Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1)

by Brenda St John Brown

  Me: Birthday schmirthday. I’m going to be a bucket lady!

  Him: Good for you. Your new calling?

  Me: Doubtful, but you never know?

  Him: I can’t wait to hear all about it. BTW, I’ve signed the contract. I’m meeting Luanna Parker in Manchester today to finalize details.

  I raise my eyebrows and my fingers move faster. Wow. That’s good, right?

  Him: I think so. I’ll let you know.

  Me: All things crossed for you!

  Him: Any suggestions from a professional?

  My eyebrows knit together. You mean, besides shower first and don’t be late?

  Him: Yes. I’ve got those two covered, thanks. Anything else?

  Me: Oooh. Are you asking me for my professional advice?

  Him: Yes, please. I’m sure you have pearls of wisdom I haven’t thought of.

  Me: Pearls of wisdom? Really? Okay. But remember you asked for this. Re Luanna Parker…find out what her expectation is for you to participate in promotion. It can be a real drain. Tell her you have a publicist on retainer who her people can work with directly rather than putting the onus on you. Also, make sure you’re upfront about Sarah – whether she’ll be joining you on tour or you’ll be flying back to see her.

  Him: Are you my publicist on retainer?

  Me: Do you want me to be?

  Him: I want a hell of a lot more than that.

  Oh. Well.

  This is the first overtly flirtatious thing Alastair has said since I told him I needed time to myself and I don’t know how to reply. My body, on the other hand, is one hundred percent onboard. It suddenly feels like a heater has been turned on full blast in my stomach.

  My fingers hesitate for another ten seconds before I type: Patience, young padawan. It’s only day three.

  Him: And drive to Manchester I must now do. Text you later I will.

  Me: You’re such a dork.

  Him: Love it you do. Xx

  I don’t respond, but I’m grinning at the phone like an idiot because Alastair’s not wrong. I do love the banter. But what I love more is how it makes me feel. Because for the first time in forever, when my phone buzzes with a text, my heart leaps in anticipation and nine times out of ten, I’m smiling before I even know what it says. Work has never gotten that response.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  My birthday day begins at six a.m. with my phone blaring on my bedside table. I’ve never used Do-Not-Disturb mode, but vow to schedule it as I bring the phone to my ear with a sleepy, “Hello?”

  “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. I love you, dear daughter. Happy birthday to you.” My mom sings to me through the phone and I push myself up on my pillow.

  “Mom. It’s six in the morning. Why?”

  “Since when are you not up at six in the morning?” Mom’s voice rises in surprise.

  She has a point, but I’m not awake enough to tell my mom everything that’s happened, so I say, “I thought I’d sleep in today as a birthday treat, but maybe not. What are you still doing up? It’s like one a.m. there?”

  “I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday, and I started watching a series on Netflix about cab drivers in New York City. Your father went to bed around episode two, but I got a little hooked.” Mom sighs and I smile and shake my head. She’s never been the type of person to fall asleep in front of the television and was binge-watching long before it was a thing.

  “Well, thank you for thinking of me, even though it’s early.”

  “What are you doing for your big day?” Mom’s voice is bright.

  “Um, I’m going to go into Central London, probably shop a little, and then I have a meeting this afternoon.” None of this is technically a lie. I may be sleepy, but I’m awake enough to know that telling my mom I’m going to be a bucket lady for the afternoon will lead to a whole intentional-caps Conversation.

  “Oh, sweetie, you should take the day off. It’s your birthday and thirty-five only comes around once, you know.” Mom has also said the same thing about thirty-four, thirty-three, thirty-two…

  “I’m going to take tomorrow off.” And possibly go to a Meetup, depending on how today goes, because pinning all of my hopes on one two-hour volunteering slot feels a little desperate.

  “Oh, I’m so glad.” I hear Mom beaming through the phone. “And you’ve got the time off for Bea’s wedding, right?”

