‘That’s it!’ she shouts, pointing. Then she clears her throat and says serenely, ‘Yes, that’s right. And – er – how is the recruitment campaign coming along?’
Recruitment campaign?
Those eyebrows are yelling at me again. Subliminally flashing.
‘Recruitment campaign, yes.’ I’m stalling for time while I try desperately to mind-read. ‘Because … obviously if we’re going to be cleaning for the council, we’re going to be needing more – um – cleaners.’
With relief I see the eyebrows are giving me the thumbs-up. I’m evidently on the right track.
‘So that would mean a recruitment campaign,’ I say confidently, finally getting the hang of it. ‘Which, yes! Is going really well, actually.’
The Boss beams at me and I smile back.
Then I realise Charlie’s intense blue eyes are fixed on me. There is a look of slight bemusement on his face. Oh God, he’s probably seen right through the terrible ham acting.
My smile slips.
‘Now, Ellen,’ says The Boss. ‘I want you to come in here and tell Charlie all about that wonderful idea you had to feed the poor people at Christmas time!’
Ella looks startled. As well she might.
‘You know,’ The Boss prompts gaily. ‘The food parcels?’
Ella finds her voice. ‘Yes, but I thought you—’
The Boss swiftly interjects, ‘No, Ellen, I won’t have it! I will not allow you to be so modest. It was your idea, not mine. I merely recognized the brilliance of it.’
The look Shona gives me provokes a loud, involuntary snort, which I quickly disguise as a frog in my throat.
Thankfully, The Boss is ushering Charlie and a bemused Ella into her office and doesn’t even notice.
Fez picks me up in his van after work and we head over to Mum’s.
She’s already in the garage with Tim, and the boxes I asked her to locate are ready and waiting at the door.
‘Can I have one of these for my room?’ Tim asks, holding up a snow globe with a chunky silver star inside it.
‘Yes, of course.’ I tousle his hair and he leaps away in protest. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’
We load Fez’s van with the watercolours and a carefully-packed box of glass sculptures, snow globes and handmade candles that smell of rose oil and pine forests. The scent carries me instantly back in time and I feel an unsettling mix of nostalgia and dashed hopes.
Over at Carol’s, Fez helps me unload and carries in the heavier boxes.
We work away, hanging landscapes and abstract paintings, grouping candles on the coffee table, adorning empty spaces with glassware and snow globes, and scattering cushions I picked up in a half-price sale to inject splashes of colour and texture.
In the hallway, we hang a series of black and white photographs of forests, mountains and lochs that I took during a trip to Scotland for one of my college assignments.
I’m feeling fairly upbeat.
At first I was dreading the whole process of unpacking my past. It seemed dangerous somehow. A backward step. But now, I’m beginning to think it might actually have done me good.
For three years, I have blocked out that terrible time; refused to even think about it. But in doing so, all I did was ramp up the awfulness of it in my mind to Hammer House of Horror proportions.
I had tried to raise my family’s fortunes and failed catastrophically. But it wasn’t the end of the world. We’d survived, hadn’t we?
‘I hope to God she likes it,’ I murmur to Fez when we’re back in the van.
‘You’ve got talent, kid,’ says Fez loyally, dropping me off at Mum’s. ‘How could she not like it?’
When Mum opens the door, I am instantly aware that Bunty has either visited recently or is still here. Parma Violets has probably been her signature scent since birth. It goes well with the brown tweed skirts and builder’s tea tights but it’s a bit too sickly for my liking.
The woman herself strides into the hallway. ‘I say! That’s a biting wind!’ she booms, feet planted at ten-to-two, hands on hips. ‘It’s enough to freeze your bollocks orf!’
‘Hi, how are you?’ I ask politely.
I’ve heard people described as sounding like a foghorn but I never really knew what they meant until I encountered Bunty. I suppose she might be hard of hearing. Maybe that’s why she always talks in exclamation marks.
‘Oh, not so bad, you know!’ she bellows. ‘Legs playing up a bit but can’t complain, eh? Still got all my marbles!’ She taps her head. ‘That’s the main thing! Trying to persuade your ma to get adventurous on a bike but she’s digging her heels in!’
