FRIDAY

Two days since the break-in, I finally have the courage to sort through the box marked ‘pieces’. Very little can be salvaged. I toy with the crumbs of old dreams, positioning an arm here and a nose there. I sigh. I could use the parts to make some kind of abstract mosaic monstrosity, but my heart isn’t in it. I want these to be whole again. Unbroken. I rest my chin on my hands. The best I can do is glue.

I admire kintsugi – it's a Japanese method for repairing pottery – often simple, inexpensive things like cups and plates that were originally made without any real artistic attention beyond the basic form that was needed to achieve the task the thing was created for.

Expensive items were mended this way too - but I think the philosophy of the art form is clearest when it's used on cheap pottery. The use of precious metal as the glue shows an outsized degree of reverence and respect for the object; an extravagant level of gratitude for service rendered.

It is a beautiful meditation on the value of the merely functional, as well as the ephemeral nature of so many of the tools we use in our daily lives.

These shattered objects aren’t like that. They weren't ever functional. This stuff was already 'art'. It all already had feeling and emotion - feeling and emotion that would become subservient to the philosophy of the repair. Repairing them that way would almost be gauche. Disrespectful to the original art and the art form that inspired the repairs.

It’s all just rubble now. Rubble that will clog up a landfill somewhere.

Perhaps I can find someone who wants garbage like this for their own mosaic project.

I dust off my hands and ready myself to leave the hotel – I see the accountant today. I need to make better use of this meeting than the one with the lawyer. I find a mostly-empty notebook to take with me, and write out a list of questions on the bus. I feel a little nauseous. I’m overstepping my original bounds, but it feels necessary.

For the greater good.

The Executioner told me this accountant was good at her job. I hope she’s half as good as the overly dramatized character I’ve developed in my head.

I need to feel useful.

I reach the office a little early – it’s in a huge highrise. The waiting room has a large and tasteful floral display. Blood red anthuriums drip elegantly down a gnarled driftwood branch. My imaginary accountant transforms into a Zorro-like figure with a rapier as I fantasize about the flowers being real blood spatter from the foes she's defeated. When I finally meet her, she looks more like a librarian. Short and neat. Slightly greying around the temples.

‘Ms. Knight, I presume?’

She offers me her hand. I shake it.

‘That would be me.’

Her office contrasts starkly with the waiting room – heavily laden bookshelves fill every wall. Her desk is clean, apart from a single coffee cup.

‘Tea, coffee?’

‘Thank you.’

I take out my notebook, and her red lipstick smile is vast.

I explain my situation – perhaps more bluntly than she was expecting, though I'm careful not to say anything that would hint at fraud. Poverty to wealth through a man that I’m unsure of. She takes notes. Disapproving mother-in-law, precarious income. She offers advice. Recently robbed as a cover for what may be identity theft, or aggressive dirt gathering. She offers consolation.

I ask questions. How safe is the money I’ve been given, really? Can it be taken back if Frances forces me out? She takes notes and provides potential solutions. Means of defending myself if Jaq cracks under the weight of Frances’ judgment.

We play this game of dominoes across her table, my questions, her answers, leading to more questions, more answers, connecting together to form a coherent shape with the flow of a plan. One that, unfortunately, starts and stops with Jaq.

‘I like you.’ She declares.

‘You’re going to be a fun client.’

I’m not sure how to take that.

When I leave, I can see her reflection in the glass doors, grinning as she watches me cross the waiting room.

I send Jaq a text, just to check up on him, and make my way back to the hotel. I don’t expect him to reply any time soon. He should be practicing.

I am surprised to discover that the hotel has a package for me. I retrieve it from the front desk. It’s bulky, though not especially heavy, given its size. There’s no sender's name on the outside to explain it. I take it to my room and tear it open in the kitchen. Inside I discover layers of tissue paper… and dresses?

I sort through the box.

This… can’t be mine.

All thoughts of financial traps leap out of my mind.

I text Jaq again, asking if he sent me a package.

