replies, unimpressed. “I can’t believe they’re still open.” She cracks the passenger door open.

“Yes, strange that.”

“You must be a generous brother.” Mimi’s words carry over the roof of the car. “That place looks pretty pricey.”

“I forget you haven’t met Lavender yet.” My eyes briefly turn to the boutique’s window display. “Lavender’s tastes run a bit more gothic.” Though just as expensive I don’t bother adding.

“Then why are we here?” she asks, clearly confused.

“Come on inside, and I’ll show you.”

She mutters something unintelligible as she rounds the car, and I make sure her hand is in mine before we even get to the door. Which is probably just as well as the manager of the boutique has the door open before we even reach it.

“Mr. Whittington, welcome. Please, come in,” decrees a manager of indeterminable age and lots of filler, I’d guess, dressed in a three-piece suit and a pink tie.

“Thank you.” My fingers tighten on Mimi’s as I pre-empt her surprise.

“As I said on the phone, the entire store is yours.” Is it odd that the manager is a man? I don’t think I’m qualified to know, given I don’t think I’ve ever been in a woman’s clothing boutique before. “Please do let us know if there’s anything we can help you with.”

He holds the door open as, with a nod of acknowledgment, I pull Mimi past him.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks, his hands pressed together as though in prayer. I suppose he’s giving thanks, considering the eyewatering amount I’d guaranteed to spend here this evening in exchange for keeping the place open. “Madam? Could I perhaps bring you a glass of champagne?”

“No, thank you,” Mimi answers stiffly. I give my head a brief shake.

“Then I shall leave you in the very capable hands of Charlotte,” our best sales associate.” The manager tips his hand to indicate a dark-haired woman around Mimi’s age.

“What have you done?” Mimi whisper-hisses, turning from the obsequious manager. I’ve found money makes people very weird. I should be allowed to treat those I like and love without them making a big song and dance about it.

“Just roll with it.” My reply sounds like a bored sigh.

“I am not having a Julia Robert’s moment with you,” she says, trying to snatch back her hand.

“Is that the one where she gets fucked on the piano?”

“Whit!” she castigates in a shocked whisper.

“I thought I was Daddy?” My own volume carries.

“No—no it’s not. You are not my daddy—”

“You say that now but…”

She doesn’t bite though she adds, “And you are certainly not my sugar daddy!”

“Of course I’m not,” I answer reasonably, then glance over her head. “Mimi here has had a bit of trouble with an unexploded bomb from the early nineteen forties,” I say, direct my explanation to Charlotte, the dark-haired sales associate standing close enough to have heard everything that’s passed between us. Which Mimi has belatedly realized.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” the woman says, her accent decidedly plummy. “I did hear about that on the radio.” I give her points for not scrunching her nose at Doreen’s Edgeware address.

Meanwhile, Mimi is putting a lot of energy in her evil-eyed narrow glare. You’re going to pay for this, the look seems to suggest.

“I do love promises,” I murmur with a tiny smirk. She probably considers kicking me before, painting on a bland smile, she turns to the sales associate.

“I can’t get in to the house to get my clothes. I have work tomorrow and, well, I’m stuck.” She gives a tiny yet adorable shrug. The kind that makes me want to pick her up and spin her around.

“How frightful,” the woman drawls as though Mimi had just said a pack of hyenas recently devoured her entire family. At Camden market. “We absolutely can help.”

“Fond of a superlative, this one,” I mutter, earning me an elbow in the gut from Mimi.

“Maybe just a skirt and a shirt,” Mimi suggests, glancing warily over her shoulder at me.

“Great! Sounds like a naked Sunday.” I rub my hands together with relish.

“And maybe something a little more casual for tomorrow,” Mimi amends through gritted teeth.

“Underwear?” Charlotte suggests, but Mimi shakes her head.

“Commando also works for me.”

“I’ll wash what I have,” she snipes before turning back to the sales associate all smiles. “But maybe something to sleep in.”

“Something silky,” I suggest.

“I was thinking more flannel pj’s. Maybe a onesie?”

“And a chastity belt.”

Mimi swings around, her gray eyes stormy. “Would you like to wait outside? It’s not like you need to be here.”

“I could.” I shove my hands in the pockets of the jeans and affect a shrug. “I’m just not going to.” With that, I spy something blue and slinky on a minimalist rack to Mimi’s left. “This,” I say, reaching for it. “You should definitely try this.”

“No,” she says.

At the same time, the sales associate says, “Oh yes. That color would look beautiful on you.”

“Agreed.”

“What do you know?” Mimi’s hand slides to her cocked hip.

“You already know I have excellent taste.” My gaze flickers over her heatedly.

“And a big head.”

“Massive,” I enunciate with exaggeration. “It’s one of the things she loves about me.” The sales associate actually blushes as I send a wink her way. “My huge, massive—”

“I don’t even like you.” With that mutter, she snatches the dress out of my hand, pivoting to the rack behind her.

“You like at least one bit of me.” She inhales a tiny gasp as my hand deliberately brushes her waist, taking the hanger from her hand. “If you could hang that in the dressing room.”

“Of course, sir.” Charlotte takes it from my hand and hurries off.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Mimi whispers as she skims through the items on the rack in front of her.

