Tess’s first full day in LA was not going to go the way she had planned. Before she arrived, she’d thought day one might involve a swim in the pool before breakfast on the balcony, followed by a trip out to an inspiring cultural institution. Day one was also supposed to involve exploring local juice bars and the nearest hiking route or beach… and maybe enjoying a cocktail out in the evening while she planned her research for her work project.
But now that day one was here, the reality of it was: get up, walk big, over-excited dogs round the block separately while accosting other dog walkers for poo bags, who all seem to have teeny chihuahuas or dachshunds. Manage to get two poo bags barely big enough for the job, plus learn essential information about location of poo bins and nearby dog-friendly parks.
Go to store on corner and buy every kind of essential: from things to eat and drink, to cleaning stuff, cleaning cloths… and bathroom supplies. Drag it all back in two enormous laundry bags, then begin the Herculean task of making River’s place the kind of home she had thought she would be spending six weeks in.
Tess’s lovely family home, Ambleside, was cleaned most weeks of the year by Angela, the trusted cleaning lady, but Tess was not at all shy of the heavy lifting of cleaning work. So, in River’s apartment she began with the kitchen, then moved on to the bathroom, spraying and scrubbing until there was a light haze of cleaning fluid fumes.
She spent almost an hour on the bathroom alone, where with an onslaught of bleach, grout cleaner and stain-removing stuff she worked away until it squeaked with cleanliness. Tess even threw out the mouldy shower curtain and bathmat and installed tasteful white-and-blue replacements she’d found at the store. And yes, there was satisfaction to be had in turning such a grubby space into a clean and welcoming place, but Tess also felt disappointment as she scrubbed between the tiles with the cheap toothbrush she’d bought for this purpose. Why hadn’t River felt the same need that Tess had to have her home ready to welcome her guest? It made Tess wonder if she was going to be cleaning up after people and sorting out their messes for the rest of her life. Maybe that was the aura she gave off: capable, boring old Tess, can cope with whatever you throw at her, soaker-up of dramas, sorter out of messes – leave it to Tess, she can deal with it.
She even dropped a tear or two of self-pity before she told herself off. So what if she had to spend a day or two cleaning, and some time every day looking after unexpected dogs? She was here, wasn’t she? She was going to have much more time to herself than she’d ever had before. She was going to spend time on herself and sorting out her own things, for once.
In the living space and bedroom, much tidying, storing and cleaning of surfaces was done. River’s endless piles of books and papers were neatly rounded up and stacked into the bookcases and the two laundry bags.
Fortified by several tea breaks, Tess went on to wash the grimy windows and she de-clogged the elderly vacuum cleaner, coaxing it back into effective life, so she could suck up some of the clouds of dust and dog hair drifting around the floors, the sofas, under the beds and in all the nooks and crannies of the rooms. Then she vacuumed blinds and bookshelves and the tops of cupboards. She disturbed layers and layers of dust, causing the particles to hang in the bright beams of sunshine and make her sneeze violently.
As she worked her way through every necessary job, the flat began to look lovely. She set fruit out in a little bowl in the kitchen. New soap and rolls of toilet paper went into the clean bathroom. She rearranged the antique desk and its orthopaedic-looking chair to make better use of the space and the light. She picked interesting books from the bookcase that she wanted to browse and set them out on the coffee table. She found two small vases in the process of the kitchen tidy and made a note to bring flowers back from her next trip to the store. She put freshly vacuumed rugs out for the dogs to sit on when they came back from the long walk they were on with Tom.
And then there was only one ghastly chore left…
The poo-filled balcony would have to be cleared and fully washed down so that she could wash the outside of the big window and sit at the little café table and chair set out there, not to mention teach the dogs that this was definitely not their toilet any more.
It was a nice size of balcony – maybe three, even four, metres long and a metre and a half wide. The wooden table and chair out there looked grubby, bleached by the sun and unloved. She would solve that with a quick wash down and a little pot plant… but before that, it was the fifteen or so dollops of dog mess, in varying stages of dryness that had to be tackled first.
Well, Tess… fixer of messes, dealer of dramas, scooper of other people’s dogs’ poo… you deal with this and then surely you get a break from cleaning up after others, she reasoned with herself? Just one last, monumental effort.
