“He’s not the f**king love of your life, darlin’,” he says, his eyes a little manic. Whoa, I was not expecting this. Okay, subject change needed pronto. I swallow — hard.

“Dad showed me the new article. I can’t believe Harris had the gall to go see your show.”

Some of the previous tension leaves Jay’s body as he backs away from me and shrugs. “I knew she was there.”

“Hold on a second. What?”

“I knew she was there. I’m not a f**king idiot. And besides, the woman stands out like a sore thumb. She’s got these big, ridiculous Botox lips. I’m glad she wrote that article, though. The more defamatory shit she writes, the further she digs herself into a hole.”

I put a hand on my hip and c*ck my head. “You actually want her to write about you?”

“Yep. That way, once the case finally gets to trial, I’ll have a wealth of ammo. Every insulting lie she’s ever written can be used as evidence.”

He’s got this look in his eye that gives me pause, making me wonder if there’s more to this than he’s letting on.

“Do you know her or something? Like, from the past?”

“Nope.”

“Oh. Well, I just think it’s weird how she’s so determined to write bad things about you.”

“Perhaps I turned her down one night and she’s got a vendetta,” he jokes.

I open the fridge and start taking out ingredients for dinner while Jay paces the room. I’m sorting through vegetables when I feel the heat of his body behind mine. He braces his hands on the counter on either side of me, penning me in.

“You’re looking particularly pretty today, Watson,” he says in a cheerful tone. “What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken casserole.”

“Sounds delicious,” he murmurs, and it feels like his mouth is closer to my neck now. My entire body goes tense.

“What’s with the new furniture?” I ask, moving so he has to let me out of the prison of his arms.

He scratches his jaw. “Oh, that. Yeah, I got it so I can sit with you while you work.”

“Do you mean sit or chaise lounge?” I say jokingly.

Jay smirks.

“What? That was an excellent joke. I mean, what’s the point of sitting on one of those? They were designed for reclining and looking hot while doing it.”

“Oh, so you think I look hot while reclining. That’s good to know.”

I snort. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“You wish you were full of myself,” he retorts.

I shiver and blush. “I can’t tell if that was the best comeback ever or the worst.”

Jay laughs loudly and gives me a wink before he leaves me to my cooking.

Later that evening, while I’m working on a pink cocktail dress with a diamante detail around the neck, he saunters into room. His hair is dishevelled and his T-shirt rumpled. He looks like he just woke up from a nap. I continue to work as he sits down on his chaise longue and lies back, raising his arms and resting his head on his palms. It makes his T-shirt rise a bit, revealing an inch of smooth, toned skin.

He closes his eyes, like he actually enjoys the rumble of the sewing machine.

“What are you…?”

“Hush.” He holds up a finger. “Just sew, Watson. I like listening to your breathing when you concentrate. I find it very meditative. It helps me think.”

That puts me in my place. It also makes my heart squeeze. He likes listening to me breathe. That’s just so…romantic. Yeah, I said it. It makes me get fanciful notions about the epic love I’ve always sought but never found.

We stay like this for over an hour. Me sewing and him lying back on his fancy seat, eyes closed but not asleep, just thinking — and listening to me breathe, apparently. Dad comes in to make tea at one point and gives us both a funny look, Jay in particular. Dad’s always hated the noise of my sewing machine, says it gives him a headache. So he obviously can’t understand what Jay’s doing sitting so close to it. As he’s leaving, I think I see the ghost of a smile on his lips.

After a while, Jay sits up and pulls a notepad from his pocket, then starts scribbling something down.

“What are you writing?”

“Be quiet for a second, darlin’. I just got an idea for a new trick, and I need to write it down before I forget.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Putting the fabric I’d been measuring aside, I watch him. I want to ask him about what happened after our shared nap yesterday, but unsurprisingly I can’t seem to think of a way to work dry-humping into the conversation. I really wish he’d bring it up, but he hasn’t so much as mentioned it.

When he’s finished writing, he slots the notepad back in his pocket and flexes his fingers.

“So, what’s the new trick?” I ask.

“You’d need to sign a contract before I could tell you that, Watson. I can’t have you selling all my secrets to old Slugworth, now, can I?”

“Okay, Mr Wonka.” I laugh. There’s a moment of quiet before I say, “Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away.”

“What’s it like in prison?”

Jay lets out a bark of a laugh. “Be honest. You’ve committed some heinous crimes that are about to come to light, and you’re afraid of being thrown in the can. I’m right, aren’t I?” That mischievous look that’s so often on his face is there again.

I raise my hands in the air, replying deadpan, “Okay, you’ve got me. I’m secretly an underground drug lord, and one of my cronies has sold me out to the authorities.”

Jay laughs some more. “You’re funny.” He pauses, and his face sobers. It takes a while before he says anything. “It’s like being locked in a world where violence is God and you’re constantly waiting to become the next victim of its wrath.”

Wow. That was kind of poetic.

“Did you really almost beat a man to death? Is that why you were put in there?”

Jay shakes his head and his eyes grow dark, like he’s remembering the experience. “I was put there for pickpocketing, which, coincidentally, is great training for doing magic. You’ve got to steal stuff right out from under a person’s nose without them ever realising you’re there. I told you I used to pick pockets, didn’t I? Had to. It’s the only way to survive on the streets.”

“You did. But Una Harris said you were put away because you beat a man.”

“She’s obviously gotten her wires crossed,” says Jay, a satisfied look passing over his face, and then it’s gone. “I’ve been arrested a few times for getting into fights, so perhaps that’s where she got it from. When you’ve got nothing, you’ll justify many things in order to survive, even hurting people.”