‘Oh, really?’ I glance at Mum in surprise. ‘You used to love cycling.’
Mum gives me a wan smile and says nothing.
I suddenly realise I’ve subconsciously positioned myself with Mum as a sort of shield. I think it’s to avoid being slapped heartily on the back by Bunty when she departs.
‘Well, must go! Alfred calls! Cheerio all!’
‘Who’s Alfred? Her husband?’ I ask, when the door’s closed.
‘No. Alfred’s her Afghan hound. Muffy died last Christmas.’
‘Was Muffy a dog as well?’
‘No. Muffy was her husband.’
‘Muffy and Bunty.’ I giggle. ‘Sounds like a music hall act from the last century.’
Mum smiles. ‘She’s got a good heart. I think she’s just lonely, bless her.’
‘Still, you shouldn’t let her boss you about,’ I say, following her through and braving the tropical heat of the kitchen.
‘That’s rich coming from you,’ she says, bending to retrieve a baking tray from the oven.
‘It’s completely different!’ I protest. ‘Carol’s my boss. I have to do what she tells me or I’m out of a job.’
She puts a tray of cherry muffins on the hob. ‘‘Bunty wants me to cycle to Berry Hill and climb to the top.’ She looks incredulous and I laugh.
‘Well, tell her you haven’t got a bike.’
Mum groans. ‘She’s already seen it. Went into the garage before I could stop her. She’s bringing her bicycle pump round.’
Chapter Sixteen
When I arrive at work next morning, Shona’s already there, looking tense.
She nods at The Boss’s door.
‘Smoking like a chimney. Been in since seven apparently. Emergency meeting as soon as Ella gets here.
I frown. ‘What about?’
‘This council contract thingy. It’s freaking her out.’
‘Right.’ The Boss launches in as soon as we’re all gathered round. ‘We need a brief presentation followed by a short video showing our wonderful staff doing what they do best and having an absolutely fabulous time doing it, darling!’
There’s a manic gleam in her eye.
‘So I need you, Shona, to cherry pick a handful of cleaning staff with the sort of personalities that will project well on camera. And they must be good-looking. If we haven’t got any stunners, you’ll have to hire some. And don’t use Nora. She’s desperate to be a celebrity for a day but she’s far too spotty. And those nasty glasses she wears make her look like an intellectually disadvantaged Harry Potter.’
Shona looks worried. ‘Isn’t that a bit politically incorrect? And sort of dishonest?’
The Boss snorts. ‘Stuff that for a jar of peanuts!’
‘It’s called ‘spin’, Shona,’ points out Ella helpfully.
‘Quite,’ snaps The Boss. ‘We want the council to leave the meeting with a lasting impression, having enjoyed our video. Will that be achieved by giving them a face full of acne to put them off their tea and ginger snaps? Or parading staff whose wooden acting abilities are on a par with a herd of disabled elephants?’
Ella blanches. ‘Physically-challenged elephants.’
The Boss pulls out a fag and lights up. ‘Now. We need someone to shoot the video,’ she says, dragging on her ciggy and blowing out smoke all over Ella.
> I open my mouth to suggest a company with offices on the High Street, who I’ve heard are good. But she cuts right across me.
‘Shona. You’re a dab hand at wielding the old camcorder, so that will be your job.’
Shona nearly drops her mug. Coffee slops onto her notebook.
‘Well?’ demands The Boss, as Shona fusses around, dabbing at the spillage with her paper hanky. ‘Come on, a little more enthusiasm, please.’
‘Yes. Right. I’ll do it,’ says Shona, looking like she’d rather ski down Mont Blanc in a ball gown than have such a huge responsibility thrust upon her.
‘Excellent!’ The Boss gives her a double thumbs-up. ‘No point spending money on so-called professionals if we have talent in-house!’
Ella is charged with assisting Shona.
My job is to write the voice-over and plan what to include in the video.
