Page 83 of Hired Help

“She hurt me first.” He opens his mouth to continue, then stops, his throat working, new blotches blooming on his face as he struggles to get the words free. “She cheated on me.”

“No.” The denial is out of my mouth before I can give it a second thought.

But Brooke, cheating? The broken girl who trembled while she told me she didn’t like anything about sex, but she wanted to. It’s unthinkable.

“Yes. I have the proof. It’s not… she didn’t even deny it when I showed her.”

There’s a whiff of smoke as I stare at him, my attention diverted away from the pan for too long. I flip the pancake with its extra-crispy edges, guessing that’s one for my pile. “What proof?”

“A video. He filmed her.”

That gets a sharp glance. “He who? Did she know?”

“It’s the chef her stepmother uses.Warren.” The limp sound of his name suggests just saying it brings along a haul of baggage. “She watched him set up the cameras. She got really into it.”

There’s a small jolt as I remember the hotel room and how excited Brooke had been, pressing her naked form against the glass while I told her stories of the people watching.

I enjoyed finding that exhibitionist streak. At the time, I’d thought about calling in a favour and getting along an extra helper. Not to participate, but to watch. I thought she’d get a kick out of it, testing out the limits of another hidden desire.

“What is it?” Harrison narrows his eyes at me. “Did she tell you?”

“No.” I continue to shake my head as I finish another pancake, adding more low-fat spread to the pan, ladling out another spoon of batter. “I just…”

Of all the awkward conversations I’ve had with my son over the years, this is by far the awkwardest. Nothing else comes close.

But I’m still marvelling that we’re having a conversation at all. That I have the luxury of taking peeks at Harrison, charting the differences between now and the last time I properly saw him, years ago.

Everything has altered, his height, his build. The chubby cheeks have thinned out while his jaw grew wider, his brow more prominent. The planes of his face so similar to mine that I wonder what happened to all the markers of his mother that I used to see there.

I don’t want to wreck anything. But holding back information feels like the damp cloth that would smother the first sparks of a rekindled relationship.

“I thought she might have a few leanings in that direction, that’s all.” My face smiles of its own accord, remembering. “When she found out what dogging meant, she had one of those moments when her face went like this”—I screw it into a gesture of disgust—“then like this”—I change it to one of intrigue—“then she asked a whole lot more questions.”

“What’s dogging?”

My mouth twists and I force it steady. “Having sex in the back of a car, in full view of anyone who wants to watch through the windows.” He wrinkles his nose enough that I laugh. “Just another of the delights we inherited from British culture.”

“And she wanted to do that?”

There’s a pinch of apprehension in my gut. Not for Harrison to hear this but for me to tell Brooke’s secrets. This isn’t like the chatter between sex workers discussing their clients, it’s closer to a betrayal. If she were here now, I doubt she’d let me divulge as much.

“She was interested in theory. We haven’t got anywhere near putting it into practice.”

“Did you do a lot of that?” When I raise my eyebrows at him, he elaborates, “Talking about sex. About the kinds of things she might like.”

“She was scared there was something wrong with her,” I say gently, imagining her sore point might be an issue for him, too. “So, yeah, we discussed a lot of different things. I wanted to gauge her reactions and see where she was most responsive.”

He nods, wiping his second pancake around the plate to gather up the escaping sugar crystals. “Is that… do you do that with all your girlfriends or is that a client thing?”

“It’s both,” I answer, wanting to drop it but he’s talking to me. Mysonistalking to me.Even in this discussion, fraught with tension, it’s nice. Something I thought in my darkest days, I’d never get again. “I guess the work feeds into the practice. Once you get used to having the discussions, why wouldn’t you? It’s always better to be aware of what the other person likes.”

There’s a sheen in his eyes that I don’t want to explore. I don’t want him to tell me how much my actions have hurt him. To explain what it felt like to have a sex worker for his dad.

I clear my throat, angling away from me, not wanting to second guess my behaviour. “How old’s this chef?”

Harrison frowns, then blinks rapidly, returning his empty plate to the bench, ready for the next one. “Around your age, I guess. Maybe older.”

“Even if she did experiment with him, you’re both young. You’re both going to make plenty of mistakes.”

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