  “Of course.” I hesitate because I haven’t mentioned Alastair coming as my date to Bea, although I did reply with a plus-one ages ago, figuring that worst-case scenario I could always drag Rex along. Plus, there’s a shit-ton of history with Alastair because my parents loved him. Until they hated him for hurting me. I could broach the subject now or I could leave it. “I’ve booked train tickets for coming back down to London with you and Dad afterwards.”

  Turns out not opening the Alastair can of worms with my mother is my birthday present to myself.

  “Ooooh, that’s exciting.” Mom’s voice lilts on the end. “And your date doesn’t mind?”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.” My mom is clearly fishing and I think again about bringing up the subject of Alastair when my phone clicks with another call. I hold it away from my ear and it’s the man himself. To my mom I say, “I’ve got to run, but I’ll call you later so I can speak to Dad, okay? Go to bed!”

  I hang up on my mom’s laughter and to Alastair say, “You’re calling me.”

  “It’s your birthday. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind.” His voice is low and rough like he just woke up.

  “There’s no rule that you can’t call me.”

  “I know, but you need this time for yourself and I respect that. I did a pretty shit job of respecting your needs in the past and I’m kind of hoping for a different outcome this time.”

  I silently thank my mother for calling me first because it’s early in the morning for these sorts of declarations. “Kind of?”

  “No pressure. So, hey, are you ready for your shift as a bucket lady?”

  “Can’t wait. Are you ready for Luanna Parker’s tour bus?” Alastair leaves today for France, in preparation for his first show on Friday because, of course, everything with Luanna went well the other day. So well he texted me mid-meeting – Luanna had popped to the loo – and said she was ready for him to come onboard ASAP.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Alastair clears his throat. “Look, I don’t know what it will be like once we’re on the road. I’m sure I’ll have mobile service everywhere, but my contact might not be as frequent. I just want you to know in advance so you don’t start thinking anything is amiss.”

  Oh, I don’t know. You might find a groupie who you’ve got a hell of a lot less history with than me.

  Aloud, I say, “It’s all good. I’ve worked with musicians before and being on tour is a little crazy.”

  “I’m excited, but I’m dreading leaving Sarah. Since Liam died, we’ve never been apart for longer than a few days.” Alastair sighs. “My mum is great, but her patience can wear a little thin.”

  I can totally see this, but I say, “Your mom has changed a lot, so don’t be doomsaying before you’re even gone.”

  “I’ll be back to see her in nine days and then again nine days after that.”

  I want to remind him about Bea’s wedding in mid-August, but instead I say, “Brinley can’t screw anything up in nine days. Make sure to bring her something from the cities you visit to show her some appreciation.”

  “Good idea. Do you think she’d appreciate some French bread?” Alastair asks.

  “You’d be better off with some French perfume.” My alarm rings on my phone and I shut it off before saying, “That’s my cue to get up. I’m going to a spin class this morning.”

  “Really?” To his credit Alastair doesn’t say anything else about that. Intense cardio has never been my thing, but this month is all about trying new things. “Well, I’ll let you go. Happy birthday and I’ll text you from the tour bus.”

/>   We both say ‘goodbye’ about four times before we finally hang up, and when we do I give in for a minute and revel in the dull ache in my chest. Missing Alastair is only going to get worse, especially with him being on tour. But short of inviting myself along as his publicist – which is a big fat ‘no way, never’ – I’d be missing him regardless. This thought is what makes me bound out of bed and kick it into high gear. The cure for missing is doing and, thank God, I have things to do today.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  As I hobble up to the Sainsbury’s at Marble Arch, a light rain starts, making me think for the thirty-seventh time that my plans for today should have included a little less doing. Spin class kicked my ass – and my calves – so hours of standing sounds downright awful right now.

  “Excuse me, are you here for the two o’clock volunteer shift?” a middle-aged woman calls over to me.

  I straighten and shuffle in her direction, which is thankfully under cover in the entranceway. “Um, yes. Sorry I’m late. I pulled a muscle in my calf and I’m a bit slow today.”

