Maggie Cox - Brazilian Boss, Virgin Housekeeper

‘Perhaps what you need is some company?’ he suggested, the sudden ‘man to man’ glint in his eye speaking volumes. ‘You’re very isolated out here, and it would help to take your mind off things’

Eduardo’s gaze narrowed. ‘You mean a woman?’ What surprised him was that for the first time in two years he didn’t immediately dismiss the idea. What shocked him was that in response to this suggestion his mind helpfully conjured up for him a very engaging picture of the roadside busker, with her big hazel eyes, pretty mouth and rippling river of honey-brown hair. He was suddenly appalled at himself. How old was she? Seventeen…eighteen? Had good common sense deserted him along with everything else that mattered? He might indeed be ready for some female company recreationally , but in no other respect did he wish to be close to a woman.

After what had happened to Eliana he was done with relationships for good.

When he did not immediately answer the other man, the surgeon shrugged again, the edges of his thin-lipped mouth lifting in a conciliatory smile. ‘Just a suggestion, dear fellow…Now, listen to my advice and take it easy on that leg. I recommend just a twenty-minute walk each day—half an hour if you must, but no more than that. In the meantime, if you want to talk about any aspect of your recuperation, I’ve let my secretary know that I will accept your calls at any time so long as I’m not in the operating theatre. I’ll see you next time. Goodnight.’

Almost as if intuiting that his employer’s visitor was about to depart, Eduardo’s valet Ricardo appeared in the doorway, the spots of damp across his jacket’s dark shoulders suggesting he’d already been hard at work outside, clearing some of the ice from the long sweeping drive that led away from the house.

‘Goodnight, Mr Powell…and thank you once again for coming out on such a night. Please drive safely.’

In the early hours of that same morning, Eduardo tried his hardest to concentrate on the 1940s black and white comedy playing on the flat state-of-the-art television screen in front of him. But even a scant moment of pleasure or comfort frustratingly eluded him. He had got into the habit of watching movies well into the small hours, simply because he could not settle his mind enough to sleep. Not when it dwelled on one set of terrible events over and over again, like a nightmarish film stuck on rewind. Some nights he couldn’t face even going to his bedroom at all, so he simply pulled a rug over him on one of the comfortable leather sofas in the sitting room and dozed there till morning. Pain… burning and torturous…often shot through his injured leg and hip, adding to his woes.

Stoically ignoring the all too tempting urge to pour a glass of whisky to drown his sorrows and dull his pain, Eduardo muttered a passionate expletive. Rubbing at his increasingly tense brow as he attempted to watch the impossibly glamorous characters cavort on the screen before him, he quickly abandoned the whole idea and pressed the ‘off’ button on the remote. Even losing himself in distraction seemed impossible. It was as though he was permanently staring into a black abyss there was no escape from, and all hope of ever seeing daylight or sensing warmth again was lost to him for ever.

Releasing a bitter sigh, he reflected that even that pretty busker in the street was no doubt far happier with her simple hand-to-mouth existence than he could ever hope to be with his immensely wealthy and privileged one.

Why did he seem to be fixating on her? he wondered. Impatiently he shook his head. His interest made no sense—especially when she had spoken to him with the offhand brusqueness of inexperienced youth, making it more than clear that she obviously disdained his desire to help. But, nonetheless, time and time again in the too-long frosty night at his isolated house, Eduardo found his thoughts returning to the girl, wondering if she really did have a place to stay, if she had made enough money to eat that day, and if she was warm on this bitterest of winter nights?

By the time a reluctant grey dawn had seeped in between the parted velvet drapes the next morning he had more or less decided that the next time he ventured into town he would not ignore her, as he had previously vowed. No…instead he would talk to her, question her about her circumstances, and maybe offer to help better her situation. Was he a complete fool for contemplating such a potentially disastrous course of action? It was quite likely that she would laugh in his face or tell him to go and find some other poor down and out to foist his money on!

Finally, concluding that his desire to be of assistance was being prompted by the idea of his own child struggling in a similar situation, had he or she lived to be the age of this girl, he swallowed down the lump of anguish in his already tight throat and, making himself as comfortable as he was able on the couch, at last drifted off to sleep…

MARIANNE was between songs, sipping café latte from a local coffee shop to warm her up and hopefully restore some heat into her blood again, on yet another day chilly enough to turn solid stone into a block of ice. All of a sudden a shaft of pure, undiluted sunlight arrowed down onto the pavement a few yards in front of her, trapping in its beam a golden head that riveted her attention. It was him! The expensive-looking guy with the stern mouth and the ivory topped cane. He didn’t seem to be limping as badly today, Marianne reflected, watching him, and her insides executed an unsettling somersault as she saw that he was definitely heading her way.

Moments later he stood before her, his breath making a little puff of frosted steam as he spoke. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said politely, and there was a barely discernible lift to one corner of that impossibly serious mouth that surprisingly might have been the beginning of a smile.

‘Hello,’ she murmured, her gloved hand tightening round her take-away coffee cup.

‘You are not singing?’

‘No…I’m taking a break. Warming myself up.’

Finding herself the target of his devastating silent scrutiny, Marianne felt her entire body tense with discomfort. Did he have any idea how intently he stared? His eyes were like twin frosted blue lasers, making an exploratory dive straight down into her soul. Her husband Donal had never regarded her in such an intense way. His gaze had simply been infinitely kind.

‘How’s business?’

‘Okay.’ Shrugging, Marianne glanced down at the small collection of coppers and silver change in the hat at her feet. ‘Like I told you before, I don’t sing just for—’

‘Money. I remember. You sing because you are compelled to…for the love of it, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Now she felt embarrassed, remembering her outburst of the other day. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I offended you in any way by what I said or did, but there are a lot of people far worse off than me you know? In fact I’m not badly off at all. Appearances can be deceiving.’

His tanned brow creased a little, as if he were silently disputing her assessment of her situation, and his gaze carefully took in her mismatched woollen clothing that today consisted of purple tights, brown boots, a red dress over a cream sweater and Donal’s too-big sheepskin lined leather jacket, with a beige scarf tucked into the neckline to keep out the worst of the cold. The only thing she wasn’t wearing to finish off the eye-catching ensemble was her multi-coloured ski hat. Rushing out of the house this morning, she had accidentally left it behind.

‘Well…if it helps you to know, I did in fact donate the money I would have given you to the church’s collection for the homeless, as you suggested. Let me introduce myself. My name is Eduardo De Souza.’ Balancing one hand on his cane, he removed a glove and struck out his now bare hand towards her.