‘Nice you can stay friends with your ex-wife,’ she said, whilst thinking: even if she is a snobby sod up her own designer backside.
‘Well, we had to work at it,’ replied Brandon. ‘ We went to Relate to help us break up civilly. I didn’t want to be one of those hateful, bitter people who are obsessed with getting even and resort to things like sewing prawns into curtains.’
Connie nodded politely but didn’t fess up that she was one of those people. She and Brandon were clearly very different types, because there was no intermediary on earth or elsewhere who could convince her to be reasonable in the break-up of her marriage. The first chance she got, she would sew prawns into Jimmy’s testicles, never mind his curtains.
‘Apparently I live to work, not work to live,’ Brandon said as Connie followed him into the kitchen. ‘I was building the business up and Chox was my mistress. Helena is happily married to the guy she left me for and I live in sin with a kitchen full of ingredients.’
Connie smiled. This would be her destiny soon – married to a business filled with cloths and bleach, though, rather than cocoa butter and icing bags.
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll be working in the kitchen whilst you’re here, but I’ll keep to this small corner and promise not to get in your way.’
‘It’s your house, Mr Locke, I’ll work around you,’
‘Brandon, please. Or sir,’ Brandon replied with a twinkle in his nice shiny eyes.
‘I always start from the top and work down,’ said Connie.
‘Oh, well, that’s nice to know.’ Brandon raised his eyebrows.
Connie felt a blush spread over her cheeks and she grabbed her bucket and mop and headed for upstairs. She heard a text alert from her secret phone, and had to stop and search for it in her bag. Della had sent her a message: WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU DONE TO THE WEBSITE ;) ???
As she vacuumed around his bedroom she wondered why the haughty Helena was coming around to lecture him. Was it possible she still felt some ownership of her ex-husband? She wouldn’t have been surprised, from the way Helena had bristled when she found a strange female on the doorstep, even if it was a dumpy woman with her hair dragged back in a ponytail carrying a carrier bag full of cleaning substances.
‘Can I get you a coffee, Marilyn?’ asked Brandon when Connie started on the kitchen.
‘No, I’m fine, honestly.’
‘Want to sample some chocs? Can I tempt you to a burnt sugar caramel?’ He proffered a tray of glossy chocolate ovals.
Even the word ‘caramel’ was enough to conjure up a vision of Jimmy standing in their kitchen, proudly holding out a blue box filled with handmade caramel truffles which he had found in a small shop in Truro, he said. He’d gone into detail about the shop: an idyllic cottage with roses around the door. The chocolatier-owner was Italian and was training his son to take over. Oh, the arrogance of his lies. Funnily enough, she had looked it up at the weekend to find that there was no ‘shop’ – the industry was run from a 1960s bungalow and did mail-order only. The chocolatier was from Dartmoor, like his father and grandfather before him. And he was childless.
‘No thanks.’ Connie declined them, turning her head from them. ‘Honestly.’
‘Sure?’
Her brain plucked out image of her biting into a caramel, heavy and syrupy, sugar crystals scratching against her teeth and she covered her mouth as her stomach bucked.
Brandon was watching her and Connie was stricken with embarrassment.
‘You really do have it bad, don’t you?’ he said, with a heavy hint of amusement in his voice, as he moved the chocolates away from her immediate space.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Okay, if I can’t lure you over to the dark side, then I’ll leave you to it.’ He had a nice smile, lazy and open, thought Connie. Not like Jimmy’s, which might as well have been tattooed on. You could never tell if Jimmy was genuinely pleased about something or putting on an act. He had a first class honours degree in insincerity.
Brandon returned to his chocolate laboratory on the other side of the kitchen. But despite his resolution to leave ‘Marilyn’ to get on with the cleaning, it wasn’t long before he started up another conversation.
‘So who is Lady Muck?’ he asked, as he roughly chopped up some candied orange peel.
‘Don’t know her real name,’ replied Connie as she scrubbed down the pine dining table.
‘Where are the offices based? Sorry – am I disturbing you? I’m not used to having anyone here during the day.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Connie, hoping that if she answered the second question he might forget about the first. ‘I’m not used to being with people during the day either. ’
‘I don’t mind it really. Luckily I’m used to my own company.’
