Page 22 of A Clean Sweep
‘You are so perfect, just like I imagined,’ he whispered, fingers now playing with the edges of her bra. Hardly, thought Meryl, who was trying simultaneously to suck in her stomach and get some much-needed air into her lungs. Which was well-nigh impossible as he'd resumed full-on snogging interspersed with groans of pleasure and mutterings of ‘Oh, Meryl’. Ah well, the tarte would still taste good tomorrow, she figured, then mentally rebuked herself for thinking such a thing when she was minutes away from her first sexual encounter in ages.
‘Do you want me too?’ Miroslaw murmured, his hands creeping round her back in pursuit of her bra clasp. She was about to reply in the affirmative when suddenly he stopped. Oh help, don't say she'd put on the wrong one! She had a couple of bras with so many hooks and eyes they would challenge Houdini himself.
Miroslaw was now sitting bolt upright, his face turned away from Meryl. She sat up too and touched his cheek, shocked to see tears glittering in his eyes when he finally looked at her.
‘What's the matter? Miroslaw, have I done something wrong? Of course I want you too, you must know that.’ Meryl felt herself trembling both with cold and nerves. She took a few steps to the door and grabbed her dressing gown before sitting down again.
He didn't reply for what seemed an eternity but had takenhold of her hand. Finally, he spoke; his voice laced with regret and sadness.
‘It's not you, it's me. I am so sorry, Meryl. I so wanted this night to be perfect. You are perfect but I have something on my mind and it is troubling me greatly.’ He let out an enormous sigh and looked so forlorn that Meryl pulled him into a hug.
‘Whatever it is you can tell me. Maybe I can help? Please, Miroslaw. I don't know if you know the expression “a problem shared is a problem halved” but I really believe it's true.’ She waited, he sighed again and then he poured out his heart to her.
‘Because these bastards – please excuse my language – have not made payment to me I have run into a little cash flow problem. Business has always been good but I know I have not always been the best at pursuing people who owe me money. And now I owe others money and they will not be – how do you say? – as accommodating as me.’
Over coffee and a slice of tarte citron Miroslaw completed his tale of woe. Meryl felt a mixture of anger and sadness as he explained how he'd built up his business from nothing but could end up losing it all.
A short while later he left, apologising profusely for spoiling the evening – which Meryl assured him wasn't the case – and promising to see her the next day when he returned for his car. With one last, lingering kiss he was gone in a taxi she'd insisted on calling for him.
Sitting in the half-light of the lounge with a second slice of tarte and a small glass of white Meryl pondered the situation. He hadn't stated how much money was involved and she hadn't liked to ask. But she had been building up a rainy-day fund over the years which now amounted to a not insubstantial sum. Should she offer to help? Would he even accept it?
Time for bed she decided, scooping up the last crumbs from her plate. She hadn't expected to be sleeping alone – or even sleeping at all – but she needed time to gather her thoughts. They could talk again tomorrow and hopefully she could find a way to ease his situation. First Susan, now Miroslaw. It had been an exhausting day.
Chapter 14
It had been a long process, some days filled with doubt that it would ever be finished. But – two weeks ago – to Celeste's total delight and amazement, she had written the closing paragraph ofBeyond the Bounds of Ecstasy. Just shy of 50,000 words, every one of them her own creation. She was incredibly proud of herself and dying to share the news with someone but had decided to wait and see the outcome of the competition. If she was unsuccessful she'd probably hide it away in a secret file, never to shown to anyone. But if, by some miracle, she actuallywon, then she wouldn't be able to contain herself. She knew Michael would be delighted for her and as for Emily … Well, she'd probably be completely gobsmacked that her under-achieving big sister had managed to put pen to paper. Or at least fingers to keyboard.
All that had remained was a final run-through for grammar and punctuation errors and to ensure the formatting matched the strict criteria issued by the magazine. They'd asked for submissions to be made by email with a covering letter giving details about herself, including whichname she'd like to be published under. After a great deal of thought she'd opted for Astra Du Bois rather than her own name, figuring the former sounded far more exotic and in keeping with the mood of the book.It had taken her a long time and considerable Googling before she'd figured out how to attach the sizeable file. Then she’d spent another good half an hour composing the letter to go with it. Satisfied that she could do no more she’d taken a deep breath and hit ‘send’. Now she spent a ridiculous amount of time each day checking her in-box to find out if Leo and Seraphina were just the tantalising ticket for theTea Breakfaithful.
Michael had been gone for almost two hours despite the less than delightful weather. Grey clouds had been gathering all morning and now the rain was coming down in torrents. Silly man, he'll be soaked through. She closed her computer and decided to make herself a belated lunch.
