Page 14 of A Clean Sweep
The boys were drooping in their seats, clearly in need of a nap. The trolley was piled high with groceries, toilet rolls and multi-packs of juice. Sophie looked beyond tired, greyness etched into her skin, eyes circled with dark shadows. She was only in her mid-twenties but she seemed to have lived several, interminable lifetimes. Had he done this to her? Created this careworn creature when she should have been in her absolute prime? Surely not. She was married now, although he’d questioned the wisdom of getting hitched at just twenty. But what right did he have to question anything? He’d given that up when he left, abdicating all responsibility and possibility of fatherly counsel.
'Oh God. I so didn’t want this to happen. I knew it might,I know where you live, but… George, stop poking your brother in the eye!' Sophie desperately tried to intervene as her sons tussled with each other.Edward began wailing plaintively, his brother’s digit bruising his eyeball as boredom and exhaustion set in. Their cries rose in unison, with old ladies tut-tutting and cashiers looking up, any excuse to relieve the tedium of swiping barcode items and exchanging pleasantries with the local customers. They sensed some excitement, a little departure from the hum-drum existence of the daily drudge. A slice of real-life soap opera drama. Older man confronting younger woman with two children. Tears on both sides. Wait until they shared that one at home!
Michael had managed to keep a grip on the situation. He’d guided Sophie to the till, paid for her purchases – despite her protests – and steered her and the boys out to the car park, fully aware of the close scrutiny of those behind them. He’d loaded her shopping into the boot of her car, helped her wrestle the still-sobbing duo into their car seats and parked the trolley in the closest bay. He’d waited until she was strapped in, then tapped lightly on the window. She wound it down, her face a mascara-streaked mess, a cacophony of snivelling and snorting emanating from the back seats.
'Can I see you again? Please? I know, I understand if you don’t want to, but … please.' He couldn't bear the thought of not seeing them again. Fate had decreed their paths would cross; now it was up to her if they were destined to meet again.
Sophie had simply looked at him with an expression that said she had no idea what the right answer was, but she nodded.'You know the little café on the corner of West Street and Wendover Avenue? I’ll meet you there next Tuesday. At 10am.'
And then she was gone. And Michael had driven home, knowing he couldn’t tell Celeste a single thing. Why create waves, except he didn’t particularly like the voyage he had set sail on. Rough seas ahead, he had told himself. But for now, he had Tuesday.
Chapter 10
Tom Hubbard leaned out of the bathroom window and exhaled a satisfying lungful of smoke. He'd quit five years ago. Allegedly. Nagged to death by his mother. Herself a former smoker and everyone knew they were the worst. Evangelical in their mission to rid the planet of their filthy habit. Funny though, whenever he'd snuck outside at a party for a sly puff there was always someone following like a tobacco-starved stalker. ‘Don't mind if I blag one, do you mate? I've given up, but …’ Then they'd suck away with all the fervour of a death row inmate who'd just chowed down his last supper and was on to the postprandial gasper.
His girlfriend, Tabitha, didn't smoke but tolerated his occasional lapse. As long as he didn't smoke in the house and not within an hour of going in for a passionate snog. Even then, an eye-watering breath mint or lengthy mouthwash routine was often required.
A quick check in the mirror. Tom wasn't a particularly vain man but he knew he scrubbed up reasonably well. At a shade over six foot, with broad shoulders and a trim waist, he looked the essence of a gym devotee. Except he rarely setfoot in one. Considered them the modern-day equivalent of a lunatic asylum. Except with acres of lycra and barbells instead of straitjackets and shackles. His younger brother Jake sweated it out up to five times a week on the treadmill, with some serious weightlifting thrown in, and still looked more cuddly teddy than pumped man god. Life really wasn't fair.
Parked around the corner from his work, Tom took a sip of his steaming-hot cup of takeaway coffee. None of that skinny latte/soy milk/dash of vanilla syrup crap for him. Just black brain juice, with three generous spoonfuls of sugar. He needed a major caffeine injection this morning. Business at the specialist travel agency where he earned his meagre crust had been poor. People simply weren't interested in – or couldn't afford – the types of holidays they catered for. Africa, South America, Asia, with the focus on luxury and exclusivity. He sent up a silent prayer – despite his atheist leanings – for a good day.
‘So, you’d like to go on a safari? No problem. We have lots of options, different locations, budgets to suit everyone.’ Tom beamed at the couple sitting in front of him. They reminded him of characters from a Beatrix Potter book. Mr Otter and Little Miss Mousey. Or was he getting his books hopelessly mixed up? He’d never been one for reading. He much preferred to be out theredoingthan getting snared up in imaginary worlds where goblins did battle with fearsome beasts, or a Chardonnay-swigging spinster concocted inedible soup and dreamed of snogging Jane Austen-inspired heroes. All right, these two examples owed more to DVD-watching sessions with Tabitha than to actual reading but the sentiment remained the same. Books were a poor substitute for getting on with real life. Unless you counted anything written by Jeremy Clarkson. A pure legend, in Tom’s eyes. His column inThe Sunday Timeshad him positively howlingwith laughter. His dress sense might be a bit dodgy but the man knew his stuff and had madeTop Gearcompulsive viewing. Until he wasn’t on it anymore.
‘We were thinking, maybe, Kruger National Park?’ Mr Otter – on account of his eyes being quite scarily set apart, almost creeping off the sides of his head – looked up expectantly. His wife – Mrs Otter – clung to his hand as if she thought he might suddenly dash off in search of a tasty small amphibian.
