Page 1 of A Clean Sweep
Chapter 1
Young people in England are the most illiterate in the developed world and are floundering in maths, according to a global ranking.
'It’s not only the young ones,' mused Emily as she put her laptop to sleep and headed upstairs for a shower. Every day she cringed as she scrolled through her Facebook page or flicked through the comments section of theDaily Mail. If she had a pound for every "definately", "should of" or incorrect use of its/it’s she could feast on sirloin steak instead of rummaging through the Value section of her local Tesco. She was equally appalled at people’s inability to do the most basic arithmetic in their heads. Surely it wasn’t rocket science to calculate that if an item cost 84p and she proffered £1 then 16p change was due?
Jim had always scoffed at her devotion to the trashy world of tabloid journalism. He was aTelegraphorTimesman. 'Real news, Emily. Honestly, your brain will rot reading all that nonsense.' Then he’d settle down for his nightly dose of Channel 4 News, while she wondered if she could catchup with Kirsty and Phil once he’d retired for the night. She loved Kirsty. All womanly curves and clipped vowels. Which brought her back to theDaily Mail. It might not be highbrow – more articles on which brow shape was currently in vogue – but it did raise some interesting questions. Like how a woman could build a multi-million dollar empire purely by virtue of having an unfeasibly enormous bottom. Emily’s rear was far from superstardom status but it did seem to grow in direct proportion to the shrinking of her grey matter. Einstein could probably have created a mathematical equation to address the conundrum.
Twenty minutes later she was sitting at her dressing table, dragging a comb through her hair. The reflection that stared back at her wasn’t too bad, at least for a fifty-two-year-old. High cheekbones, thick hair and good skin, kept in check with liberal applications of whatever cream or serum promised to work miracles. Her bathroom cabinet resembled a suburban branch of Boots. Yes, she had a few fine lines but failing eyesight had its compensations. She had reading glasses stashed everywhere – bedroom, kitchen, bathroom – but she happily applied her make-up without visual enhancement. Her daughter had bought her a magnifying mirror for Christmas which still languished in its box. Some things didn’t need to be brought into sharp focus. A gentle blurring of the edges was just fine.
'Mum! Are you there?’
Emily started at Tabitha’s voice from downstairs, the front door slamming behind her. A minute later she bounded into the bedroom, all blonde curls and breathlessness. Sometimes her daughter made her think of the Duracell bunny on amphetamines, ricocheting from one crisis to another, bumping and crashing her way through life at full pelt.
'Washing machine’s on the blink again, brought some laundry round, hope you don’t mind.' Tabitha threw herselfdown on the bed. Today she was wearing tight red jeans and a floppy black sweatshirt emblazoned with ‘Don’t walk, dance’. She kicked off her ballet pumps and regarded her mother with blue eyes the shade of stone-washed denim.Emily was quite partial to skinny jeans herself, despite reading several articles declaring that certain outfits were off-limits when one reached a certain age. Bollocks to that! She still wore cut-off shorts in the summer when the sun decided to put in an appearance and had yet to witness anyone fainting in horror or disgust.
'That’s fine, darling. We’ll pop it on in a little while. Fancy a cuppa?' Emily got to her feet, smiling as Tabitha leapt off the bed and headed back downstairs. She’d already done a few stretches and yoga positions, part of her daily routine. Luckily her faculties were still intact. She knew of at least two friends of friends who had been diagnosed with dementia in their forties. Her morning Sudoku and crossword puzzle were her way of kick starting her brain, although there were days when her thoughts bounced around like globules in a lava lamp, connecting then dispersing in no apparent pattern.
In the kitchen Emily flicked on the kettle. She liked her kettle – bright orange to match the toaster and bread bin – bursts of colour in an otherwise bland environment. Wall-to-wall cream cupboards and grey floor tiles. They’d been Jim’s choice, a man whose idea of daring was to swap his usual butter-slathered toast for a muesli mix in a concession to healthy living. She couldn’t abide the stuff – like sawdust mixed with unidentified animal droppings – preferring a boiled egg or some fresh fruit. Not that his muesli had done much good. Found slumped over his desk four years ago when he should have been presenting at a strategic planning meeting.
Emily nursed her cup of instant coffee and watched asTabitha began dragging out miscellaneous clothing from a black bin liner and stuffing them haphazardly into the washing machine. The cycle started, she pulled up a chair and launched into a rapid-fire summary of her escapades that week. She often thought of Tabitha – thirty next birthday – as a human whirlwind, constantly teetering on a precipice of euphoria or despair. Today was a good one, her smile like sunlight breaking through the clouds, words tumbling from her mouth and tripping over each other in the way of toddlers with only a basic grasp of walking.
