Page 9 of A Clean Sweep
Tabitha felt a pang of guilt. Pre-Tom she'd seen her friends on a regular basis, but their meetings had dwindled as she'd embraced coupledom with a vengeance. Now that the gloss was wearing off she regretted her withdrawal from the social scene. A night out could be just what the doctor ordered.
Plans made, they said their goodbyes and Tabitha – still ravenous – made herself a cheese sandwich. Surprise, surprise, a message had pinged on her phone from Tom, saying he was just having a quick drink with Clive who'dbeen picking up a battered saveloy with a side of onion rings. Why he felt the need to share Clive's menu choices was anyone's guess. Probably as retaliation for her serving him something that wouldn't clog his arteries. Bugger, she couldmurdera plate of onion rings right now. And Tom too.
Chapter 7
Celeste was cleaning out her cupboards. Once a year or thereabouts she liked to have a good old purge – out with the old, in with the new. Or something like that. Tatty old pots and pans, beyond salvaging with a Brillo pad; ageing towels which had lost their fluffiness, magazines she’d kept for some delicious recipe or scoop on the latest must-have rejuvenating cream but now couldn’t be bothered flicking through to find them, and – her favourite – clothes. She found it incredibly therapeutic to fill bin bags with blouses, skirts, dresses and so on that had lost their appeal. The lady at the local charity shop always looked ready to explode with joy when Celeste staggered in with her armfuls of booty. Chiefly because Celeste only wore high-end fashion. Maybe not quite Dior or Balmain but certainly a million high street miles from most of the threadbare junk that landed on the shop doorstep. Literally abandoned overnight like an unwanted puppy, usually unwashed and with more holes than a leaky sieve.
‘Sorry, my darlings, but you just don’t do me justice anymore, do you?’ she murmured apologetically to a pair offine wool trousers in a pale dove grey. In truth, she couldn’t quite do up the button anymore but Celeste wasn’t about to let that stark little reality rain on her parade. So, she’d gained a few pounds? Better that than to be rail thin, all jutting bones and turkey necks. She prided herself on her curves. Michael always said he liked a bit of meat on her, couldn’t be doing with those scrawny creatures with no arses and shoving lettuce leaves around their plates, whilst drooling over their dining companion’s coq au vin and butter-laden mash.
She really was so lucky to have Michael, she thought, shoving a purple chiffon blouse into a bag. He never complained when she returned from a shopping spree, laden with expensive-looking purchases. ‘Got some nice things, sweetheart?’ he’d ask, peering at her over his glasses from the comfort of his Eames lounge chair. He’d retired a few years ago, well set-up after a lifetime with a private bank dealing with clients who wouldn’t be seen dead in anything less than ‘hot couture’. And he demanded so little, quite content to potter around at home, playing the stock market when the mood took him, always happy to drop her off and pick her up when a few sherries were on the cards.
Celeste had never really worked, at least not since her early twenties. She wasn’t a natural at school, academically or on the sports field. Science and mathematics bored her rigid, English was OK but she knew she had a tendency to get words mixed up. ‘My mum reckons I’m – what do you call it – anorexic?’ she’d confided in Michael on one of their early dates. To his credit, he’d never laughed or mocked her. Just smiled indulgently and pulled her in for one of his life-affirming hugs.
Children weren’t something she had ever wanted. She simply didn’t feel the maternal type and Michael, luckily, was happy to concur. He had been married briefly once before.His ex-wife was called Margaret but beyond that Celeste knew very little. Nor did she want to know. She considered it the past and firmly believed in living in the present. The only other thing she knew was that they had a daughter, Sophie, who now lived in Scotland and had two little ones of her own. Relationships were strained between father and daughter, the odd birthday or Christmas card sent or received. As far as she was aware they didn’t speak on the telephone or communicate by email. She hadn't exactly demanded it when they met, or had she? She couldn't really recall. Whatever. By all accounts his ex was a total bitch and had done her utmost to cut Michael out of his daughter's life. This suited Celeste just fine. She didn’t want to share Michael, selfish though that may be. She was happy with her life, happy with her husband, and anything else might cloud the picture. She got up every day, primped and readied herself and marvelled at the fact that she lived in a beautiful home with a husband who adored her and a lifestyle that made her the envy of many of her friends.