  “You can get your T-shirt from Paula.” She points to a red-haired woman and then to a guy with blond dreadlocks. “Rufus will sort your bucket. I know you’re probably not the kind of person to pinch money from a charity collection, but I have to say it anyway. The money we’re raising here is for MacMillan Cancer Support. If you have issues with either our charity or our collection, it would be best if you did not volunteer today.”

  This is obviously a speech this woman has given many times before, but I furrow my brow. “I don’t have any issues or I wouldn’t have volunteered.”

  “You’d be surprised, love.” The woman looks over my shoulder at someone else approaching.

  I take the opportunity to move over towards Paula. She hardly looks up when I say, “Hi. I’m here to volunteer today and I need a T-shirt?”

  “Size?” Her voice is flat.

  “Um, medium, I guess?” I’m wearing a T-shirt already because it’s finally warm in London, but I’m sure there’s nowhere to change.

  Paula glances up. Her eyes are a cornflower blue, made all the more noticeable by the purple eyeshadow she’s liberally applied. She looks me up and down and says, “Medium should do.” She gestures to the dreadlocked guy. “Hand me a bucket, yeah?”

  She gives me the bucket and the T-shirt at the same time and my purse flies off my shoulder, whacking her in the forearm. First, spin class started with my foot slipping off the pedal of the bike, now I’m throwing my stuff at the volunteer coordinator. I was never this inept in my past life and my face flushes as I say, “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m such a clutz today.”

  Paula’s eyes focus on me and for a few seconds it feels like she’s looking into my damn soul. Until she smiles and says, “No worries. Leave your bag behind the table. It will be fine there and once you’re sorted, we’ll get started.”

  I’m on the verge of gushing my thanks, but manage to curb it and go stash my stuff as directed. Once I’ve got the bright green T-shirt on, I sidle up next to Paula and say, “So is there a method that you recommend for this?”

  “Eye contact and smile.” Paula flashes me another grin. “Preferably at the same time if you can manage it.”

  I nod once and focus on an older couple approaching. When they’re about three steps away I paste on a smile and call out, “Would you be able to support MacMillan Cancer Support today?”

  The man starts shaking his head but the woman squeezes his arm and says, “Perhaps. Alastair, do you have any coins?”

  The name jars me, because my instinct is to look around for my Alastair. I’ll think about the possessive pronoun later. For now, I say, “I have friend named Alastair. It’s a lovely name.”

  “My mother certainly thought so.” The man pulls a few coins from his pocket and drops them through the slot in the top of my bucket. “Good luck, young lady.”

  They keep going into the store and I shake my bucket as I grin at Paula. She shoots me a thumbs up before turning back to another volunteer who’s shown up late and that’s the last interaction we have until she taps me on the shoulder and says, “Your shift is up in ten minutes.”

  “It is?” I flip my wrist to look at my watch and I’m shocked to see that it is, indeed, ten minutes to five. How did that happen? This bucket lady biz is fast work – made all the more so by all of the random people I’ve spoken to today.

  There was the guy who dropped in a twenty-pound note after telling me his sister had cancer. I totally had to do the wide-eyed-I’m-not-crying thing to get through that. Then there was the woman with her two toddlers who offered me a tenner if I’d watch them so she could go inside and grab some milk in peace. I had to say no, but she gave me the tenner anyway as thanks for the first adult conversation she’d had today. Then there was the bike messenger, the police officers, the yummy mummies on the school run, and the drunk guy who asked me if I could spare him some change for a pint. I’ve spoken to more people in one day than I’ve spoken to in a year, outside of work events.

  To Paula I say, “Do you need anyone the rest of the day? I don’t mind staying.”

  She shakes her head and again I feel those blue eyes studying me. “This is the last shift for today, but if you can help with the closing up, that would be fab since Rufus did a runner about an hour ago.”

  “Sure. Of course. Tell me what you want me to do.” I sound overeager but I don’t care.