‘Are you an only child like me?’ asked Connie, suspecting he was. Children with no siblings were good at surviving without anyone to talk to.
‘God no,’ replied Brandon, which surprised her. ‘I’m the eldest of four. They’ve all got very serious and sensible jobs: solicitor, financier, gym manager . . . and then there’s me – the Yorkshire Willy Wonka, which is how one newspaper referred to me.’
Connie smiled. ‘That’s very sweet.’
‘Hey, good pun.’ Brandon clicked his fingers. ‘Sorry, I’m off again.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Connie. ‘I don’t mind.’ Nor did she. She’d chatted more to Brandon Locke since entering his house today than she had done to her own husband throughout the long, snowy weekend. They used to talk a long time ago – together. Then it turned into Connie talking to Jimmy as he fiddled on his laptop and only half-heard her. Then he didn’t hear her at all, so she stopped trying to get his attention.
‘I always loved that book – Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,’ she said. ‘I used to read it to my daughter and we’d make our own chocolates. Not quite up to the standard of yours, I hasten to add.’ The memory of Jane’s hands covered in chocolate visited her in glorious technicolour.
‘I loved it too,’ said Brandon enthusiastically. ‘That book changed my life. As soon as I read it, I knew that’s what I wanted to be when I grew up.’
‘And you did.’
‘Well, I did eventually,’ Brandon amended. ‘It was a bit of a long and winding road to get to where I am now, but touch wood . . .’ he put his hand on the top of his head ‘. . . I’m going onwards and upwards on a nice manageable gradient.’
Connie was curious and asked, ‘Weren’t you frightened about setting up in business yourself, Mr Locke?’
‘Erm, yes, of course I was, but I wanted to do it very much as well. I love being at the wheel of my own business. And if I’m brutally honest,’ he said, checking in an exaggerated fashion to either side of himself as if he might be overheard, ‘there were a few people I wanted to prove wrong. Our careers advisor at school, for instance. When I told him I wanted to be a chocolatier, he asked me if I was a homosexual.’
‘No,’ said Connie with open-mouthed disbelief.
‘Yup.’ Brandon threw back his head and laughed. ‘If I’d been a girl, it would have been okay to go into catering, but not a big strapping lad like me. I was meant to be an engineer, because I got an A in my physics A-level.’
‘Thank God things have changed,’ laughed Connie. Her eyes flicked to the clock and she saw that her three hours were over five minutes ago. ‘Good for you for sticking to your guns.’
‘Do you know why I did?’ asked Brandon, putting down his knife and folding his arms. ‘When I was in primary school, I was in the playground one day with my friends and we were laughing at this little girl trying to do a handstand against the wall. Kids can be sods, can’t they? I make no apologies for myself. Anyway, all the slim, pretty girls could do it effortlessly, but this one podgy little girl just couldn’t kick her legs high enough. But there she was, every day, still trying to do that handstand and refusing to let her friend help her by pushing her legs up: she was determined to do it by her
self. I stopped laughing at her and I started willing her to do it and show everyone that she could. And then one day . . .’
‘She did it?’ asked Connie.
‘No, she fell over and broke her neck.’
‘Oh no.’
‘Joking,’ said Brandon. ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist; you were hanging on to my every word. Yeah, she did it. There she was, in a whole line of upside-down girls. And I clapped and I think she saw me because she beamed. A big upside-down smile, which showed her front tooth missing. I’ve never forgotten her. She was so brave, and though ergonomically she wasn’t designed to do handstands, shall we say, she did it and that shut everyone up.’
Connie swallowed nervously. She’d been a girl like that. There was one in every class in every primary school, someone chubbier than the rest, not as pretty, a bit more useless at gymnastics.
Brandon caught sight of the time. ‘Sorry, sorry. I’m making you late. Big apologies. Here, let me pay you. Cash okay, until I can sort out a direct debit?’
‘That’s fine.’
He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and extracted the money. ‘And I’ll see you next week, Marilyn. I promise, I’ll be very quiet and not put you off your work.’
