Page 38 of King of Omen

One morning, I received a call from Mr Reed Jones of Jones & Jones, her law firm.

‘I’m calling to book your cleaning services,’ he boomed over the speakerphone. ‘We have a client from overseas who purchased a property we’d like you to clean for, perhaps even provide light housekeeping duties for.’

When he shared the rate they were willing to shell out, I clapped a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to whoop.

I listened as he outlined the job’s specifics - tidying their luxurious home, stocking it with essentials, and ensuring everything was in perfect order for the client’s arrival. The rate he offered was more than generous, a testament to the top-notch standards of their clientele.

I couldn’t believe my luck. The opportunity to service a high-profile client through Jones & Jones was a game-changer.

It was a chance to elevate my business, showcase my skills, and delve into more well-paid gigs.

After finalising the details with Mr Jones’ PA, I spent the next day planning each aspect.

I wanted everything to be perfect, from the spotless floors to the gleaming windows, ensuring the client would be impressed beyond measure because repeat business was pure profit.

I gathered my eco-supplies, checked them off my list and loaded my van in readiness.

That evening, I was chilling in the house with Linda when she invited me to our neighbourhood pub, where she worked some nights.

‘You can’t study and work all day,’ she chided. ‘Let your hair down, love. Let’s head for a drink. It’s happy-hour until 7 p.m.’

I considered it. ‘Sure,’ I agreed, given I had a small win to celebrate.

‘My cousin, Tony, will meet up with us too,’ she added.

We met him at the entrance to the bar.

He kissed Linda on both cheeks, pressed his lips to the back of my hand, and then, with a wink, led us inside.

Tony, a building trade contractor on a holiday visa from Italy, sported wavy, dark hair, dimples and rippled abs. He was lean, dusky and charming, if not a tad cocky.

For the most part, he was a riot, with his steady store of jokes, his lilting Italian accent and his beguiling charm.

He was not my type, but he was pub-fun material.

The bar was packed, the beer was warm, and the food was average, yet I found myself having a blast, raising my voice above the din and loud chatter in conversation with Linda and Tony.

I’d dressed in my usual monochrome head-to-toe style.

This time, I was in a pastel blue jumpsuit and a jacket over my shoulders, with Nike sneakers in the same colour.

As always, I limited my accessories to the basics. Simple makeup and natural hair were my tricks to make room for my minimalist clothes.

For some reason, men appeared to like my flair, and admirers kept coming my way, some complimenting me, others sharing bold wolf whistles and lip-lickin’ smirks.

Tony, too, appreciated being by my side.

He soon made his interest apparent, whispering in my ear how hot he thought I was.

I shrugged and tugged Linda’s arm to the dance floor, where we spun the night away.

It’d been years since I’d allowed myself a night out, so I let loose, hair and hips flying as the music pumped.

Tony kept us lubricated and well-fed. Between sips of beer and bites of greasy diner food, I relaxed in a way I hadn’t in a long time.

Surrounded by my newfound friends and the pulsing energy of the crowd, I surrendered my recent grief and the stress of building a new life, worries that had been gnawing at me for weeks.

As the night wore on and the pub grew rowdier, I caught Tony’s eye across the table. He grinned and raised his glass in a silent toast, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

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