On my way out of her office, she calls, ‘Thanks for trying with the flat. Some of it’s a bit bold for my taste but then, we are very different people.’
I grit my teeth.
When we were friends in the old days, I was used to Carol being snippy with other people but she was always fine with me. Now I know how it feels on the other side of the fence.
I remember when we were living in London, she decided to throw a party and it was all fine and dandy until it came to deciding on the music. Nicola brought along a bunch of pop CDs which I personally thought would be great fun. But Carol clattered them one after another onto the table with a scornful look on her face and said if we dared play ‘any of that Abba crap’, she’d walk out.
I think she was just anxious for her night to be a success.
Whenever she’s up against it, she gets all tense and shouty.
Nicola and Emma thought she was joking and started laughing. But Carol yelled that they had absolutely zero taste in music and then refused to speak to them.
I was the only one who could try to reason with her without getting my head bitten off. ‘It’s a party,’ I said. ‘People like dancing to Abba when they’ve had a drink or two. We don’t have to play it all night.’
I liked Abba myself but when Carol slagged me off for that, it was all said in fun because I was her best friend. I suppose I enjoyed a sort of immunity from her prickliness.
Not any more …
The following week, Mum phones on the Friday morning and says Tim’s not well. He’s claiming he feels sick but she thinks it might be because he didn’t want to strip off for the swimming gala at school today.
My heart sinks. Normally Tim copes well with his condition. But it’s bound to get to him sometimes.
I tell Mum I’ll call round later and put the phone down, wishing I had the type of boss I could go to and ask if it would be all right to leave work early this once. I heard the anxiety in Mum’s tone. She wouldn’t have phoned if she wasn’t worried. But it’s no use begging Carol for a favour. I’ve got an appointment to check out Charlie’s house at four this afternoon to give him a quote for cleaning so she’d be sure to refuse my request.
At three-thirty, Steph – one of our longest-serving cleaners – picks me up in one of the work vans and drives me over to Charlie’s. She’s doing a quote for another potential client in the area and says she’ll collect me on her way back.
Charlie’s place, Fallowsedge House, is in a rural location along a succession of narrow country lanes. We drive through the nearest village, which is about two miles away from the property, and I’m supposed to be navigating – but I’m so distracted thinking about Tim, that I manage to miss the turn off not once, but twice.
When we finally draw up outside a pair of smart, wrought-iron gates, Steph gives a long, low whistle. ‘Nice. He must be loaded, this guy.’
‘Owns a chain of hotels,’ I murmur, as we stare at the traditional stone farmhouse before us.
‘What do you think?’ says Steph. ‘Five bedrooms?’
‘Probably. A lot of cleaning.’
‘Hope the dragon isn’t expecting you to do this solo! Tell her you’ll need a team of four at least.’
I laugh as I get out of the van. ‘If I tell her that she’ll do the opposite. You know what she’s like.’
‘Oh, don’t I just!’ Steph groans from bitter experience. ‘Pick you up in half an hour.’
I wave her off. Then I open the gate and start walking up the driveway, which gives me a chance to admire the house. It’s a two-storey stone building with a pale slate roof and no ugly add-on extensions to spoil its perfect proportions. It reminds me of a child’s simplistic drawing of a house. Four large windows on the ground floor, two either side of the main door, and four on the floor above. The wintry sun, currently a ball of fire just dipping below the horizon, casts a faint pink glow over the walls of the house. I crunch over the gravel sweep at the front and ring the bell then stand back slightly, scanning the windows a little apprehensively.
The house is much grander than I expected.
The Boss can’t have been here because when she was describing it to me, she said it was a detached house in the village, which is obviously not the case.
Getting no reply, I walk round the back and through a side gate into a lovely, English country garden with apple and plum trees. A door leading off the patio area is slightly ajar so I knock but no one answers.
After a minute or two, I put my head round the door and call, ‘Hello? It’s Bobbie.’
Still nothing.
I hesitate, not quite sure what to do.
It’s not exactly professional to walk uninvited into a potential client’s house. But he must be here. He wouldn’t have gone out leaving the back door open.