‘Sure, that’s great, but it’s pretty expensive. Not that I think for a minute it’s beyond your budget.’ Tom could see his male client rear up slightly, a hint of defensiveness in his posture. ‘Listen, there’s a fabulous game reserve called Welgevonden, just three hours or so drive north of Johannesburg. So, a lot closer than Kruger. And they have some amazing game lodges – small, intimate, great food and hospitality. We’ve sent loads of clients there. Always come back full of praise. You can do a three or four-night package. All meals included and two game drives each day. Can’t promise you’ll see all the Big Five but …’ At which point Mrs Otter gave a discreet cough. Or perhaps she was just clearing a frog in her throat. Right, Tom. Now is not the best time to give in to hysterical laughter. Especially as he hadn’t had the best couple of months client-wise and his boss was circling like a Great White with a gimlet eye on his next prey.
‘It’s just … I’m not really that comfortable at getting close to wild animals. It makes me a little anxious. Are the sides of the Jeep thing closed in? And I don’t really like the cold. I believe it gets really cold in the mornings. And we have to wear those horrible cape things. And lots of blankets. And hot water bottles.’ She looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. Like an impala gazing down the barrel of a ruthless hunter’s gun. Shame he didn’t have one on him.
‘Another one slippedthrough your fingers, Tom?’
His boss Jonathan Mitchell – not so affectionately known as Jaws by his staff – bared gleaming white teeth which had reputedly cost him about the price of a high-end sports car. Of course, he also had the sports car, lived in a luxurious penthouse pad on the outskirts of town and was married to Lila. Tom didn’t know her very well aside from the occasional day when she would drop by at the agency. If Jonathan was a shark then she was a leopard, sleek and shiny on the outside but with a ruthless streak a mile wide. Lila rarely spoke to the staff, a curt ‘good morning’ if she could be bothered, before she strode her way imperiously into her husband’s office. They had two children – Jackson and Amelia – who had inherited their parents’ charm genes, as witnessed the one time they had set foot in the place.
It had been a Saturday afternoon and relatively busy despite the decline in bookings in recent months. Tom was dealing with a young couple wanting to honeymoon in Brazil, his colleague Clive was deep in conversation with a group of young women planning an Asian adventure and Jonathan was schmoozing over a well-to-do gentleman keen on a safari/Cape Town combo.
Lila had entered the agency, the children trailing behind her. Jackson, who was around ten, was glued to the screen of the latest smartphone. Amelia, probably six or seven, was clutching a fistful of Barbies. Both mother and daughter were sporting matching fur jackets, which Tom was quite sure were one hundred percent real. Waving her hand dismissively around the room, Lila had settled herself in one of the waiting area chairs. She’d picked up a brochure and flicked through it, razor-sharp talons threatening to shred the pages at each turn. Jonathan, who was now ushering hisclient to the door, both looking extremely pleased with themselves, gave an apologetic smile to his wife. She responded with a look of such venom that he visibly shrunk in stature, more cowering cod than deadly predator.
‘Darling, I thought we were supposed to be looking at a new car for me this afternoon.’
The word ‘darling’ was enunciated in such a way as to suggest that Jonathan’s balls were about to be snipped off and used as earrings. Jonathan obviously felt the vibe too as he unconsciously clamped his legs together and winced slightly.
‘Sorry, my sweet. Just got caught up with a client. A fantastic one, I have to add. Very happy with what I put together and definitely going to recommend us to lots of his friends!’
Lila looked singularly unimpressed. And totally oblivious to the fact that the children had bored of their activities and were now systematically pulling brochures off the shelves and lobbing them at each other like frisbees.
‘The showroom’s only open another hour. Can’t we leave the children here and go take a look? You know I’m desperate to check out that divine little cabriolet.’
Lila’s killer gaze swept around the office, landing with terrifying precision on Tom. He shrugged apologetically at the young couple, who were trying to narrow down the hotel choices in Rio.
‘You. Tim, isn’t it? I’m sure you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the children for a little while? They won’t be any trouble. JACKSON, stop pulling the legs off your sister’s dolls! And Amelia, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, it is not lady-like to pick your nose.’
Jonathan was already tugging on his coat, keen to keep his privates intact and appease his wife. Tom’s clients had gathered together a pile of print outs of possibilities andwere now shaking Tom’s hand, eager to escape the mayhem. Lila flounced towards the door, her parting words: ‘Be good for Tim, my angels. We’ll only be half an hour or so.’ Then they were gone, leaving Tom in charge of Satan’s spawn. Clive had legged it to the back room, having dispatched his group with an action-packed two-week itinerary. Tom glowered at his two young charges. Jackson responded with a raised middle finger. His sister kept hers firmly planted in her left nostril, excavation still in progress.
It had been almost an hour before they returned, Lila with a face like chiselled stone when she’d learned she’d have to wait four months for her new car. Jonathan looked slightly grey and nauseous, no doubt worried that his testicles remained in jeopardy. Tom had survived – just – but was surrounded by dismembered Barbies, half-drunk cans of Coke he’d offered in desperation from the staff fridge and fragments of Jackson’s phone which he’d hurled across the room in a fit of temper when refused permission to photocopy his bare bottom.
‘My goodness, children. You have been a little naughty, haven’t you?’ cooed Lila, her stilettos crunching through shards of an iPhone 6. Amelia was now sobbing, her face a sodden mass of tears and snot. Jackson glared defiantly at his mother, swivelling around like a miniature dervish in his father’s chair.
Jonathan at least had the good grace to look sheepish as he patted Tom on the shoulder.