The serious look on his face gives me pause, and I’m not sure why, but I feel immense sympathy for him in this moment. I clear my throat and continue speaking.

“So, Una must have seen some of your records from back in America, then.”

“Must have.”

“I don’t get how such a shoddily researched article ever made it to print. Wouldn’t her boss have made sure it was all true before giving the green light to publish it?”

“More lies are printed than truths, Watson. I think we both know that. And perhaps her boss is just as much of a degenerate as she is.”

“A degenerate?” I question curiously.

“She’s not the only one who’s done some snooping. In fact, I probably know more about her than she does about me.”

I get up now and go to sit beside him, asking seriously, “What do you know about her?”

He rubs his chin. “Well, now, let me see. She’s addicted to prescription meds. Oh, and plastic surgery. Her husband divorced her because she had an affair. She lives alone with her pet Chihuahua. She’s abusive towards her housekeeper. She gets a manicure every Friday morning. She attends church every Sunday, you know, to keep up appearances. And, last but not least, she’s been sleeping with her boss on and off for the last sixteen years.”

“What?! Her boss at the newspaper?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Like I said, I’ve been getting my ducks in a row for a while now.”

“Yeah, but you can’t use any of that information in court, Jay. Especially if you came across it illegally.”

Suddenly, I remember the time when he’d gone to speak with that shifty-looking man in the bar after Simon Silver’s seminar. There had been an exchange of envelopes. Was he a private investigator or something else?

“I doubt I’ll need to. This shit always comes out in one way or another, and Una Harris is hiding too much shit to keep buried. Sooner or later it’s going to hit the proverbial fan.”

Again, I get the impression that there’s far more he’s not telling me. I don’t push him, though, don’t feel it’s my place.

“I’m sorry she’s been spreading lies about you,” I say, putting a hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

Jay’s eyes travel to my hand and stay there for a moment. Then he reaches up and puts his hand over mine. “And I’m sorry that you had to go through everything you did. That you were alone in the world,” I continue.

“I wasn’t alone — I just chose to be. At the time I’d rather live on the streets than with a lunatic uncle. I’d already suffered enough madness with my father before he died.”

This is a rare moment of candour, and I want to know more, so I ask in a whisper, “Your dad was crazy, too?”

“Not in the same way. Dad used physical violence. Uncle Killian’s was all psychological. He liked to mess with my head.” He seems younger as he tells me this, like he’s reverting back to the boy who was mistreated by the adults who were supposed to care for him.

I rub his shoulder, because I don’t know what else to say, but I want to comfort him. We stay like that for a long time, quiet as we look out the windows into the dark night. He squeezes my hand and gets up, breaking our contemplative silence. When he leaves the room, I spend a long time wondering about the boy he once was as I pack away my materials.

Sixteen

When I get back to work after lunch on Friday, I find Dad’s office door closed and voices coming from inside. I put my ear against the wood and listen, picking out Jay’s recognisable cadence. God, I love his voice. I think I’m ruined for all other accents now that his is the one I hear every day.

Wondering what he’s here for, I turn my computer back on and start completing the tasks I need to finish before the end of the day. About a half an hour later, Dad’s office door opens and the two men emerge, shaking hands. Jay has an ecstatic look on his face, and Dad looks pretty happy, too.

“Here’s to a successful endeavour,” says Dad cheerily as he lets go of Jay’s hand and turns to go back inside his office.

“We’re going to win this thing, Hugh, you mark my words,” Jay calls after him.

Dad chuckles as he waves Jay off.

Does this mean Dad’s gone ahead and accepted the case? I try to act nonchalant as I type and Jay comes to perch himself on the edge of my desk.

“Guess what?” he beams.

“Dad’s taking your case?” I smile at him.

“Yeah! How’d you know?” he says, all playful and hyper. “I think you might be psychic, Watson. I should incorporate you into my act.”

“Oh, my God, you really are delighted about this,” I say, shaking my head at him but unable to stop smiling.

“Yep. The plan is back on track.”

“Plan?”

It takes him a second to answer. “To show Una Harris she messed with the wrong magician.”

“I thought you preferred illusionist,” I laugh.

“I do, but the two ‘M’s just made the sentence sound sexier.”

“If you say so.”

I continue working, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he pulls his phone from his pocket and starts tapping on the screen. Glancing at him, I notice that, despite his invigorated mood, his eyes are a little tired. Sometimes I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and hear him pacing around in his room. I haven’t mentioned it to him, though.

“What time do you get off work, John?”

“John?”

“John Watson, Matilda. Goodness, keep up.”

I shake my head at him. “I get off at half past five. Why?”

“I want you to come somewhere with me. I promise a fun time will be had by all.”

“And where is this fun taking place?”

Instead of answering, he thrusts his phone at me. It displays a tweet that contains a time, a date, and a place. The date and time are for today, and the place is a well-known meet-up area in the city centre.

“I didn’t know you had a Twitter account,” I say, swiping to his profile. My jaw practically drops when I see he’s got more than 100,000 followers. “Wow, Jay, you’re, like, hugely popular.”

“You sound surprised. Should I be offended?” he teases.

“No, of course not. It’s just unexpected, that’s all. What does the tweet mean?”

He takes the phone back from me and shoves it in his pocket. “I have a lot of teenage fans who aren’t old enough to get into the venues where I perform, so sometimes I do random outdoor meet-and-greets with them.”

My smile grows wide. “You do that? That’s one of the nicest things I’ve ever heard.”