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How could someone do something so cruel?
I fight the tear threatening to fall. These weren’t just clothes, no, they were outfits I spent hours hand-crafting, and they were made with love. If stealing from me wasn’t enough, whoever did this took great pleasure in trampling all over my heart. I can’t deal with this right now, so place the baby garments back into the ottoman and close the lid.
Tears fall from the corners of my eyes as I look around. Everything in this room will need bagging up and either throwing away or sterilising. I need a new bed, a new mattress, carpet, and as for my clothes, I will have to take them to the dry cleaner’s in the morning. But I have the interview at the bank first thing. What the hell am I going to wear?
The walls begin to spin before very slowly closing in around me. My lungs are getting tighter by the second, and it’s becoming harder and harder to breathe.
I should put my phone on charge. I should call the police, call Royston or Eve, I should call anyone. But all I do, all I’m able to do is scramble to my en suite to retrieve my cleaning products.
When life gets hard cleaning makes everything better and stops anything else bad from happening. The first thing I do is remove the bedsheets. I spray the mattress with antibacterial cleaner. I toss the old bed linen to the corner of the room—incidentally the place my bin is located. Then I bag up all of my personal belongings. Feeling like a small weight has been lifted, I drop to my knees and pick up and discard every cigarette butt. With the dustpan and brush I sweep up every remnant of ash. But my room isn’t clean. It’ll never be clean now.
I scrub my room from floor to ceiling. I scrub until my hands are sore and blood oozes from tiny cracks. I clean until I can clean no more, and with the bottle of antibacterial spray hugged tightly to my chest I cry myself to sleep.
Chelsea
Iwake up early the following morning and begin the arduous task of cleaning up, though time soon runs away from me and I’m hyper-aware that I have to get ready. With nothing to wear for my appointment at the bank, I drop in at my sister’s and she kindly lends me one of her suits, a suit she hasn’t worn in some time. I figuratively brush off the cobwebs and shake off the dust before slipping it on. I have just enough time to kiss my sleepy niece on the forehead as she’s getting ready for school before I leave.
I make it to the bank right on time and a member of staff points me in the right direction. But she needn’t have bothered, because I know where I’m going. My heels click on the wooden floor as I make my way to Bob’s desk. I smile and wave when he comes into view behind the frosted glass partition. He nods in acknowledgment but doesn’t smile back, which I try not to read too much into. If anyone is going to approve my business loan today, it’ll be Bob Winters.
I’ve known Bob as far back as I can remember. He is the guy who dressed up as Santa and visited our school at Christmas. Like good old St Nick, Bob has long white hair and a white beard he grows in time for the festive season. Bob approved my parents’ mortgage twenty-four years ago and approved my and Amber’s joint business loan when we bought the shop. Bob is a yes-man and a real pillar of our community.
He stands when I near and offers me his hand, which, frowning, I accept. I don’t remember him being this formal in the past. But things change all the time, and maybe it’s protocol now.
“Miss Janssen,” he says, and, when he releases my hand, we sit.
“Please, call me Chelsea.” I flick the clasp on my handbag and reach in for my lucky pen. “So where do I sign?” I pull out the fountain pen and unscrew the lid. “If possible, can we hurry this along? I have so much I need to do today.”
By ‘so much to do’, I mean I have so much cleaning I need to be getting on with before I have to leave for work. I’ll pop in the corner shop on the way home and pick up more cleaning products. Then I have to…
“I’m sorry, Chelsea, I can’t give you the loan today.”
“What?” My voice trembles as I lower the pen onto the desk.
Bob shrugs. “If it was up to me, I’d give you the money in a heartbeat. But I’ve entered all your information onto the system, and unfortunately your application has been rejected. If I could do anything—”
“Do it,” I say. My tone is verging on desperate, but Bob’s sombre expression tells me that this is out of his hands.
“Thank you for your time.” I close my handbag and get to my feet. I’m about to leave when he calls after me.
“Chelsea, your pen.”
I don’t turn. “Keep it. Seems it’s all out of luck.”
After a slow walk home, I have a hot shower. Once I am dressed in my works uniform, I make my way to Tyler’s bedroom. I’m not in the least bit surprised that he is in the same position he was in when I left him, his legs wrapped around the quilt and his ass on display.
“I love you, Tyler, with all my heart. But I will never forgive you for what you did last night. Do you hear me?Ever.” Disappointment courses through me as I look at my severely hungover roomie whilst at the same time thinking back to the events that led up to this moment. His auburn hair partially covers his eyes, which I see are closed.
“Wake up!” I say, agitation clear in my voice. I’m not angry at Tyler, not any more. I’m just disappointed.
“Five more minutes,” Tyler groans and, holding his pillow over his head, turns away from me. Beer cans litter the bedside table, and partially eaten pizza slices stain his white bedlinen.
“Time to wake up,” I say, nudging his butt with the pointy toe of my shoe. “You have a plane to catch. And if I’m being honest, I can’t bear to look at you right now.”
Tyler slowly turns to face me. The pillow he was holding falls to the floor. “What time is it?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. Cans of beer topple over as he blindly searches the bedside table. More specifically, he’s feeling for where his phone usually lies on charge. I wonder if that was stolen last night too, though I can’t say I’d have any sympathy if it was.
I fold my arms in front of my chest. “It’s eleven am.”
“The bank appointment?”