'How’s Tom?' she asked. Tabitha’s boyfriend of more than a year seemed a decent enough sort. Easy on the eye, unfailingly polite and hugely appreciative of her Sunday roasts. Particularly since her daughter’s recent evangelical conversion to all things organic and wholesome. And gas-producing. A good fifteen to twenty-minute gap was necessary before entering the bathroom after Tabitha. She could rival napalm in the toxicity stakes.Apocalypse Now, or certainly a short while after a nut roast had been consumed. Emily sometimes found herself humming "The Ride of the Valkyries" as Emily emerged from the loo. She hoped it was a passing phase. Her daughter had been through more phases than the moon. With a few total eclipses along the way.
'He's good. Busy at work.' Tom worked for a small but niche travel agency on the High Street in Little Hambledon, a picture-postcard village a few miles away from Emily. She and Jim had bought their seventies-built detached property just over twenty years ago. It wasn't exactly a candidate for aCountry Livingdouble-page spread – too boxy and functional – but its location in Tattler Green was considered highly desirable. Easy access to the motorway and Heathrow airport, the village itself boasting a pretty common with duck pond and various pubs and small shops. They'd done alot of work to it over the years; new bathrooms to replace the hideous sludge-brown suites and even darker tiles, the aforementioned bland but eminently practical kitchen, polished oak floorboards throughout instead of swirly shag pile in shades of mud brown and fluorescent blue. Emily had wondered if there had ever been a study into why so many people in the 1970s had been so utterly devoid of taste. Or simply had severe eyesight problems. ‘Ooh, this is a tiny little bathroom with barely any natural light so let's give it an avocado green loo and matching basin shaped like a shell. And tile it wall to ceiling in khaki with a hint of pink. Lovely!’
'So what's new with you, mummy dearest? Any deep, dark secrets I should know of? Like a hot man, perhaps? You really need to get back in the saddle, so to speak. Can't spend all your days cloistered away turning verbal diarrhoea into something readable!'
Tabitha was always teasing Emily, both about her part-time work proofreading and editing short stories for women's magazines and her lack of a love life. She didn't mind. The former brought in a bit of extra cash, the latter she tried to ignore. In the years since Jim died she'd had a handful of dates – chiefly with men around his age and also widowed – but had failed to click with any of them. She had a nice circle of friends but was happy being on her own a lot of the time. She certainly wasn't prepared to hook up with any old codger just for the sake of it.
'For your information, I've been havingamazingsex with my car mechanic for weeks now. And no cracks about my big end, thank you!'
Tabitha snorted in laughter. She knew very well that Ken Crompton was nearing retirement age and had all the wit and warmth of a dead haddock. The only reason they bothused him was because he was cheap and reliable, unlike many of the other garages in the area.
'Ha ha, very funny. Seriously though, you should think about on-line dating. There's tons of websites out there and they can'tallbe mad stalkers or porn-obsessed saddos. I can check some of them out for you if you like?' Tabitha looked imploringly at Emily, who scowled back in exasperation.
'Tabitha, I am perfectly capable of sorting out my own love life. If I choose to. And right now, I choosenotto. I am quite happy with my life as it is, even if it seems deadly dull to you.' Cue massive eye roll from Tabitha, before she began rummaging in the fridge in search of a snack. 'If I happen to meet someone and it feels right then I'll take it from there. Until then – don't youdarescoff my last piece of Cheddar – I’ll continue with my vows of celibacy and get my thrills from my work. You have no idea the shenanigans some of these characters get up to. Gets me hot under the collar sometimes!'
Almost an hourlater and Tabitha had departed, washing duly going through its cycle and barely enough Cheddar to satisfy a mouse left in the fridge. Luckily all the really good stuff was hidden away in the overflow fridge in the utility room. Tonight it was Emily’s turn to host book club and she’d shopped earlier for the requisite canapés – devils on horseback, mini spring rolls, a platter of French cheeses – as well as an assortment of sweet nibbles. Under pressure from her older sister Celeste she’d agreed to join the merry-go-round of monthly meetings where novels were analysed, dissected and discussed in depth, the focus being on literary content, intellectual stimulation and relevance in today’smulti-cultural society, Or, as Celeste’s husband Michael put it, ‘Ten minutes on the book, the rest shoving nibbles and booze down their necks and bitching about some poor soul or other.’
As she skimmed a duster over the coffee table and gave the bookcase a quick once-over, she smiled at her large collection of paperbacks. Most people she knew, herself included, downloaded everything on to their Kindles or similar devices. Certainly a lot less baggage weight when going on holiday, but there was something special about turning the pages of a much-loved book. Her fingers came to rest on one. A present from Jim.Blood Angel – A Tale of Gory Revenge.About as far removed from Emily’s tastes as possible. Pushing it back into position she realised with a jolt that today would have been their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Thirty years since Emily had turned to Jim and said, ‘I do’. When a little voice in her head had been whispering, ‘Are you sure? Really, really sure?’
She’d only been twenty-two when they’d got married, Jim five years older. Far too young to be trussed up in white taffeta that stretched uncomfortably against her slightly protruding stomach. Yes, caught in the age-old trap of finding herself pregnant just a year after finishing university. They’d met there, at the students’ union, a rather tipsy Emily flattered by the attention from this rather earnest postgraduate with his unruly brown hair and tattered Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. He drank wine rather than beer – which she thought the height of sophistication – and had a vinyl collection that filled his parents’ spare bedroom.