I leave the box in the kitchen and wait for a reply. Twenty minutes later, I get one. Jaq didn't send me anything, but his practice is going well.

I text Lionel, asking if he sent me a package. He denies it immediately.

I stare at the box. It stares back, unblinking and ominous.

Those two are the only ones that know I’m staying here… or at least the only ones who could buy this sort of stuff.

I text Casey, asking if Jaq had told her where I was staying. He hadn’t, though she wants me to come meet her for lunch sometime.

> And bring Jaques, I want to thank him properly for the rent money.

I frown.

I tip the entire contents of the box onto the floor – dresses, blouses, skirts – all Lucinda's Solace, all in my size. No receipt. No note. I check their website – it’s one of everything in the new line.

I never gave them my address. I didn’t sign up for a mailing list, or anything like that.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

The box doesn’t make sense.

It scares me.

I take a photo of it and send the photo to both Jaq and Lionel. I repeat my question

> Are you sure you didn’t send me anything? Because if you didn’t, I don’t know why this arrived at the hotel.

Both deny it again.

> Did you tell anyone where I was staying?

Both deny it.

I send the photo to the Executioner.

I feel awful that I can't remember her real name.

----------------------------------------

That evening, Jaq collects me from the hotel – we’re attending a ‘function’. This one has some sort of political component to it. His parents will be there. I’m all suited up in a frilly frock and ready to face them.

The building we arrive at looks like some sort of oversized town hall – a huge staircase and marble pillars lead to the entrance. Inside, the sparkling chandeliers and gilt ceiling make me want to vomit. It’s beautiful – but I can’t help wondering what the true cost of it all was.

We sit together at a small table – so small it’s clearly only intended for the two of us. Lionel isn’t coming. The waiter lists some options for the meal to come – there is no physical menu – he has it all memorised.

I see Isaac and Frances enter. They’re led to a nearby table. I give a tiny wave, and Isaac smiles. He already has a drink in his hand. I look back to Jaq. He seems fixated on the elaborately folded napkin.

‘Hey. You doing okay?’

He meets my eye and nods.

‘I’m fine for now.’

I don't like the implication of 'for now,' but it's not like he's being unrealistic.

I put my hand on the table, palm up. He looks at it for a moment, before placing his hand in mine. I give it a squeeze.

‘Is this going to be as boring as it looks?’

‘…yeah. It’s just going to be a bunch of speeches by politicians. Thanking donors, reassuring donors that they’ll get what they want. That sort of thing.’

I suppress a shudder.

‘Why are we here?’

Jaq looks over to Isaac and Frances.

‘They’re donors… and I guess they want us to be seen here too.’

I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

I’m a prop.

No, Jaq is the prop. I'm the prop's prop.

Well, at least I can be a good prop.

A deceitful, lying prop.

Soup is served, and speeches begin. I eat slowly, watching the speakers’ mouths moving, but not really hearing them. My focus is on their tie pins, their hairstyles, their shirt collars. When the audience laughs, I smile. When the audience claps, I put down my cutlery and clap too. Jaq doesn’t smile and is slow to clap. But, that’s okay. He’s meant to be here. I’m the impostor.

Speeches end and an array of desserts are wheeled in and laid on pristine white tablecloths. I avoid thinking about the policies I'm being made to support with my presence. Coffee and tea orders are taken. I ask Jaq to bring me something small from the dessert buffet. This is our chance to ‘mingle’. I don’t want to make mistakes, so I stay in my seat to avoid the crowd around the desserts.

Jaq brings me a sort of mousse with fruit piled on top. He has the same for himself. I see Isaac beckon him over. Jaq looks at me, worried. I smile and shoo him over to his father.

The still-breathing gorgon, Frances, approaches.

She sits across from me, looking me over the way a pawnbroker would appraise a beloved family heirloom sold in desperation. I meet her gaze calmly. She smiles, but the expression doesn’t reach her eyes.

‘How did you meet my son?’ She says, speaking to me directly for the first time since I was called a bad influence. She uses her fork to carefully dissect the tiny pastry on her plate.

