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“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 ThreeMelissaDean 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 like 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…”