Connie laughed. ‘I don’t mind at all. It’s nice to talk to you,’ she said. And she meant it.
Connie looked into his lovely chocolatey brown smiling eyes as she took the money from his hand and wished she had assessed him as needing an extra hour at least.
*
Della’s hand was over her mouth as she read the reworded blurb on the website yet again and wondered how long it would take Jimmy to notice it.
DIRE SHITE CLEANING SERVICES
Want affordable domestic services tailor made to your budget and lifestyle? Need a dependable laundry service on a weekly, fortnightly clean or a famous intensive spring clean ‘Bomb’ ?
Well, look no further than DIRE SHITE! We are based in Barnsley and we provide a load of lazy tarts who will take your money from you, raid your fridge, drink your vodka supplies and thieve your valuables.
We are DIRE SHITE and that’s exactly what we supply to all our valued customers.
Della coughed down the nervous giggle that was tickling her throat, closed the page and deleted her search history for super safety. Connie Diamond had surprised her. Every day since they started this whole thing, she had been expecting Connie to panic and call things off. Now, after reading this, Della believed for the first time that she would actually take this right to the bitter end.
Chapter 36
Mr Morgan wasn’t expecting his substitute cleaner to be a six foot four wall of beauty with long tumbling blonde locks of hair and eyelashes longer than his thumb. Cheryl, apparently, was ill but someone with a foreign accent from Diamond Shine had phoned to tell him that they would be sending another lady – Astrid.
‘Hello, Mr Morgan. I am Astrid,’ she said in a breathy, deep voice. He was so taken aback that he didn’t realise her accent was remarkably similar to that of the woman who phoned him less than an hour ago.
‘Come in, Astrid,’ said Mr Morgan. ‘Can I help you off with your coat?’
‘Thank you,’ said Astrid, turning to let him. She felt Mr Morgan’s hands brush her neck as he reached up to her collar, and was that his outstretched fingers on the side of her boobs? It could very well have been, but she wasn’t one hundred per cent sure so she would allow him the benefit of the doubt on that one. ‘Isn’t it cold today, Mr Morgan?’ She turned around and Mr Morgan was greeted by the sight of Astrid’s erect nipples pushing at her clothes.
‘Very,’ he agreed, wriggling a little, as if adjusting some movement in his trousers.
‘Okay. Where would you like me to start? Shall I do the top first?’ Astrid gave him her best slow, seductive smile followed by a discreet, yet very discernible, lick of her lips.
‘Just to clarify, the agency hasn’t sent you as my new Ruth?’ said Mr Morgan.
‘If you mean that I am your permanent girl, then no,’ replied Astrid. ‘I am just here to take zee place of poor ill Cheryl.’
‘I see.’ Mr Morgan sighed heavily. ‘I was hoping to return to stability.’
‘I vill do whatever you ask,’ smiled Astrid, determined to give him every encouragement to reveal his true colours and protect Cheryl from any further unwanted attention.
‘Well, just a general clean around I suppose,’ said Mr Morgan. ‘Can I make you a drink at all?’
‘Thank you, but no.’ She fanned her face. It was ridiculously warm in Mr Morgan’s house.
‘I’ll go and turn the central heating down, if you’re not my new Ruth,’ said Mr Morgan.
Now what on earth does that mean? thought Astrid, picking up her Fillit Bong. But then again, they all knew that Ruth Fallis was cold-blooded.
Astrid cleaned around, totally unbothered by Mr Morgan. It would seem that Cheryl had got it wrong; but Astrid was a creature of intuition and something was niggling her about the church organist that she couldn’t put her finger on. Maybe it was that Mr Morgan wouldn’t have dared be inappropriate towards the Amazonian Astrid, but – like a typical bully – might pick on a much smaller, softer woman like Cheryl. It worried Astrid that in their last meeting in the Sunflower Café, Cheryl had been quite sure that she had been touched up, but then had done what a lot of women tended to do when they lacked confidence in themselves: they doubted their own judgement, rationalised their correct conclusions until they crumbled into dust and blew them conveniently away. So, just to be on the safe side, Astrid thought she would make it very clear to Mr Morgan that if he did have any intentions of unseemly behaviour towards her friend, then she would nip his proclivities in the bud. Literally.