I smile and sip my tea thoughtfully. Before I finish my mouthful, she asks;

‘Where did you go to school?’

I continue smiling in silence. Watching her. These are not the questions she cares about.

‘What are you studying at university?’

I return my cup gently to the table.

‘What do your parents do?’

There it is. If she stole my documents, this is my one perfect chance to make them irrelevant.

My smile broadens, and I lean forward, conspiratorially.

‘It’s okay.’ I say softly.

‘You can be more direct with me.’ I incline my head towards Jaq.

‘You want to know if I’ll be an acceptable daughter-in-law.’

I pause and watch her face. She remains impassive.

‘It’s a question I’d happily answer, but unfortunately, the term ‘acceptable’ is so ill-defined in this case.’

She scowls.

‘We could argue all day about the value of charisma, wealth, loyalty, talent… and in the end, we still wouldn’t have a solid answer.’

My speech isn't loud, but it is as much for her as lingering eavesdroppers. I can't really distinguish anyone suspicious in the mass of moving bodies around us, but I feel like I should assume there is at least one.

‘I know I am not from your social class. Not from a good family. I didn’t go to a good school. But, I ask you this; would you prefer your son marry an idiot for their wealth or a pauper for their intellect?’

She almost chokes. She did not expect me to be this direct.

‘I am not the daughter-in-law you wanted. Whoever she might be probably wouldn’t have the strength to support him. I do. And, I intend to. I heard about the threat of disinheritance. I'm not interested in his money, so if you do that, it's not going to frighten me away. I'm quite resourceful. He may not understand the first thing about household management, but I know more than enough for the both of us. I won't let him go cold and hungry.’

I put my spoon down, stand and step away from the table. Speaking a little louder;

‘Now, if you will excuse me, I find being judged by my pedigree extremely tiresome. I’d much prefer to be judged by my personal competence.’

I imagine she doesn’t yet know what I’ve started. What I’ve done. Realistically; she's probably quite aware. She's smarter than that. I can't pretend she's stupid.

Events like this are either secretive, private affairs or almost wall-to-wall press. This one isn't the secret sort. There will be press here. Some excited about the politics, some watching the affluent attendees. She undoubtedly brought me here specifically to put me in front of these people because she was hoping she might be able to embarrass me in the presence of the entire rumour mill. She could use that to bully Jaq into sending me away.

People turn to look as I stride away from her. I don’t need to glance back to know she’s struggling to compose herself. She's like Jaq that way. Too easy to fluster.

Jaq is staring. Isaac doesn’t seem to have noticed. I take Jaq’s arm. He tenses for a brief moment.

‘What did she say to you?’ He asks, under his breath.

‘Just a lot of probing questions really. I still don’t think she likes me.’

I frown, and allow myself a moment of cruelty –

‘But, then, I suppose she doesn’t have to like me, so long as you do.’

Jaq looks at me with flushed cheeks.

Isaac laughs heartily.

‘It’s a good philosophy to have, my dear!’

He pats Jaq’s free arm.

‘You picked well. You should keep her around.’

Then he wanders away.

‘What happened?’ Jaq asks, with worry in his eyes.

I give his arm a small squeeze and whisper;

‘It’s fine. That scene was a calculated risk. I need to keep her on her back foot… I need her to know I can protect you the way she thinks she has. I need her to know I’m willing to cause a fuss if I don’t get my way.’

He relaxes a little.

‘How on earth did I manage to find someone like you? You just… know how to make her do what you want.’

It’s my turn to scowl.

‘Managing dangerous people is something you learn when you have nothing. If you can’t guess what’s under the surface, you get hurt. Badly.’

I think back on all the warnings about certain celebrity performers. Special guests. People like that. They were all lions and jackals, circling our little herd of theatrical nobodies. We did what we could to keep each other safe. We watched for signs that our predators were hungry. When they were ready to strike. We shivered and waited until we had to flee.

I’m not running this time.

I'm making this territory mine.