Page 13 of Hired Help

Even if I’d rather sit at home in a nice warm bath of sulphuric acid than go to the senior dance on my own, it doesn’t detract from its beauty.

There’s still time before class, so I pull it from the garment bag and shed my current outfit. The row of fastenings for the crafted neckpiece are tiny and fiddly, Lilliputian compared to my Gulliver sized hands.

When I turn to the mirror, it’s worth the effort.

In the past fortnight, I’ve lost weight and gained spots. The constant worry means I don’t eat, don’t eat, then stuff my face with foods loaded with grease. My cheekbones are sharper, my skin even paler than normal, nearing translucence.

But the dress.

The dress is perfect.

I take a few pictures, delete them, then take a few dozen more at flattering angles before hunting through them for the best. I’m about to post my top three when a few new comments catch my eye.

There are rude remarks from people who barely know me. I shouldn’t care about them but they’re as distressing as any positive comment on my yet-to-be-posted images would be uplifting.

Instead of submitting the photos, I backtrack until they’re deleted, then shut down the app.

No one’s ever going to ask me out again. The girl who’s sickened the only boy who ever deigned to sleep with her.

Just thinking about it makes the pain real, visceral. Sweat pops out on my forehead while my heart pounds. Each insecurity arches its back, bares its teeth, puffs out its fur.

I try to calm myself, try to steady my breath with deep inhalations, counting out the seconds for each release, but I start spiralling.

It doesn’t matter what I look like in a pretty dress. It’snevergoing to matter. No one’s going to want to peel the fabric away from my body, to touch me, to run their hands over my bare skin.To get close.

Everything inside me rolls into a tight little ball. I can’t imagineeverbeing that vulnerable with anyone again. Not with that as feedback from my one and only lover.

You could pay for someone to teach you.

I push the thought from my head as ridiculous. But as I stare at my phone, my chin raises, and it pushes back.

What’s so ridiculous? When I struggled with introductory algebra, I hired a maths tutor. Gareth took six hours to teach me everything I needed after weeks of struggling alone.

The idea horrifies me and thrills me in equal measure. What is the point of my wealth if it can’t solve my problems?

On the other hand… do I really want to pay a guy to fuck me? What if I book a gigolo and get the same feedback as Harrison?

Then you’ll know.

I sit up, breathing heavily, then pick up my phone again.

It can’t hurt tolookat some sites. Even if I never go ahead with anything, it’ll be interesting to see what’s out there.

When I click on the page for escorts, the photo array makes me anxious about my cleavage. Page after page of curvy women.

I’m about to close out when I see the tab for males.

Large breasts are replaced by large dick pics. A few of the men have torso shots, showing how they fit in a suit or flexing to show off their muscles, but the rest are upfront with their favourite asset.

I scroll through them, quickly passing through the men for men channel and diving into the far smaller men for women, and that’s when I see the listing.

It isn’t under his real name, but I recognise Harrison’s dad.

I’ve never met the man, but Harrison talked about him a little and showed me a few photos. They’re estranged and from the set of my ex’s jaw when he imparted the information, he wasn’t in any mood to field questions about why.

His listing has a torso shot and I click into the body of the ad.

The photograph must be years old, or time has been extremely kind. Harrison’s eighteen like me, so at a minimum his dad should be mid-thirties, more probably edging into the upper zone of that.

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