Although she had never had a career, Celeste considered herself the rock to which Michael anchored himself. She had supported him unquestioningly and resolutely throughout his working life. Always immaculately presented, with a home that glittered and gleamed as a beacon to their success and unity. Dinner parties were hosted, guests treated to lavish, multi-course meals. She’d listen enraptured to an important colleague’s mind-numbing chatter, always with the perfect hostess smile on her perfectly painted face. She kept the yawns and face-pulling until bedtime, when Michael would laugh at her spot-on impressions and congratulate her on another outstanding evening.
Her only little secret – if you could call it that – was a hobby she’d taken up a few months ago. Out of sheer boredom, if she was completely honest with herself. Michael hadhad his years of slogging away in the banking world, so could be forgiven for taking pleasure in doing very little, or nothing at all. Celeste was proud of what she’d achieved as a wife and home builder but nagging away at her over the past couple of years had been two small words.So what? She didn’t have degrees or certificates or accolades from City high flyers. She’d never been quoted inThe Financial Times(or even the local rag, come to think of it). She imagined her gravestone – sleek, polished marble – engraved with the words, ‘Here lies Celeste Atherton. Wife …’
Michael had tried to cajole her out of her dark thoughts when she voiced them. Which wasn’t often.
‘Sweetheart, if I’d wanted a ferocious lawyer for a wife I’d have gone looking for one. Then I’d never have seen her anyway and we’d have ended up divorced! And if that was her specialist field I’d have lost everything. I chose you. And I love you, just how you are.’ He’d plant a kiss on her forehead then retreat to the sanctuary of his study.
She’d been flicking through a few tired-looking magazines at the hairdresser. Not her usual fare but getting her extensions redone was a long and tedious process. One in particular –Tea Break– had kept her reasonably engrossed as her stylist Steph clipped and sizzled her human hair add-ons into position. She’d just finished reading a piece on a woman who professed to still love her husband despite his fondness for dressing up as a baby – a twenty-two stone bearded one – when another article caught her eye. ‘Ladies, do you have a steamy novel just bursting to get out? A passion for romance with just a hint of naughtiness thrown in? We’re looking for new and previously unpublished manuscripts for our competition. The winner will receive £5,000 and have their story appear in instalments right here in your favourite weekly read!’ Glancing around and realising that Steph had nipped off – probably for her nicotinefix – Celeste swiftly tore out the page and shoved it into her handbag. She spent a flipping fortune in here restoring what Mother Nature had decided to deprive her of. One poxy page of a tatty magazine hardly amounted to grand arceny.
‘Celeste?Just heading out for a walk. Probably be a couple of hours. Thought I’d try and up the ante a bit.’ Michael peered around the bedroom door, already wearing his quilted jacket and sturdy shoes. ‘No problem,’ replied Celeste, tying a knot in bag number three. ‘Enjoy, darling. See you later.’ Ever since she’d bought him a fitness tracker for his birthday Michael had been obsessed with getting in his recommended 10,000 steps a day. Often this involved nothing more than a stroll to the shops and several circuits of the house – she swore he was wearing holes in the carpets – but more recently he’d taken to going on proper walks. Sometimes for hours on end.
So, she had an hour or two to get on with her project. That’s how she liked to think of it, an assignment she’d set herself, with a fixed deadline. Only one week to go. The clock was ticking but Celeste was quietly confident she’d make it. And inwardly bubbling over with excitement at the thought of maybe – just maybe – seeing her work in print. With her name attached! Then she’d be somebody. And they could add ‘writer’ to her epitaph. Although she hoped she didn’t pop her clogs before she saw her dream come true. Like that poor Swedish chap whose books became international best-sellers after he’d died. No fun in that.
At first Celeste had been hesitant to start, even though she’d always loved writing short stories when she was younger. She’d never shared them, just scribbled away furiously in a lined school jotter when she wasn’t bogged downwith hideous maths homework or trying to invent excuses to skip PE. Her sister, Emily, was always the more intelligent one, the one who went to university and studied English Literature. She’d ended up getting pregnant and married, her grand career plans derailed by motherhood.
