part0011

It’s Sunday afternoon and Doris and I are sitting at our usual table in Joey’s Café. Now that I’ve got Mother sorted out I’ve given myself a lot more freedom. Doris quite often texts me and suggests meeting up and I always used to say no. But not anymore.

‘Dunno. But Ronnie was defo cagey about Rita, said she weren’t sure wever she’d be coming back or not.’

I take a thoughtful sip of my tea, I take it black now, less calories. I don’t want Rita to come back, I don’t want to give up Bella.

‘What’s wrong with her? I asked Veronica and she was a bit non-committal.’

Doris looks puzzled, ‘A bit what?’

‘Oh, yeah. Dunno. Some sort of stomach upset I fink. Not really sure, like I said, all a bit of a big fucking secret. Anyway, fing is, those two grannies in twinsets have got most of her clients and I wouldn’t mind a couple of extra shifts meself.’

I keep quiet; I have no intention of offering my shift at Bella’s to Doris.

‘I thought you didn’t want anymore. The twinsets only took them because no one else wanted them.’

‘I didn’t. Then.’ Doris looks downcast. ‘Charlie’s been laid off again.’

‘Oh no, what happened?’

‘Yeah, well he ain’t exactly been laid off, boss sacked him. Bad timekeeping or somefing. Fucking prick.’

I don’t know if she means Charlie or the boss so keep quiet.

‘I dunno why I bovver with him sometimes. He’s always letting me down.’

Charlie then. He lets her down all of the time but she still sticks by him; funds him until he finds another job that won’t last.

‘I’m really sorry, Doris. I’d let you have the Monday one but I need the money, Mother’s pension doesn’t stretch very far these days.’

‘S’okay. Dunno why those two grannies want them, not going to do much at their age are they? They can’t need the money, I mean, they’re practically dead, what the fuck they gonna spend it on?’

A smartly dressed young couple look over disapprovingly at us from the table in the corner. They sit opposite each other with a pasty-faced child wedged into a pushchair alongside the table and between their seats. They’re around my age but have an air of being much older. I heard them ask Joey if he had any camomile tea when they came in and when he replied it was PG Tips or nothing I thought they were going to walk out. Probably the fact that cafés are a bit thin on the ground in Frogham stopped them, never mind ones that do camomile tea. Joey thinks he’s a bit of a trailblazer because he’s got cappuccino on the menu. I watch out of the corner of my eye; the man pauses dramatically as he’s putting his cup to his lips, and I’m sure I hear the woman tut and I half expect her to clap her hands over the baby’s ears to protect him from Doris’s swearing. I ignore them and hope Doris hasn’t heard or noticed; to say she doesn’t take criticism very well is an understatement. Doris is what Mother would call common or no better than she should be , whatever that means. I have to admit that she is loud; there’s no volume button on Doris’s voice at all.

‘Why don’t you ring Veronica tomorrow and ask her? I’m sure she’d give you one of Rita’s shifts if you asked. They’ve got all of them apart from the one I’m doing so it’s only fair that you get one. They didn’t really want them anyway.’

‘Yeah, fink I’ll do that.’ Doris looks a bit happier. ‘I’ll ring her first fing.’

‘Good. Another cup?’ Doris doesn’t answer, she’s too busy glaring at the couple in the corner.

‘Gotta problem?’ she says loudly, ‘Somefing I can help you wiv?’ So she did hear them; Doris’s words are polite but the tone is threatening.

Not so brave now they’ve been challenged, the couple quickly look away and suddenly find the contents of their teas fascinating and the woman concentrates on pushing a plate with a half-eaten piece of carrot cake away from her towards the edge of the table. Razor thin with poker straight hair that reaches almost to her waist I feel an irrational dislike for her. Who leaves half a slice of cake for God’s sake? Eat the lot or go without.

‘I’ll have a latte this time, Al, cheers,’ Doris says cheerfully as I push my chair back and stand up. ‘That is,’ she continues loudly, staring at the couple in the corner, ‘if it’s alright wiv you?’

When I arrive at Bella’s house there’s a car parked on the driveway; long, low, and sleek, it’s dark, shiny grey and resembles a crouching tiger. I don’t think I’d fit in it, and if I could wedge myself inside I don’t think I’d be able to get back out. I park on the road, mindful of Rita’s warning about taking liberties.