“I think this is called payback.” If I was an artist and I painted her current expression, I’d title it what the hell are you on about. “You’ve been goading me since you appeared in my office.”

“I’m talking about the clothes!” Her hands slap her thighs as though exasperated.

“Oh. Don’t make it a thing,” I mutter.

“I don’t need you to do this.”

“What if I want to?” I answer honestly. “Because it’s not about you.” My lips curve into a smile as I take a step toward her, pressing my entire body against hers. My hands lift to her hips, my mouth pressed to her hair. “This is purely about me and what I want.”

“What is it you want?” I hear the tiny waver in her voice. See it in her hand.

“You say I’ve been buying you lingerie for years. I want a taste of that.”

As she opens her mouth to respond, I press my teeth to her neck in reprimand, or maybe encouragement as she makes the kind of breathy moan that makes my dick rock hard.

“Let me do this. Let me watch you dress.”

“Whit’s own Barbie Doll?” She ducks her head, but I see the smile she’s trying to suppress.

“If you were my Barbie Doll, you’d always be naked.”

“And my hair a mess?” I make a low sound of agreement. “Sounds like you’ve seen inside my toy box.”

“I would love to see inside your toy box sometime.”

Her laughter vibrates against me. “Honestly, it’s not even as exciting as Doreen’s.”

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t own a vibrator?” She doesn’t answer, though the sweep of her dark-blond lashes lower. “Not even a little bullet you press to your clit when you think of me?”

“I dread to think what nefariousness dwells in your toy box,” she whispers instead.

“Why is that?”

“Your mind is inventive enough already.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at a mango again without blushing. Drink champagne, or even watch the condensation on a cold glass.”

I could just eat her up, she’s so fucking open and adorable. I can’t resist wrapping my arms around her waist, hugging her to me. “Come on, Mimi.” Spinning her in the direction of the dressing room, I slap her delectable arse, making her squeal. “Let’s go play dress-up.”

She slides me an arch look over her shoulder. “Putting clothes on?”

“The novelty feels like payment itself.”

“Well, this is kind of cute,” she says, pulling a sweater from a nearby rack. “It’s the same as the one hanging in the window. I noticed it when we—holy Moses! How much?”

“That’s not for consideration,” I say, taking it from her hands. “What about pants?”

“Whit, no!” She turns, her expression shocked.

“No pants? Works for me.”

“Be serious!”

“How can I be serious when we’re playing dress-up.” Reaching out, I grab the first thing my hand falls to. “I’d like to see you in this.”

“A jumpsuit?”

I examine the garment and resist saying I thought it was a pair of really long pants. “Don’t you like it?” I say instead.

“Well, it is cute.”

“Look, they have it in miniature, too.” I slide another hanger from the rack.

“That one’s a playsuit,” she informs me.

“Is it indeed? Doesn’t look like it’d be much fun to get into.”

“Or out of.”

Holding it out, I examine the thing. “I’d just use scissors.”

“Not in a public bathroom!”

“Is it, indeed,” she repeats with a less than patient expression. “You sound like you’re one hundred and three. All you need is a moustache to twirl.”

“How about I twirl you instead?” One hand still holding the hangers, I reach for Mimi’s hand. As I lift it, she twirls gracefully under it. “And an evening gown.”

“What? No!” She laughs as though that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. “I don’t need an evening gown.”

“Surely, every woman needs a posh frock.” I can’t believe the nonsense that’s coming out of my mouth. “Right…” I turn to, what was her name again? Ah, “Charlotte.” According to her name tag.

“Absolutely! You never know where one might be invited.”

“Well, this one has never been invited anywhere.”

“Give it up, Cinderella. Someone else needs the pumpkin.”

“What?”

I turn to Charlotte. It’s either that or laugh at Mimi’s expression. “Can you give us a few options?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Charlotte twirls away. All she’s missing is a wand, and she’d be a very posh Fairy Godmother.

“What has gotten into you?” Hand on her hips, Mimi eyes me warily. “I don’t need an evening dress. I just need something to schlep around in and maybe something to get me to work on Monday.”

“What if one of your upcoming dates invites you somewhere fancy?” I ask a little caustically. There’s no way she’s going to date anyone, not if I have my way, but the idea is like a scab I keep picking. She gives a tiny shake of her head as though she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Fair enough. I can’t believe it, either. Except when I add, “What if I want to take you somewhere special?”

“Like where?”

“That would be telling.” The event that springs to mind is the one that got me into trouble in the first place. It was after such a gathering that I’d found I was pleasuring—fingering?—the sister of my deceased best friend instead of the woman I’d anticipated.

“Yeah, and this,” she says, pointing at her still moving mouth, “would be asking.”

“I’m always getting invited to things. Galas and art shows, gallery openings, the opera.”

“Those are the kind of places you take a date,” she says carefully.

“You did say I could ask you out.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Are you angling for me to ask you out?”

“Are you going to answer the question?” she says, fighting a smile.

“I’ve taken the liberty to hang a couple of gorgeous gowns in the dressing room,” Charlotte announces, oblivious to the charge bouncing between Mimi and me.

“Thank you.” Mimi turns her attention my way. “I’ll try them on, but that’s all I’m promising.”

“That’s fine.”

The rest I can work with.