There were two main reasons for Celeste to feel absolute terror at the thought of entering the competition. Number One – the submission had to be between 40 and 50,000 words. As these days, her writing was confined to grocery lists and the occasional email, she could not imagine producing that number of words. It would be like trying to scale Everest in stilettos. Except, to her amazement, she had found a flow and rhythm to her writing, some days clocking up 1,000 words or more. Number Two – Celeste was well aware of her tendency to use the wrong word from time to time. But with the aid of spell and grammar check on her computer she was confident she hadn’t made any serious errors. Anyway, she was sure they had editors who would correct potential boo-boos. The key thing was that she’d produced something she believed was both steamy and readable. Perhaps not the nextFifty Shades of Greybut at least a few shades of blushing pink. Less props involved but her manly hero would hopefully seduce theTea Breakfaithful with his impeccable pecs and mind-blowing stamina in the boudoir. Her most recent chapter had him going at it for thirty-seven minutes. Not including foreplay. Or after play. Luckily his playmate was a plucky soul with thighs of steel and a pelvic floor that could crush Coke cans.
Celeste booted up her laptop. Another day, another chapter. Maybe the second last one. What was the word, penintimate, something like that, anyway. Sounded about right, considering the subject matter. Her insatiable male character, who went by the name of Leo, had managed to vanquish all contenders for the hand and heart of his chosen one, theseductive yet sturdy Seraphina. Whose name came from the Hebrew language and meant ‘ardent or fiery’. And she was certainly both, passionate to the point of making mere mortals weep and wave white flags of surrender and as likely to burst into flames as a well-tended hearth. Which reminded Celeste, she really should ring Emily and make sure she was all right after the book club evening.
She leant back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head. Writing was more fun than she could ever have imagined but it did give her sore shoulders and an aching neck. She twisted her head one way then another, wincing as she heard a loud click. Another 500 words or so and she’d take a break. ATea Break, no less. Celeste gave a little inward smile as she imagined their readership getting in a right old flap as Leo and Seraphina hit orgasmic highs that could lift the roofs off ancient buildings and have the Gods reaching for their ear plugs. And eye masks. Yes, she’d created a little slice of mythological mayhem with a liberal dose of good old rampant sex which she was sure could be a contender for first prize. All she had to do was come up with an amazing climax – and there’d already been a few of those – and £5,000 could be hers. The first money she’d earned for herself since who knows when.
A cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake later, Celeste was torn between getting on with her writing and calling Emily for an update on her chimney crisis. She decided on the latter. Leo and Seraphina’s final grunts and gasps could wait.
‘Emily! Comment ça va?’
Celeste had quit her evening French classes on the grounds that they were too boring and full of earnest souls keen to grasp the finer points of grammar, whereas she just wanted to sound more alluring and be able to decipher menus in some of the posher restaurants Michael took her to. She’d never forget her abject humiliation when they’ddined at some Michelin rated establishment and she’d asked for ‘conard’. The waiter had retreated with a purplish tinge to his face and even Michael had almost choked on his mouthful of lightly bodied Burgundy.
‘What? What did I say?’ she’d demanded. Although she already knew she had come up with another Celestism, as they had come to be known over the years.
‘Sweetheart, you just ordered an arsehole. The French word for duck is ‘canard’.’ Michael had wiped his eyes on his napkin, patted her hand affectionately. Celeste had withdrawn her hand abruptly, mortified yet annoyed that the understandable swapping of one vowel sound should cause such mirth at her expense.
‘Obviously, I didn’t need to order an arsehole when I have one sitting right opposite me,’ she’d retorted, in a rare moment of biting back. Michael looked suitably stunned for all of three seconds, then reached for her hand again.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s an easy mistake to make. Forgive me?’
He’d looked at her with his earnest, dark brown eyes and she’d felt her humiliation melt away, thawed by his kindness and devotion.
‘You’re forgiven. As long as I can have the trio of chocolate desserts with a liqueur coffee for afters.’
Celeste realised her thoughts had drifted away and Emily had been speaking for quite a few seconds. She snapped back to the present, banishing thoughts of arseholes and divine chocolate tortes from her head.
‘Sorry, darling. What was that? I was just ringing to see how things were, if you managed to sort out your chimney problem?’
