Page 7 of A Clean Sweep
In the end it had taken three days for Emily’s part to arrive. Three long days during which Joe tried – and failed – to push her from his mind. It was boxed up in the back of his van. He’d rung her an hour ago to fix a time to drop by. She’d answered quickly and assured him she would be home all afternoon. In the meantime he had a few calls to make. First on the list was a couple of miles away in the Holsworth estate. They were regulars, devoted to their log-burning fire in the winter months. And not averse to sparking it up in spring or even summer if the good old British weather proved as unreliable as ever. Joyce and William Meadows believed in a clean chimney as much as they believed in an afterlife. Which had led to some interesting conversations over the years.
‘So Joe, when you come back to this spiritual plane, having shed your existing form, what do you imagine your reborn life as?’ Joyce had smiled at him quizzically one memorable day, plonking a cup of tea in front of him. Joe had massaged his head, partly because he had no bloody cluehow to respond and also because a lump of blackened gunge had smacked into his cranium on an earlier job.
‘Erm, not sure really. Maybe as a goldfish? Just swimming around in a bowl all day. Not much to worry about. Just a sprinkling of fish food. Easy to please.’ He really didn't know how to answer. At thirty-one Joe liked to think the afterlife was a long way away. Like prostate problems and false teeth. He was still young, and thoughts of death rarely crossed his mind. OK, that wasn’tentirelytrue. He’d seen death up close but thoughts of his own mortality rarely troubled him.
‘Oh no, absolutely not!’ William had countered. ‘I see you as a leader of men. You have great presence, charisma, charm. A bit like the Dalai Lama. Maybe not quite as influential, but still … enigmatic.’ He'd stared at Joe, something slightly unsettling spreading across his ruddy cheeks.
Joe was mightily relieved when he climbed back into his van afterthatvisit. William had kept staring at him as if he expected him to reveal the meaning of life, instead of sweeping their chimney. No saffron robes or tinkling bells for him. He didn't feel remotely enigmatic. More like vaguely knackered.
Just two more calls, a quick break for a sandwich, and he’d head to Emily’s. It wasn’t a particularly busy day and he’d already cancelled plans to meet someone for drinks in the evening. A twenty-something called Abigail whom he’d met at a party a couple of weeks ago. Nice enough if you were into eyebrows that looked like inked-in colons and conversations revolving around reality TV shows, but not really his type.
He hadn't done serious for a long time. Quite content to bounce from woman to woman, no undying love declared, no promise of commitment. They went along with that – for the most part – no one expecting too much once the cards were laid out on the table.
His last relationship, with Caitlin, had set his thoughts off in a different direction. She was undoubtedly stunning, with a gleaming auburn bob and a body that had men’s heads swivelling in true Exorcist fashion. She was good fun, sharp-witted and a devil in the bedroom. They'd bonded over a mutual love ofWhen Harry Met Sallyat a friend's birthday party. Fuelled up by a glass or three of home-made punch. Or rocket fuel. They’d tumbled into bed that very same night.
‘Best scene in a movieever. The fake orgasm. So convincing. Don't you agree, Joe?’ He'd agreed, eager to please, eager to take things to the next level. And absolutely sure that her gasps and groans were one hundred percent genuine.
Caitlin managed a high-class beauty boutique selling must-have lotions and potions at prices that would secure a small property up north.
‘£150 for a face cream? You have to be frigging joking!’ Joe had only dropped in a couple of times but he was totally gob-smacked at what people would pay in the quest for eternal youth. De Luxe catered for an elite clientele hell-bent on giving the two fingers to Mother Nature and her wrinkles and crows' feet. How his mother would have laughed, lobbing her supermarket own-brand creams and serums into her trolley, alongside the weekly groceries. She'd looked amazing, until the cancer got its grip and her skin took on a yellowed hue, cheekbones slicing through hollowed flesh. It had been five years since she'd died, but Joe felt her loss keenly each and every day. He still talked to her in his head, imagined her chortling over his reincarnation as the Spiritual leader of the Tibetan people. ‘Oh, Joe, you're more likely to come back as a mangy alley cat, the number of women you've got through!’