‘Okay, I am almost finished now, Mr Morgan.’ Astrid bobbed her head into his music room where he was sitting at his organ playing something that belonged on an Abominable Dr Phibes film.
Mr Morgan stopped playing and got up from the stool.
‘And Ruth . . . I mean, Cheryl will definitely be back next week?’ he asked, nodding vigorously as if willing Astrid to confirm that she would be.
‘I think you like Cheryl, Herr Morgan.’
‘I do. I think she’s going to be a very suitable substitute for my dear Ruth.’
The smile he was wearing turned immediately sour when Astrid reached forward, closed her fingers around his genitals and pinched.
‘Jesus Christ, what are you doing?’ he groaned when he found some breath. His lungs felt as crushed as his conkers.
‘Now, I’m just giving you some advice, Mr Morgan. If you are ze sort of man who likes to invade a woman’s personal space, I am telling you not to do that. Do you understand?’ Astrid’s voice couldn’t have been calmer, sweeter or more threatening.
Mr Morgan didn’t immediately answer, so Astrid was forced to exert a pound of extra pressure to prompt a response.
‘Yes yes yes yes yes. I wouldn’t.’ A fat drop of sweat from his forehead landed on Astrid’s hand.
‘Good. I would hate to come back here and have this talk again.’
‘Yes yes yes yes yes. Aaargh. I mean no no no. Or is it yes? Please . . . just let . . . go.’
She snatched her hand away and Mr Morgan doubled up, cradling his privates and feeling four times his sixty-two years.
Astrid put on her coat and picked up her bag ‘Now, I just need my payment and I’ll be out of your life for good. Unless . . .’ She left the threat hanging. Mr Morgan stumbled out of the room and behind him Astrid tried not to giggle at his zombie-like gait as he crossed towards the table in the hallway where his wallet was lying.
‘Thank you,’ he said, hitting a top C of continuing pain.
‘Goodbye, Mr Morgan. I do hope you remember zis conversation,’ said Astrid, taking the money from his outstretched quivering hand. She sashayed out of the house and back to her car, sure in the knowledge that Cheryl would be perfectly safe the next time she came to clean for Mr Morgan. She didn’t anticipat
e that when he got his breath back the first thing he would do was to ring Diamond Shine to ask why they were employing massive German psychopaths and demanding that Astrid be sacked or he would report her to the police.
Chapter 37
Della couldn’t help but feel a quivery thrill as she put the phone down. Mr Morgan had sounded as if he had been practising a soprano solo and his voice had got stuck in the range. She was just about to ring Astrid and find out what had been going on when Jimmy walked in. He was the colour of an old weathered teak sideboard.
‘Just been to the health club salon for a top up on my fake tan,’ he said, anticipating Della’s response to his bronzed appearance. ‘They’re a bit heavier handed with the spray gun than they were in the Hampshire spa.’
Was he still throwing out the lie about him being on a golf course when he was actually in the Costa Blanca? thought Della, with an inward sigh of disgust. She threw him back a lie of her own.
‘It makes you look healthy and glowing.’
‘Does it?’ Jimmy checked his reflection in the glass door of the bookcase to his side. He smiled at himself like a cat that not only had the cream, but had found that it was clotted cream from Harrods.
‘You had the cleaners here yesterday in uprising,’ said Ivanka, obviously hoping to score some brownie points by having her finger on the pulse of the office action.
‘Eh?’ Jimmy’s attention broke away from himself. ‘Uprising? What uprising?’ He glared at Della with an I employ you to handle this shit message obvious in his eyes.
‘Hilda and a few others want a pay rise,’ Della began, trying not to let any of the amusement she felt within turn into a giggle that he could see.
‘Eh?’
‘And better cleaning products than the rubbishy ones from the Des shop,’ threw in Ivanka.
‘Oh. Anything else whilst we’re at it? Galvanised handles on their buckets? Sheepskin sponges? Gold-leaf sprinkles in their bleach?’ Jimmy’s lip was curled so far back over his teeth that he looked like a wolf at full moon.
Afternoon Tea at the Sunflower Café Page 16