  “Grab the buckets from the other volunteers and make sure everyone leaves happy. The happier people are when they leave the more likely they are to volunteer again. Also,” Paula lowers her voice. “Try to make sure no one’s pocketing the money.”

  I don’t ask how I’m supposed to do that, just nod and hand Paula my bucket, training my eyes on the two twenty-something guys standing furthest away. They’ve been talking to each other way more than they’ve been talking to anyone approaching the store, but their buckets have a little weight to them and they both smile and thank me for the opportunity to volunteer. I don’t bother to correct them, just thank them for their time and support of the charity.

  I do the same with the other five volunteers, all whom assume I’m someone in authority. I chalk it up to my age – I’m probably the oldest volunteer here – but when I go back to Paula with my handful of buckets, the first thing she says is, “So, what do you do in real life? Are you a teacher or something?”

  “Me? No. Why?”

  “Because you made that ten times easier than it normally is. I always get people who want to count how much they’ve earned before they turn in their bucket, which is a euphemism for ‘skim a little off the top.’” Paula laughs a little, and I think it’s meant to be self-deprecating. “It’s hard to tell volunteers what to do, but at the same time they need to be told what to do. There’s a fine line between coming across as too authoritative and too soft.”

  I see that, but I disagree. “I think people inherently want to be led, especially in a situation like this. So you don’t give them a choice to do the right thing.”

  “You’re not looking for a job, are you?” Paula laughs again, but this time it’s fuller because I laugh with her.

  “Um, maybe?” I feel my expression falter between a smile and a grimace as I say, “Do you want to grab a coffee or something? If not, it’s fine, but I’m curious about this job offer. And, you know, I want to hear more about the people who try to steal from a charity.”

  Paula rolls her eyes and says, “If we’re going to talk about that, we need to make sure alcohol is involved, at least for me. If you don’t mind having your coffee at the Running Horse, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Paula says the Running Horse like I should know it. I don’t, but that doesn’t stop me from agreeing. She could have suggested the middle of London Bridge during rush hour and I probably would have agreed. Because I’m going for drinks, completely unrelated to work. On my birthday. Part of me knows it’s ridiculous to think of a casual coffee dat
e as an accomplishment, but the other part of me is pretty thrilled. I let the thrilled part win. Just because I can.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Alastair texts me at 11:42, as I’m fumbling with the buttons on my microwave trying to heat up a ready meal for dinner. Yes, I just got home. Yes, I’m microwaving a roast chicken and gravy ready meal, and planning to eat the mashed potatoes. And yes, I’m fumbling because one coffee turned into a bottle of red wine and two gin and tonics. Oops.

  It turns out that Paula moved to London from Newcastle two months ago to take a job as the volunteer outreach coordinator for MacMillan and she knows as few people in London as I do. I probably shouldn’t see that as a gift horse, but I do. She was also serious about the job offer. Even after I explained the uncertainty with my current job, she reiterated her offer. With the caveat that it probably would never include dinner with Beyoncé. She looked a little crestfallen about that, to be honest.

  But Beyoncé aside, the night was fun. Paula’s got a biting sense of humor, a generous laugh, and an easy nature that made tonight the most fun I’ve had in a long time. She regaled me with stories of working with nonprofits – she worked for a small charity in Newcastle before - but it’s clear she loves her job and she’s good at it. She claims she loves it because there’s no take-home work, which gives her plenty of time to pursue her dream of writing a novel. Although when I asked her about said novel, she got all shy and changed the subject.

  We talked about me a little, too, and after finishing the bottle of wine I admitted my reason for volunteering in the first place and my hopeless lack of friends. I didn’t mention Alastair because he didn’t come up, but now, staring at his text on my phone, I wonder if that means the night didn’t go as well as I thought. Don’t most women talk about the men in their lives? I’ve certainly overheard Vera talking about plenty of her dates. But Paula and I did exchange mobile numbers and talked about going to Portobello Road sometime because neither of us have ever been and that’s “a true travesty.”