As she sliced a wholemeal loaf and mixed chopped boiled eggs with mayonnaise and a sprinkling of chives she wondered if she should get one of those fitness bands too. Not that justwearingit made you lose weight and get fit. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Just strap it round your wrist and – hey presto – several pounds lighter and down a couple of dress sizes. Nope, obviously some serious effort was involved, particularly in the putting one foot in front of the other department. Celeste was well aware that exercise wasn't really her thing. She drove virtually everywhere and always sought out a parking spot as close as humanly possible to her destination. She'd tried a Pilates class once but kept falling off the Swiss ball thingy and she detested the thought of swimming or aquarobics. All that getting hair wet and make-up smeared everywhere.
Michael had always kept himself in good shape, whereas Celeste knew she'd let the weight creep on in recent years. She was far from obese – goodness, she'd never allow that tohappen – but tightening waistbands and blouses that gaped between the buttons were irrefutable proof of her expanding figure.
Maybe she should pop out to the shops now, treat herself to a band? She'd picked up Michael's at the local sports store after looking at several models and opting for the one recommended by the friendly assistant. What was it called again? Something Up, if she rightly recalled. Jawline? Wishbone? No matter, she'd recognise it when she saw it.
It would have been a brisk twenty or so minutes' walk to the shop but Celeste reasoned it was too wet. In any case, there wasn't much point in clocking up steps just yet when she didn't have the necessary equipment to log it, was there? She parked her beloved bright red Audi TT right outside, a space fortuitously available as another customer drove off.
'Hello there! I'm not sure you'll remember me but I bought a fitness tracker here a few months ago for my husband. And I've decided it's time to get one for myself!' Celeste beamed at the same helpful assistant who'd served her before. Probably in his mid to late twenties with a physique that suggested he took part in triathlons and scaled mountains on a regular basis.
Paul – as written on his name badge – claimed that ofcoursehe remembered her and exactly which model she'd bought. 'I've got it in a few different colours but I think the white one with the gold strip would really suit you. It's a limited edition so a bit more expensive. Try it on.' He handed her one from the display stand, helping to fasten the tiny clasp and adjusting it to fit correctly. Celeste was pleased to see it co-ordinated nicely with her Omega watch. Who'd have thought, a fitness band as a fashion accessory?
After helping her to download the relevant app and synch the band with her phone, Paul gave her a quick rundown on what the band could do. 'It monitors your heart rate, bothresting and passive, and also records your sleep patterns. And, of course, it keeps count of how many steps you take each day. The optimum number is 10,000 but I usually manage at least double that!'
Well, hooray for you, thought Celeste a little sourly. Did that involve nipping out on his lunch break and speed-walking around the local park, knocking wobbly toddlers and grannies on zimmer frames out the way as he strode his way to stepping glory? She wondered if this piece of technological wizardry also barked out criticism if the wearer failed to meet its goals. ‘Move it, fatty!’ or ‘Step away from the chocolate,now!’ Probably not and just as well, or she'd end up stomping on it in a fit of pique.
Back home and still no sign of Michael. The rain had abated, the sun daring to peep out from behind the clouds. He was obviously on the same wavelength as Paul, the pair of them dead set on getting an electronic pat on the head from their fitness buddy.
Celeste gathered up a pile of dirty laundry and made her way to the basement utility room. Duly loaded and set in motion, she headed back upstairs and wiped down the kitchen worktops. Not that anything was particularly dirty, just a few stray crumbs from her sandwich. She had a cleaner who came in once a week and dealt with the more distasteful jobs like scrubbing the loos and cleaning the windows. Next, she made her way to the bedroom and spent a pleasant half hour rearranging her shoe collection according to colour, heel height and frequency of wear.
She checked her laptop to see if there'd been any response fromTea Breakyet. There hadn’t, although she’d received an automated message when she sent it saying that her submission had been received and would be considered in due course. She read through a few other emails but most were junk and she deleted them.
Right, time to check in withBig Brotherand see just what she'd achieved so far. Ooh, she reckoned at least 5,000 steps. After all, she'd been up and down the stairs a few times and had walked from the shop to the car and from the car to the house. Which wasn't far but every little counted, didn't it?
‘You moved 749 steps,’ decreed the screen, with a graph displaying her inertia in colourful detail. Celeste slammed the phone down in disgust. No wonder Michael pounded the pavements for hours in order to reach his target. She clearly had some serious work to do in the walking department. Otherwise her new toy was going to break into hysterical laughter and broadcast across the internet that its owner was a total sloth who would only reach 10,000 steps with a rocket inserted in her rear.
Where was Michael? Maybe she should call him, check everything was OK. She had sudden visions of him keeling over on some isolated path, only to be discovered cold and stiff hours later by an inquisitive labrador.