Gingerly, I push it wide and step into an ultra-modern kitchen with glossy cream units, slate floor and a long central island with pans hanging from a rack overhead.
I stand still and listen. The only sound is the humming of the fridge. My eye is caught by a freestanding chrome wine rack in the corner. It must contain at least a hundred bottles. I go over to take a closer look. I have never seen such an impressively-stocked wine rack in my life. The one in my flat is built into the compact fitted kitchen and currently contains one bottle of cheap red plonk and half a dozen cans of supermarket lemonade from the ‘reduced’ section. I’d put money on none of these bottles costing less than a tenner.
Everything in here looks expensive.
Even the taps are works of modern art. No wonder Charlie was defensive when I criticized that woman for spending a small fortune on the damn things.
I catch some music, way off in the distance, so I venture out of the kitchen into a spacious hallway with a traditional staircase rising up to the floor above.
Where now?
The music seems to be coming from somewhere below me. I spot an archway to my left that leads to some stairs so I walk down them and push open the heavy door at the bottom.
At once, the distinctive smell of warm chlorine rises up, making my nose twitch.
Ha! I might have known. Charlie has an indoor swimming pool.
Nervously, I push open the door to the pool area and stand just inside, wondering if I should remove my shoes.
The man himself is crashing through the water. As I watch, he turns at the far end, pushes off under water then performs another length of butterfly stroke before switching to a lazy but powerful front crawl.
I’m not a great swimmer. I can just about do the breaststroke if I concentrate hard on making my arms and legs synchronise. But it doesn’t come naturally to me.
Charlie cuts through the water like it’s his natural habitat. I stand transfixed watching him and when he spots me, I almost feel disappointed.
He swims over and without even pausing for breath, hauls himself out of the pool in one smooth movement.
‘Hi.’ He stands in front of me, tanned and dripping. ‘Sorry, am I late?’
‘It’s me who’s early,’ I say awkwardly, hardly knowing where to look. ‘Hope you don’t mind me barging in.’<
br />
‘Not at all. The coffee’s on. I hadn’t forgotten.’ He smiles and smoothes back his hair, close enough for some of the droplets to scatter from his elbows onto my shoes.
As he reaches for a towel on the edge of the pool, it slips into the water and he hunkers down, leaning over the edge to fish it out. And I get an eyeful of long, brown back and lean, muscled legs. He’s not ‘ripped’, like one of those guys who pumps iron in the gym every day. Charlie’s muscles are altogether more subtly defined.
He turns his head as he wrings out the towel and I jerk my gaze away, directing my fascinated attention at the particular shade of blue on the walls. ‘This is lovely. The whole house is – erm—’ My cheeks flaming, I scrabble for more descriptive words but my brain seems to be full of cushion wadding and draws a blank.
‘Lovely?’ He grins, standing up. ‘Well, thank you.’
‘Not that I’ve seen the whole thing, of course,’ I add quickly, in case he thinks I’ve been casing the joint. His proximity is a bit overwhelming. ‘I’ll just – um – go back upstairs?’ I point vaguely behind me towards the door. ‘While you – erm—’
‘Sure. Just give me a minute.’ He sprints to a shelf containing more blue towels, takes one out and wraps it round his waist. ‘I’ll see you up there. Help yourself to coffee.’
I retreat gratefully to the kitchen and hitch myself up onto a stool at the breakfast bar. Twenty minutes and Steph will be here, then I can get home to see Tim. This day seems to be lasting an eternity.
When Charlie hasn’t appeared after a minute, curiosity gets the better of me and I pop my head round a few more doors. All in the interests of working out a quote, of course.
There’s a spacious living room that’s too masculine for my liking, all black leather and chrome. But I like his study. It’s lined with books and there’s a lovely walnut desk that looks like a real antique, definitely not a reproduction. And a battered old wing-backed chair the colour of claret, with a reading lamp behind it, that suggests this library is well-used.
The downstairs loo, when I peer in, is modern and functional and very—
Humbugs and Heartstrings Page 11
