The Joy of Being a Good Girl

21 min readDec 25, 2021

Claire was a wife. That was all she was, a man’s wife. A man who eventually left her, telling her she was too dull, too uninspiring. Alone, not needing to work, not needing of anything, she wonders what her life is going to become. She feels it will be miserable and uneventful until she finds an ad in the help wanted pages of the newspaper and then…

Written by Rebecca Milton
Published by

At the far end of a loft space he sat. The light in the room was mostly natural, coming in from the huge windows that were located high on the walls, just under the ceiling. The ceiling itself was high, about fifteen feet above me. There was one, large, bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling and he sat, sprawled in a red velvet covered, wing back chair under the light. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair was salt and pepper, his face, thought not young, still held a youthful charm and radiated a light that seemed almost other worldly.

To his right was a small table. On the table was a glass, half full of an amber liquid and an ash tray. To his left was another table. On that table was a bottle of scotch, a pack of cigarettes and a pistol. I knew nothing about guns then, but now, I can tell you that it was a Walther PPK, the same gun that James Bond was famous for. He wore round glasses and he spoke very softly. No one else was in the room when I stepped in, but he seemed to be waiting for me.

I pushed the large, paint spattered door open, stepped inside and said hello. My voice echoed and rushed around the room, came back to me and then, slipped by me and fled into the night. I tried not to take that as a sign. When my eyes adjusted to the room, the dim light, the depth, the height, that was when I saw him. I said hello again and, using his right arm, he made a slow, long gesture for me to come forward. I did, slowly, cautiously. I moved until I was halfway across the room and then stopped.

“Why have you stopped,” he asked, his voice a bit of a slur, a hint of an accent, the rasp of a smoker and an air of casual brutality. A combination that filled me with terror and desire. Go figure. I stood still, frozen, frightened. He waited.

“Darling,” he spoke again, using the word darling like the British men in films who call…

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