In the early days of their burgeoning romance, Emily felt safe and a little smug as her singleton friends bed-hopped around the campus. Moaning continuously about their scruffy student boyfriends with their bacteria-gatheringbathrooms and mountainous heaps of dirty washing that festered in corners of their cupboard-sized rooms. Jim was different, a grown man with a future in marketing already mapped out. He owned his own place, thanks to a legacy from a dotty old aunt who’d secretly stashed away a fortune betting on greyhounds, and took her to nice restaurants. Dependable, devoted, financially secure, what was not to love? Except Emily couldn’t help wondering sometimes if something was missing. Passion, perhaps? That feeling of a delicious fizz of anticipation when you were waiting to see the supposed love of your life. The sex was fine – well,OK– not that she had much to compare it to. Apart from the odd steamy novel or TV show that had her dad coughing furiously and her mum rocketing out her chair to deal with some suddenly urgent matter in the kitchen. Not so much a fizz, perhaps, more like a glass of two-day old Lilt. Still drinkable but lacking sparkle.
For their silver wedding anniversary, Jim had bought her a pretty pair of earrings. Shame he hadn’t noticed in all these years that she’d never had her ears pierced. Her mum deemed it akin to self-mutilation – ‘You might as well get your neck stretched like those African women!’ – so she’d never got around to it. She, in turn, had searched the internet for the perfect decanter with a delicate silver base in a pattern of intertwined grapes and leaves, Jim’s love for wine and all things tastefully alcoholic having blossomed over the years. He would sniff, swill and pontificate on its provenance, whereas Emily just liked the way it made her feel mellow and couldn’t care less if it came as part of a ‘dine in for a tenner’ deal.
What was the symbol for thirty years? Pearl? Couldn’t imagine Jim fishing a tantalising little faux-suede box out of his pocket, nestled inside a single lustrous drop on a fine gold chain. Not one for romantic gestures, his gifts had beenof a more practical nature. Like the Christmas before he died. She’d bought him a bottle of vintage Armagnac produced in the year of his birth. He’d given her an electric foot file designed to slough away dead skin and callouses. ‘Look, Em!’ he’d exclaimed as she attempted to generate some kind of enthusiasm. ‘It’s got real diamond crystals!’ Try as she might, Emily couldn’t imagine Eartha Kitt purring with pleasure over findingthatin her stocking. Poor old Santa Baby would most likely have been shoved unceremoniously back up the chimney.
Speaking of chimneys, it had been more than four years since her own one had been lit. Metaphorically speaking, more like ten years since any kind of flame had smouldered in Emily’s life. After Tabitha was born – and both she and Jim had been smitten by their daughter from day one – she had hoped to expand their little family. However, it was not meant to be. No clear-cut medical reason, the doctors said. And as the months and years passed and Jim retreated to his own study/guest room at night – 'hate to keep you awake with my snoring, my dear' – her dreams of a brother or sister for Tabitha faded along with her libido. A perfunctory peck on the cheek or the lips, the occasional pat on the bottom, the very occasional coupling which lasted as long as a TV ad break. And usually followed a fine bottle of St Emilion Grand Cru if Jim had been celebrating a particularly successful campaign.
There was still a basket of logs next to the fireplace. And, if her memory served her correctly, a box of firelighters on a shelf in the garage. Jim had disapproved of firelighters.
‘That’s the cheat’s way, Em. It’s all about arranging the kindling correctly, a few scrunched-up pages ofThe Telegraph,and Bob’s your uncle!’ Then he’d huff and puff and almost blow the house down as the flames failed to take hold. On the odd occasion when Jim was travelling, Emily tookgleeful delight in lighting the fire herself. With the aid of the illicit firelighters it took her approximately five to ten minutes to produce a roaring hearth. Curled up with her Kindle and a glass of passable plonk she’d congratulated herself on a job well done, and with the minimum of fuss. Then made sure to clear away the evidence before Jim’s return, lest his masculinity be reduced to a pile of cold ashes.
It was just after seven and Emily had set the stage; the fire ready for the touch of a match, the food artfully arranged on plates adorned with seedless green and red grapes. Candles burned on every surface, suffusing the air with a hint of wild berries and cinnamon. The lamps were turned down low, both for atmosphere and because women in their fifties and sixties preferred the subtler approach of ambient lighting. Going into a brightly lit changing room these days was akin to torture; every lump, bump and line thrown into sharp relief by the brutal glare and wall-to-wall mirrors.
First through the door was Celeste. At almost sixty she was remarkably well preserved, like a plump Christmas ham glistening under the hallway light. She'd recently taken to having hair extensions after complaining that her once-crowning glory was thinning at an alarming rate. 'I'll be damned if I end up with a bloody comb-over like that Bobby Charleston!' she'd decreed, before emerging from the salon more footballer's wife than footballing legend.
