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I clear my throat. “It was a day like any other day… rushing my way through the back alleys to school, knowing I’m late for registration again…”
“Yeah, yeah,” she prompts. “I got this bit. Late, sneaky cigarette, dregs of tobacco in your crappy tin, yada yada. I want the bit about him.”
“You have no patience.” I laugh. “He smells musky, deep… rich, like the orient… his eyes are dark… like…”
“Midnight…”
“Midnight in winter…”
She’s already laughing. “Boy, we got it bad.”
“Yes. Yes, we do.”
“Imagine it,” she says, and her eyes glint with that goofy sparkle that takes over every time she floats away into fantasy. “Being with a man like him. A man who has everything. Imagine waking up in the morning and being Mrs Alexander Henley. He has it all, right? The real deal, the full package. Mr perfect, living the dream…”
“Living the dream,” I repeat.
She picks up her sponge. “I guess we’ll just have to make do with sniffing his seat.”
I wipe the damp from my forehead. “Yeah, well, you’d better get scrubbing. We’re quite some way from the eighteenth floor.”
“Amen to that,” she says, and gets to work.
WE’RE ABOUT to check out for the day when we’re accosted in the cleaning corridor on floor five.
“A word, girls, please,” our line manager says, and beckons us inside her office. Sonnie looks at me, and I look back, and I’m not sure whether I should be worried or excited.
Worried definitely wins out.
We step on through and I close the door behind us, hoping that’s the right etiquette.
Janet. Our line manager’s name is Janet, but should I call her Miss Yorkley? Janet or Yorkley?
“Sit,” she says, and I hope I don’t have to choose.
We sit. My hands are in my lap. My heel tapping.
I really want this job. Need this job. For Joseph, and for me. For my shot at smelling Alexander Henley’s seat. For my shot at smelling Alexander Henley himself. Please God.
“What’s your secret?” Janet Yorkley asks.
Sonnie looks at me, and I guess I have to answer for us both. “Sorry?”
“Your secret.” She raises an eyebrow. “You must have one. Canteen’s never looked so good, so they tell me, and our staff survey showed the floor-seven toilets as ten out of ten for cleanliness. We never have ten out of ten, for anything. These people just cannot be pleased.” She leans forward. “But you’ve managed it, two newbies in the crappiest floor of this building, and you’re the ones who got us a perfect score. So, what’s your secret?”
“We, um… we work hard…” I begin.
“No shit,” she says, and there’s a smile on her face I haven’t seen before.
I dare to smile back, but I don’t think she sees, because Sonnie is leaning forward in her seat, and rolling back the cuffs on her crappy blouse.
“This,” she says. “This here, this is what gets those toilets clean.”
Sonnie’s hands are rough. Her skin blotchy and tired.
Janet stares at her, and I wonder if she’s made the wrong move. “You should use the standard issue gloves,” she says. “Health and safety. It’s in your induction booklet.”
“Health and safety don’t get them cubicles shining, Janet. Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
I nod. Because I think I should. “We do what it takes. Everything must be perfect, just like you said in our induction.”
“I know what I said.” She sighs. “But this is a cleaning job. I can’t say there’s many of your ilk in this building that give much, if any, consideration to perfect. They just do what needs doing and watch the clock until they can leave.”
The thought is in my head. Just like that. I guess they just don’t want to smell Mr Henley bad enough.
Sonnie nudges my foot with hers and I know she’s thinking it too.
“Thanks,” I say to Janet. “For the recognition. It means a lot.”
She laughs, just a little. “I didn’t get you in here for the recognition, Miss Martin. I got you in here to give you a promotion.”
Promotion.
I can’t stop the grin. “You mean we’re off floor seven?”
“You’re too good for floor seven,” she says. “None of the senior executives use the canteen anyway. It’s for the juniors and the admin staff.”
Sonnie’s eyes are nearly as wide as her smile. “So, where are we…”
Floor eighteen, floor eighteen, floor eighteen. I daren’t hope.
“Floor sixteen,” Janet says. “Senior conference suites. Where the top executives really will see your magnificent handiwork, so make sure you get it right.”
I nod. Sonnie nods. I try my best not to feel disappointed.
“Thank you,” I say. “We won’t let you down.”
“You’d best not.” She stands and gestures that we’re free to leave. “Because Mr Henley conducts his meetings there, and if there’s one thing you need to know about Mr Henley, it’s that he demands perfection. And you’d better deliver.”
There’s a bloom in my chest. A hope. The faintest, most beautiful little flicker of hope.
If it’s perfection Alexander Henley demands, then I’ll deliver.
I’ll deliver anything he wants.
CHAPTER THREE
MELISSA
DEAN JOKES that we need champagne, not the chipped mugs of coffee we clink in my tiny cramped kitchen. He tells me he’s happy for me, that it’s a job well done, says that maybe they’ll give me a pay rise big enough to make up for the extra bazillion stairs I’ll be climbing up every day to get to floor sixteen.
He looks good today, his cropped hair a dark shadow, his brows heavy over bright blue eyes. A tight white tee under a loose checked shirt. Torn jeans and bare feet. Bare feet always look good on a man.
It’s when Dean says he’s happy for me for the tenth time that I know something’s up.
It’s in his smile.
Tense.
More like a grimace as he raises his mug. Again.
I put mine down on the draining board. “What is it?”
He shrugs and the smile doesn’t even flinch. “What’s what?”
I poke my head through to the living room to check Joe’s still playing with his picture book, and then I fold my arms. “Don’t give me that. You look lik
e you’re trying to hold in the shits or something.”
The smile eases up. “It’s nothing, I’m just…”
“Just what?”
He passes his mug from hand to hand, back and forth. “I just thought the novelty would have worn off by now. Plenty of places closer, Lissa. Plenty of places more flexible. Better pay, too.” His eyebrows pit as he stares at my filthy apron. “Without a crappy uniform.”
“There aren’t…” I begin, but he shakes his head.
“Don’t give me that. How long do you spend on the Tube every morning? Half hour? Three quarters?”
“I don’t notice… it’s not so bad…”
His eyes are so big and so genuine. “What you gonna do, Lissa? Floor sixteen this week, then what? What happens when you do make it to his office?”
When. Not if. I resist the urge to smile.
“Then I sniff his seat.” I try to make light of it, but he doesn’t laugh.
“Don’t pretend this thing is a joke to you.”
A horrible tickle in my belly. More like a scratch. Desperation.
“It is a joke.” I laugh. “Me and Sonnie, we both say…”
“Like she’s serious. Like she’s you.”
I hate the way he says it.
I choke back the fake giggle and ease the door closed until I can only just see Joe through the gap. “I know this is hard on you, I know it asks a lot, you being here, all the time. You shouldn’t have to, I know that… and if it’s too much…”
“If it’s too much then what?” His eyes are right on mine. I don’t have an answer and he knows it. He sighs, and I feel like shit. “This isn’t about Joe. I love having Joe. I love helping out. I can start up college again next year, like we said.”
I clutch at straws. “I could pay you, maybe… if they do give me that extra money… or a babysitter… so you can go back…”
He looks stung. “Like it’s about money.”
“But it could be…”
“Stop.” He holds up a hand. “Just stop doing this.”
“Doing what?” I flick the kettle back on.
“Deflecting.” He has to tip the jar to scoop the last of the coffee granules into our mugs. Dregs. Story of my life – credit card debt from funeral expenses don’t leave much of a budget for anything else. “This thing with Alexander Henley,” he continues. “It’s not… healthy…”