Oh shit. He was getting a bit teary, as he often did when he thought of his mum. He wondered what she would havemade of Caitlin. If the two women would have got along, or if his mum would have considered her too showy, too high-maintenance. He suspected the latter. Not that it mattered now anyway.
They’d been together for almost a year, Joe smitten in a way he’d never thought possible. He’d even found himself, on quite a few occasions, wondering if he really had found The One. The problem was, as Joe allowed himself to daydream about the perfect engagement ring and a simple but sensational wedding on a sun-kissed beach, Caitlin had other ideas.
‘I'm so sorry, Joe, but I've met someone else. I guess I should have told you before but … ’ Joe, still in a sex-glazed euphoric state, looked at his partner. And thought, yes, perhaps it would have been better when fully dressed rather than post-coital and gleaming in after-glow sweat. It turned out she'd been seeing a chap called Arthur who owned a chain of fitness centres in the area. And was a regular customer at De Luxe. Joe refrained from asking what his cream of preference was and why she'd waited until now to enlighten him. It was only after she’d wiped away a tiny tear, slithered into her slinky undies and slunk out the door that he wondered if had all been completely fake after all.
Right. Enough wallowing in the past. Joe gave himself the mental equivalent of a duvet shake. Get rid of the lumps, bumps and creases and get on with the day. He’d stop at the bakery in town, grab a tuna baguette and Diet Coke, then head to Emily’s. That thought alone coaxed a smile on to his previously frown-filled face.
Emily was twitchy.She'd spent the morning working on editing short stories for the magazines she had on herlimited roster of freelance jobs. Some had been relatively easy but dull. A bit of cropping here, a grammatical correction there. She'd enjoyed a tale involving a dead husband who'd come back to haunt his cookie-baking wife and her weed-whacking lover. Boy, could that guy lick a garden into shape, and make a woman feel the need to produce a trayful of something hot and sweet. Like chocolate brownies. Which she'd just happened to rustle up this morning. To go along with the tea which she'd offer Joe. As a politeness, no less. OK, she was morphing into a character fromGone With the Wind. Scarlett O'Hara. Get a grip, woman!
Just time for a quick scroll through theDaily Mail. The usual antics of various reality TV show celebs Emily had never heard of and couldn’t care less about. Ooh, here was an interesting story.
‘Two complainants have failed in their attempt to get Germany’s constitutional court to reconsider the laws banning sex with animals.’What?!Emily read on, goggling in disbelief.
‘The two unnamed individuals say they are sexually attracted to animals.’ Truth is indeed much stranger than fiction, she thought. What kind of a person would look at a pig … or a goat … or a donkey and think – I fancy getting jiggy with you? Not that it mentioned anywhere exactly what type of animal these total weirdos found irresistible. Maybe they preferred domestic pets, a cat or a dog. Oh great, sighed Emily. I’ll never be able to listen to Donny Osmond’s ‘Puppy Love’ in quite the same way again. Not that she listened to a lot of Osmond music. Although she’d had a bit of a childhood crush on the toothsome one, even used her pocket money to join his fan club.
Joe was due to arrive in less than half an hour. Emily’s heartbeat quickened at the thought. You silly, silly woman, she reprimanded herself. Perhaps she should take a coldshower. Answer the door in her most ancient, unflattering pyjamas with hair standing on end and completely bare-faced. That would have the poor boy scarpering the second he’d finished the job. Not that he was likely to hang around anyway. He no doubt had a long list of calls to make and hanging out with a woman old enough to be his mother probably didn’t figure highly on his afternoon agenda. Although, maybe he was older than he looked. She’d just happened to be browsing an article on Facebook yesterday featuring a roll call of women either dating or married to much younger men. Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas, twenty-five years’ age difference. J Lo and her on/off boyfriend, Jasper or Casper something, an eighteen-year gap. And didn’t Kylie Minogue get engaged to someone almost twenty years her junior? So, it wasn’t outside the realms of possibility. Even if they were all impossibly glamorous stars and Emily was just a boring old housewife unlikely to be waltzing down a red carpet any day soon. Still, there was no harm in checking that she didn’t look too frightening. Maybe a dab of lipgloss and a hint of mascara. Nothing wrong with that, was there?
