It works (Riya's POV)

The old man (he's not really old maybe in his fifties?) leads slowly me on his crutches to his house which thankfully is only a few streets away from my current accommodation. It comforts me that I know the area. He asks, “What is your name?”

“Riya.”

“That’s a nice name. I'm Eugene Patterson, though people call me Mr. P. or Pat.” He adds. “What do you study, Riya?”

“A major in Maths and Economics.”

“Impressive.”

“Boyfriend?”

I snap. “What?”

“I mean, I know it seems like I’m prying. Just…” He sounds flustered, tripping over his tongue. “I don’t want you throwing parties in my house. That’s all.” I guess I overreacted a bit. All my life my friends and relatives have been prying into my private life. My mother and aunties because they think I'm wasting my time at Uni and think I should be getting married and having kids, my friends because they think I'm missing out on life, and my Baba because he doesn't think any boy is good enough for me and wants to make sure stay pure until I'm married. The last thing I want is for my new employer to start.

“I’m far too busy for boys.” I decide I'd better make an effort to sell myself, or I was going to lose this job before I even get it. “I rarely drink, and when I do, I’ve only ever been drunk once or twice. I take my studies seriously. Always have.”

Mr. Paterson seems relieved. “Not even a boyfriend waiting for you in India?”

“No. I’m a little goodie-two-shoes.” He smiles at my joke, and then runs his eyes down my slim figure again thoughtfully.

We turn left off the tree lined avenue into a quiet side street. We are still inside the student area, and we stop outside a large colonial style townhouse with large bay windows and a screened porch. By the half-windows at ground level, I guess it also has a basement.

He opens the back door and I step into the house. It’s clean, smells fresh but a little masculine. No floral smell and a lack of colour. Needs a woman’s touch.

Off the hallway I step into the kitchen which again looks tidy, in a nook to the side there is a modern washer and dryer. I read the dials and buttons and wonder if mummy would know how to use it? But at least the toaster is similar to the one I use in my apartment.

Mr. Paterson taps his neck brace. “At the moment I need someone to cook all my meals, and clean for me daily. And help with some washing too. For the next few weeks at least.”

“I can do that.”

“Come. I’ll show you the upstairs.” Mr. Paterson leads me up the creaking staircase to the first floor; I offer to help him, but he manages himself - slowly. I stand close behind in a hope that I could stop him from falling backwards. But in truth I fear he would skittle me over and flatten me.

There is a bathroom which, like the rest of the house is tidy but in dire need of colour and a female touch.

Finally, we get to the bedroom which has a double bed and large mirrored wardrobe and a dresser. It’s a nice space but could do with the window open as it needs fresh air.

The duvet and sheets are piled in the middle, the bed unmade. He looks embarrassed. I suddenly have the urge to impress and jump into action. “Let me make the bed, Mr. Paterson.”

“No.”

“I insist.” I dart around the bed, pull the sheets into place and took in the corners before straightening the folds.

In no time It looks like a fresh bed, and Mr. Paterson nods his approval. “Excellent work Riya.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Mr. P.” He corrects me, “Please.” He seems to really mean it, but unlike my American friends, it doesn't feel right to call someone that. Especially not a man who must be more than thirty years my senior.

As we head back towards the stairs, he shows me a tiny box room with a single bed and basic wardrobe. “You’ll have little to do in here.”

“Why not, Mr. P?”

“It’s the old servant’s room. Once our children grew up, my late wife and I ... we use to rent it out to students.” He shrugs. “Even if I wanted to rent it now, most kids want their own luxury suites, not a dingy little room like this.”

Given my predicament I need that room, even if it was built for servants. My voice takes a high pitch. “I'd be interested, Mr. Patterson.” I let out a sigh as the truth hurts. “As I told you before, I'm in between residencies right now. A single small room like this shouldn't be too dear, right?”

“I can't, Honey. It's not the money, you could stay here for free for all I care. I just don't think it would be proper.” Mr. Patterson continues to explain, “It was different when Fran was still alive, but I don't think your parents would approve of you living alone with a man in his house.”

“I'll talk to my parents, Sir.” This is too good a chance not to take, even if the room was smaller than my walk-in closet. “I'll explain that you've been injured and need my help.” I reach out in desperation and squeeze his arm, a little surprised by my boldness. “Please, Mr. Patterson. I'd be around a lot more, if you needed me for anything...”

“So, you'd live in my house with free room and board? I may have to find a few more chores for you to do ...” He scratches his chin as if he’s thinking it through. “If your father is OK with it, I guess we could give it a try for a probationary period. Say one week, just to be sure you are comfortable with the arrangement?”

“That would be brilliant, Mr. Patterson.” I jump into the air and scream with joy. “Absolutely brilliant!” I must have overdone it, because I bump into his chest with my shoulder.

Mr. Patterson wobbles uneasily and his arm falls across my shoulders, he's more solidly built than I first thought but I just about keep him upright. He is warm and I can smell his musky cologne.

“I am so sorry, Riya. I lose my balance sometimes.” He gives me a little squeeze ... I don't really mind; it feels friendly rather than perverted.

“You see, Mr. Patterson.” I gently pat his chest just over his heart. “You need me here.” It’s the first time I have felt a heartbeat that isn’t my own for over a year and I wonder if maybe my friends are right about me finding myself a boy.