As I walk past the car to the front door I peer at the badge to see that it’s a Porsche. I can just make out black leather seats edged in cream piping through the black tinted windows. I know that this must be Justin’s car as Bella drives a powder blue open topped sports car. It’s a shock that Justin is here as I wasn’t expecting anyone to be home. I feel disgruntled and off balance; this will definitely impact on my day as I won’t be able to take my time and immerse myself in feeling close to Bella.

God, that sounds creepy doesn’t it? I’m not besotted with her or anything, I just like to imagine that I have a life like Bella’s. That this house is my home instead of the miserable seventies throwback that I really live in. Now I won’t be able to, he’s spoilt it.

I take out the front door key and wonder whether to knock, unsure of the etiquette. I always knock at Mrs Forsyth’s but she’s always there, she’s never been out when I’ve arrived and she doesn’t even expect me to do anything. This is different; apart from Mrs Forsyth, I’ve never encountered anyone at home when I clean. I’ve always assumed they’d rather be out; less embarrassing to have someone clean up your dirt if you’re not there. I stand outside for a moment and then decide I’ll let myself in as normal; it’s not my fault he’s at home.

I unlock the front door and when I get into the hallway I close the front door firmly, making no attempt to do it quietly, hoping that he’ll hear.

What if he’s in bed? I decide that I’ll call out and if I get no reply I’ll go and come back later.

‘Helloo,’ I call.

‘Helloo,’ I shout.

Silence. After a moment there’s the sound of a door opening upstairs. A pair of denim legs appear at the top of the stairs and stand there.

‘The cleaner,’ I say loudly, ‘from Moppers. I’ve come to clean.’

‘Of course! Sorry you threw me for a moment, I forgot you come on Mondays.’

A pair of legs descend the stairs and Justin comes into view; just as gorgeous as his photograph and a perfect match for Bella. He may not be wearing a dinner suit but the tattered jeans and faded t-shirt don’t detract from his handsomeness at all.

‘Hi,’ I’m Justin, nice to meet you.’ A flash of perfect teeth and ice blue eyes. He extends a well-muscled, tanned arm and proffers his hand.

‘Hi, I’m Alison.’ In my embarrassment at being in the company of a God my voice has come out all wrong and I practically shout at him. I must sound and look like a complete halfwit as I stand there gawping at him. I grasp his hand in a firm handshake and crush his fingers briefly with my now sweating hand before letting go. I can’t help noticing that he brushes his palm surreptitiously down the side of his jeans as his hand drops.

He looks a bit startled but quickly recovers and hides it well. ‘I’m working from home but don’t mind me, you just carry on as usual. Pretend I’m not here. I’ll be in my study so don’t worry about cleaning it this week.’

He gives me another dazzling smile that never reaches his eyes and turns and disappears back up the stairs and I stand there like a statue watching him escape from the giantess in the hallway.

Did his mouth twitch as if he was trying not to laugh at me? I think it did. All my feelings of insecurity are back with a vengeance. I may not be supersize anymore but I still have no confidence in my appearance. I still feel like an ungainly lump. Why did I grip his hand so tightly? Why do I turn into a sweating mess the minute I feel nervous?

Depressed, I bend down and put my shoe covers on and then pick up my cleaning kit from the doormat. As I straighten up I catch sight of my reflection in the huge mirror that covers most of one wall.

I do look strange: I still wear the same t-shirts that I have always worn but they are now so big I could fit Mother in with me as well. I had to buy some new leggings (Foodco special, two pairs at two-ninety-nine each) as my old ones were so big that they wouldn’t stay up, not even with a belt on. The Moppers tabard that wouldn’t do up is now so big that it’s become a liability and I have to take it off before I actually start any cleaning otherwise I’d spend all of my time holding it out of my way. This ensemble, topped off with a bright red, beetroot face that’s slowly returning to its normal colour and wispy, flyaway hair scraped into an unflattering ponytail.

What do I look like? The village idiot, that’s what.

I trundle despondently through to the kitchen to be greeted by the usual dirty dishes littered everywhere. As I unload, scrape and stack the dishwasher a feeling of resentment starts to bloom. He’s up there tinkering around on his laptop, doing whatever it is that bankers do when they work from home (yes, I did have a peek; my curiosity got the better of me) while I’m down here clearing up his mess, which actually I’m not paid to do. He must know it’s not part of my job because the contracts from Moppers are very black and white, and obvious, but he thinks that’s okay, because that’s all the village idiot is good for.