It was a horrible job but it was worth it to reclaim that balcony, surely? The balcony would be a lovely space, where she could sit and read, think and daydream in the sunshine. A lot of the thick, extra-large poo bags she’d bought were going to be needed, but she could definitely do this. She would find something that could act as a shovel, a kitchen utensil if that was all that was available, and she would swathe it in poo bag. She’d also wear gloves swathed in poo bags. Then she’d round up all these horrible dog dollops, seal them up in a bin bag and then get that bag out of the flat and into the outdoor bins as quickly as possible. The balcony would then be fully bleached and scrubbed.
This was not going to be at all nice, but it would be worth it.
Gloved, bagged, armed with a double bin bag and a well-wrapped frying pan spatula, she headed out onto the balcony. She dealt with the drier dollops first, building her bravery. Spatula under, transfer into bag, don’t think about it too much. She was used to dealing with dog poo, she’d had her own dog for years – that thought accompanied by the now familiar pang of pain as she thought of Bella. But scooping up your own dog’s freshly delivered… well, it was like changing other children’s nappies, there was an added layer of horribleness when it wasn’t your own dog or child.
When the driest clumps were rounded up, it was time to hold her breath and brace herself for the grosser, stickier stuff. After offloading the first mound into the bin bag, she decided that the kitchen spatula she was using would be going into the bin too, after this and she would buy River a new one.
Mound by grisly mound, she shovelled, holding her breath, trying not to look too closely where possible. She tried to develop a deft flick to move the heaps quickly into the bag. The flexible, rubbery spatula was actually pretty good for this and her flicks were getting practised. When the flat rubber surface was right under mound, just a quick snap of the wrist would splat the mound straight into bag. This method was working well until, like every beginner happy with their progress, she grew just a little too confident. She put the spatula in place, snapped her wrist hard and the soggy mound flew not into the bin bag opening, but straight above it, flying with force into the balcony’s left side railing. There, it broke apart, some poo splattering against the metal rails, some carrying on with its trajectory.
Tess stood up and looked over the rail. The balconies on this building had been cleverly staggered, to allow more variation of sunshine and shade, and to give a more attractive look to the front of building. But as she peered over, she realised this meant things could fall from one balcony to another. And the dog poo had dropped from this balcony onto the one below.
On the neat and tidy balcony below, with lush pot plants and a bigger table covered with a jaunty red tablecloth, someone had set out a soft and comfortable pair of black lace-up shoes. Dance shoes… jazz shoes… maybe? A large dollop of poo had splatted beside the shoes and another large dollop had made a direct hit, on both the outside and the inside of one shoe. Tess was too surprised to do anything. She just stared, open-mouthed.
But then a dark head of hair appeared and she pulled back from the railing.
She heard the loud, angry: ‘What the actual…?’
And dropped her horrible utensil and bags and stepped inside.
Bloody hell… bloody hell… what was she supposed to do now? In Britain, you could go and apologise about things like this and hope that people would usually be understanding, forgive a neighbour’s mistakes, or eccentricities even. But here, she’d seen enough US TV to know that Americans often didn’t hold back; typically, they let you feel the full force of their anger… and they often had guns.
Tess suddenly felt very new here… on unfamiliar territory and alone. Oh, come on… she told herself. I’ll just go downstairs and apologise, wholeheartedly, totally sincerely… and offer to clean up. Yes, that was the right thing to do. Go down a floor, knock on the door and sort this out straightaway.
She took her gloves off, then realised she’d need her poo-clean kit. The gloves and the bin bag and the wrapped spatula – she’d wrap it up in another bag. She was just getting ready to go out when she heard the doorbell ring long and loud. This was followed by fierce, impatient knocking at the door.
‘That’s it! That is the final freaking straw with those dogs!’ a furious voice insisted from the other side of the door.
‘Open up! Open this door! Or I will knock a freaking hole in it! Do you have any idea? These shoes… these shoes were given to me by Savion Glover.’
The voice got even angrier, even higher: ‘By Savion himself! They can never be replaced! So open this goddam door!’