Page 1 of The Truth About You and Me
1
FRIDAY 6TH SEPTEMBER
Maggie
When I was a child, I wanted to be an astronaut. I yearned for space. For the quiet; my skin covered in layers of thick white fabric, hands in those puffy white gloves that held the American flag on the moon; my face protected by a smooth glass dome. I wanted to be an astronautsobadly that I’d once got my head stuck in a glass bowl. A foster father – I forget his name now – had to cut my pigtails away so he could shimmy the bowl over my ears. I’d screamed and screamed as his hands yanked and pulled.
OK, so I might have been atinybit optimistic on the whole astronaut thing, but I found the next best thing.
I’m a cleaner.
I know that it might seem like one small step down from my childish dreams and one giant leap into minimum wage but Iloveit. I like imagining the smile on a person’s face when they come home after a stressful day to a clean house. I picture their reflection smiling in the stainless steel of their kettle as they notice the way the polished floorboards catch the light of the setting sun. I think that, in my own way, I have an impact on their happiness; I make their lives a little brighter, a little easier.
I get to be part of their life, while still keeping the distance I need.
They say love your job and you’ll never work a day in your life, and that is how I try to live, but sometimes, shit just has a way of happening. Which is why I’m about to say the following words:
‘I quit.’
I pull off my lanyard, careful not to get it tangled in my chaotic curls, and throw it onto one of the many mattresses housed in the showroom forPillow Paradise!
‘What?’ Doug, purple with indignation, stares at my face. It makes a refreshing change – he’s usually staring at my boobs. I knew what was going through his mind as he reached over while I bent down to empty the waste-paper basket but heneeded a paperclip. What a load of shite. I have to quit before I do something I regret, despite really,reallyneeding this job. Or maybe I wouldn’t regret strapping him to the Massage Master? It might shake some sense into him.
‘You can’t just quit! It’s Mattress Madness tomorrow!’
‘Actually’ – I pull on my cerise fake fur – ‘I can.’ I zip up my backpack with my cleaning products in, wrap Henry Hoover’s nozzle around my neck, and make for the glass doors. Henry is a British icon: London-red-bus body, cartoon-happy eyes peering up above his hose-for-a-nose, permanent smile beneath. I’ve had Henry for ten years now, the only reliable man to ever be part of my life.
Doug rages as I sweep past the Snooze Ease Double and the Snuggle Rest Divan.
‘Feel free to make a formal complaint. My email is Maggie dot Wright at yahoo dot com. I’ll be sure to get back to you promptly. Actually I may as well save you the bother.’ I pause, adjust the hose around my neck and wiggle my fingers like they’re hovering over a keyboard. ‘Dear Doug.’ I clear my throat. ‘Thank you for your email, but given that you’re an egotistical dickhead who has “accidentally”’ – I finger-quote then continue with my imaginary keyboard tapping – ‘brushed yourself against me, I’m afraid your contract has now been terminated and a complaint has been made to Pillow Paradise Limited. Will that do? Or would you like me to recite the specific areas of misconduct you’ve breached?’
He narrows his eyes and folds his arms. ‘Nobody will believe you. I’m a husband and father and you’re just?—’
‘The cleaner. Yes, yes I am. Good luck with Mattress Madness by the way. It might be a bit quieter than you were expecting though, as I’ve popped a post about you on the Facebook page.’ I make my way past the mattress of my dreams with a touch of regret. There goes my ten per cent discount… so long FirmHaven. I grab the door and swing it open, the sounds of the Friday morning rush leaking in as he begins furiously unlocking his phone screen. ‘Oh and Doug?’ I fix him with a stare. ‘I would think again about planning to let the store cupboard door accidentally slam behind you and another employee.’
His overgroomed eyebrows meet his slicked-back hairline. ‘What? I?—’
I let the door swing closed behind me rather than respond.
* * *
‘Almost there!’ I lie back on my bed, suck in my breath, and force the button of my jeans into place.
‘Come on, Mags, I haven’t got all day!’ Tess’s voice from my phone has me vaulting from my mattress.
I drop a hip. ‘So? What do you think?’ I twirl. ‘Bargain, right?’ She leans forward, Velcro rollers almost hitting her phone screen.
‘Nope.’
‘What do you mean nope? These are vintage 501s and’ – I bend over and flick the tab on the back pocket – ‘Judd Nelson wears these inThe Breakfast Club.’ I turn around and run my hand over the thighs.
‘Mate, life isn’t a John Hughes movie. It’s not the eighties and Shermer, Illinois, doesn’t even exist.’ She leans closer to the screen. ‘I can practically see what you’ve had for lunch, not so much a camel toe as a whole bleeding foot.’ I deflate, the button pops and fires its way across the room. Tess snorts, mouthful of coffee almost spirting out of her nude-glossed lips.
‘OK, OK… I’ll stick them on Vinted.’
I begin yanking the jeans off and reach for my denim skirt.
‘Nice knickers by the way, very rrrrawgh!’ My head shakes at her enthusiastic imitation of a lion. This isn’t the first time she’s seen me in my undies. I’m Tess’s adoptive sister, and we spent most of our childhood in a shared bedroom with a small set of bunkbeds. Even at the age of thirty, this is the only real friendship I’ve ever had. ‘Where’s your gig?’