A loud clang makes me jump and I realise that I’m crashing the plates into the dishwater in anger. I stop and take a deep breath; calm down, I have no reason to feel peeved; no one’s asked me to do this. I should report it to Veronica and she’d bring it to their attention and they’d have to pay more, and realistically, he probably doesn’t even know that the cleaner is not supposed to do the washing up. Let’s face it, is someone who earns nearly a hundred-thousand-pound bonus every year going to bother reading the rules on a cleaning contract? Of course not. I’m being ridiculous.

The real problem is that he’s here and I don’t want him here. I like to clean on my own and enjoy it. A sudden horrible thought occurs to me: what if he decides to work from home all of the time?

‘Would I be getting in your way if I make a coffee?’

He’s in the doorway, hovering.

‘No of course not, just pretend I’m not here.’ I try not to shout this time but end up saying it so quietly that I have to repeat it because he couldn’t hear what I said. I should be put down. Really, I should. Not fit for purpose, that’s me.

He proceeds to make himself a cup of coffee, instant, not in the fancy percolator sitting on the worktop. Probably because he wants to get away from this oddity of a cleaner as soon as possible. He doesn’t offer me a coffee and he leaves the spoon on the worktop, in a splutter of coffee, for me to clear up. Like a servant, which I suppose I am. Then he disappears back upstairs to whatever it is that he’s doing.

I turn on the dishwasher and fill the sink with hot, soapy water. I scrub the worktops and wipe over the cupboards until they’re gleaming; and maybe I scrub them with a bit more vigour, a bit more force, as I imagine that it’s Justin’s perfect face that I’m scouring.

Kitchen scrubbed I go upstairs and changing my normal routine I start in their bedroom; as usual dirty clothes litter the floor and the bed is unmade, the covers pulled back and pillows all askew; left just as it was when they climbed out of it this morning. Another job that we Moppers are not supposed to do: make beds.

I gather up the dirty clothes from the floor and take them into the bathroom to put in the laundry hamper. I close the lid and look around; toothpaste on the basin, his basin, scummy soap stains where he hasn’t bothered to rinse it away because he’s far too important to do trivial things like clean up after himself.

Well, you may be handsome, you may have perfect teeth and twinkly eyes; not that they twinkled for me, but you’re a bit grubby, Justin Willoughby. You may be a highflying banker with oodles of money but I’ve picked your smelly underpants up off the bedroom floor, so get over yourself.

How is it that some people have everything and others, like me, and Doris, have very little? I wonder what sort of start Justin had in life, where he came from, to have all this? Was he born to it? Has he worked hard for it or was it given to him on a plate. I decide that I’ll have another look later, I had a quick look when I was researching Bella but I wasn’t really interested in him then.

I clean the bathroom, taking great pleasure in using the same cloth on the toilet and then Justin’s basin, but not Bella’s, obviously. I also hold his nice, expensive, top of the range electric toothbrush down the toilet and flush it and then take a moment to compose myself; it wouldn’t do for him to hear the cleaner laughing hysterically alone in the bathroom.

He might think she was mad.

I whizz around the rest of the house, vacuum every floor, except for the study, as well as mopping the kitchen. For the first time ever, I’ve completed the clean in two hours even with doing the extras.

Shoe covers removed and cleaning kit packed I stand on the doormat, uncertain whether to tell him I’ve finished. If I just leave without telling him won’t that look odd? In an agony of indecision, I stand there. I don’t want to speak to him, I feel uncomfortable and ungainly in his presence and I want to avoid him but common sense tells me that if it was anyone else but him I’d tell them I was finished.

Decision made I slip the shoe covers on and pad back up the stairs, determined not to make a complete idiot of myself this time. The study door is slightly ajar and I can hear a one-sided conversation; he’s on the phone. Do I knock? No. I’ll stick my head around the door and give a little wave and go. That’ll be better; I won’t have to speak then which cuts down the odds of embarrassing myself by either shouting or whispering. I move closer and catch part of his conversation, he’s talking to Bella.

‘….what, the cleaner? Don’t know, darling, bit of a strange fruit.’ He laughs and pauses, then continues talking.

I back out of the doorway silently, holding my breath, praying that the floorboards don’t creak. I tiptoe down the stairs, pick up my cleaning kit and quietly let myself out of the front door, still wearing the shoe covers. Only then do I breathe out. I stand for a moment to compose myself and then pad to my car, unlock it and throw the cleaning kit onto the back seat. I rip the shoe covers off and fling them in after it, then get into the driving seat and slam the door.