When the doorbell chimed, a few minutes ahead of schedule, Emily was ready. The kettle had just boiled – in case he needed some refreshment. The brownies were baked – in case he was feeling a little peckish. And Emily had her second-best set of matching underwear on. In case … what? He felt the overwhelming need to down tools and bend her over backwards for a few hours of afternoon ecstasy? Unlikely. But the very thought heated up her cheeks.
‘Hi. How are you? Sorry if I’m a bit early.’ Joe gave another of his knee-trembling smiles that seemed to light him up from within and gave Emily the sensation of curling her toes around a just-filled hot water bottle.
‘Not a problem. Come on through, or do you need towork outside first?’ She hesitated. Should she offer him tea and brownies first, or would that seem rather forward? Joe, fortunately, took the lead. ‘I’ll just get my ladder out, should only take me a few minutes to fit the guard. I’ll come back in when I’m all done.’ And off he went, striding back to his van like the hero in a Western, all swagger and sex appeal. If he’d had a gleaming black stallion waiting instead of a slightly beaten up Transit Emily’s head might have combusted with lustful thoughts. As it was, she felt all a-flutter, butterflies whirling and diving in her stomach. She hadn’t felt this giddy – now she was allGone With the Windagain – since who knows when. In fact, she couldn’t actually recall ever feeling this way in her entire life. Which either suggested her life had been woefully lacking until now or that she was in danger of losing the plot completely. Neither of which could be described as best-case scenarios.
When Joe reappeared, a little grubby round the edges but still ridiculously attractive, he headed immediately to the loo for a quick clean up. By which point Emily had re-boiled the kettle, made a pot of tea and was leaning back in a pseudo nonchalant fashion against the worktop. ‘Thought you might like a cuppa. And I made some brownies earlier. If you fancy one?’Or me, said the devilish little voice in her head.He nodded enthusiastically, pulling up a chair and placing a brownie on the side plate Emily had thoughtfully positioned next to his mug. She poured his tea, proffered the sugar bowl and milk jug. Lifted a brownie on to her own plate and took a delicate bite.
‘So, Joe. Are you married?’ Well done, Emily. Talk about going in for the kill. Why not just hand him a bloody questionnaire and be done with it? Memo to self, engage brain before opening mouth. Joe, to his credit, didn’t seem overly taken aback at her directness. ‘Nope. Not married. Not seeing anyone at the moment. And you? I mean – sorry – I’mguessing you’re married but I couldn’t help wondering, noticing . . .’ His voice tailed off, embarrassment obvious as he fiddled with his spoon and took another mouthful of cake. Emily hesitated. She felt they were venturing into uncharted territory where each revelation could alter the dynamics of their relationship. Not that theyhada relationship. But she’d certainly never shared anything remotely personal with the gas man. And he hadn’t been offered as much as a plain digestive or glass or tap water.
‘I was. Married, I mean. He died four years ago. It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine but you just get on with it.’ Emily raised her eyes, saw the predictable sympathy in Joe’s expression. And something else. Something that looked a bit like – anticipation? A tiny glimmer of interest? Or was she simply reading far too much into what amounted to a young man being friendly and sociable?
‘I’m sorry. That’s tough. I can’t imagine … well, I can, in a way. My mum died five years ago and I miss her every single day. I’m sure you feel the same way about …’ The question hovered in the air, as choking as the fumes that had billowed through her living room just days before.
‘Jim. His name was Jim. Yes, I miss him. Of course. But life goes on. I keep busy.’ She fingered her necklace, smoothed down a stray strand of hair that had come loose from her scrunched-up topknot. She gazed at him over the rim of her mug. He shifted in his seat, took another brownie, eyebrows raised as if to query the wisdom of having another. She nodded and smiled as he took a bite then leaned back, chewing thoughtfully.
‘I couldn’t help noticing, in your bathroom, the tap’s dripping a bit. Probably just needs the washer changing. I don’t have the right stuff on me now, but I could easily fix it for you. If you like. I’m not too busy tomorrow morning so Icould drop by. No charge. Be glad to do it.’ His words came out in a rush.
‘But that’s a plumber’s job!’ Emily had known for weeks now that the tap was a nuisance but had pushed it to the bottom of the pile of jobs that needed doing. Like her taxes and shaving her legs. Suddenly the latter seemed much more pressing.
