Page 2 of The Truth About You and Me
‘Comedy Corner, in Nottingham. It’s usually a good crowd. So, tell me more. I hope you told him to stick his job right up his double divan?’
‘Words to that effect.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Yeah, but’ – I pull my red jumper over my head – ‘I’ve now got to hustle to find another cleaning job. That five mornings a week slot is what has been paying my rent for the last three months.’
‘Have you set up a webpage yet?’
I hesitate. ‘Not yet… I’ll scour the ads and apply for something.’
‘Mags!’ She lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘I keep telling you to?—’
‘Put myself out there more. I know, I know. But most people like to meet me first and it’s usually in a public place and you know how hard?—’
Her voice softens. ‘I know, but you’ve got to stop living your life as though you’re the side character and everyone else has the lead roles. Make up an excuse. Tell them, I don’t know, that you’re a germaphobe or something.’
‘A germaphobe who is a cleaner?’ I snort. ‘I’m sure that will go down well.’
‘But if you start yourownbusiness, you could set the terms. Have a Zoom call first or something?’
‘I do set the terms; I choose which jobs to apply for?—’
‘But if you set up your own company, rather than working for other people, people would come to you with the jobs not the other way. Speaking of which, did I tell you WesGoodeasked if he could have free VIP tickets?’
‘Wes?’
That name is a blast from the past. He used to call her Ten Tonne Tessy and once wrapped her a pack of lard up for her birthday,for your arsehe’d said. Dick.
She’d laughed it off. She always made fun of herself to stop being bullied, and now, she’s taken that and made it into a career choice.
‘What did you say?’
‘I didn’t say anything, just replied pretending I was my own PA and attached the link to the ticket site. Oh and included him in one of my set pieces.’
‘Nice.’ I glance up at my watch. ‘Crap! Gotta go. I’m cleaning Riz’s in half an hour. Love you millions.’
‘Love you billions.’
2
MAGGIE
I pull out my phone, selecting my ‘songs to clean to’ playlist. ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ by Wham! blasts through my one working ear pod. An hour ago, Riz’s kitchen bin was full, the surfaces splattered with coffee grinds and dirty teaspoons and now? Lemony fresh, shining tiles, gleaming toaster. My sense of pride peacocks inside my chest, fluffing up like my feather duster as I close the kitchen door and make my way into the lounge, while trying not to question how I’m going to pay my rent next month without the five days a week atPillow Paradise!
Mrs Hancock, Riz to her friends, has wall-to-wall photos of every stage of her adventurous life. I pull out my microfibre cloth and go about dusting them. The pictures range from her in her twenties, a firm athletic body atop an elephant in Kenya; in an army green flak jacket as a photographer and war correspondent, cigarette between red lips; in her thirties holding an award, silver dress; her wedding day, garter showing as she sits on the back of a transport lorry. I take my time with each frame, with each piece of glass, making sure every stage of Riz’s life remains unblemished. I imagine myself in those scenarios. Riz’s chin is always slightly lifted, as though she’s challenging the world to take its best shot, whereas I keep my head down, avoiding the world as best I can. I’m also short rather than tall, my mouth is fuller, my nose isn’t as strong, and I have dark green eyes instead of light blue.
The only travelling I’ve got under my belt is a few wet weeks in Wales, which my foster mum, Hellie, had saved all year round to pay for. God, how I would love to travel to those kinds of places. I’ll be lucky if I can make it to China City down the road for a chicken chow mein, given I only have twenty-five pounds and fifty-three pence to last me until next Monday. And now, after Doug and his search for paperclips, I’m going to have to find another gig. Maybe Tess is right and I should set up my own company rather than working for other people.
On the plus side – I straighten a frame – I might not have enough to splash out on a takeaway, but I have a roof over my head that’s mine, a bedroom that I’m not sharing, and a job I love, when I’m not avoiding the likes of Doug and his roaming hands.
I look to the window where September hail is hailing on the Georgian panes. It’s a good job I’ve already set the timer on my heating so I can have a long bath before my last job of the day. I say job, but cleaning the local cinema and getting free entrance and snacks every Friday night is hardly what I would call work.
The playlist has flicked on to ‘White Wedding’ by Billy Idol and I sing along as I dust the rest of the surfaces. My finger catches on a piece of paper poking out of the top drawer of Riz’s dresser, and I reach over to put it away. My heart sinks as I read the words at the top of the letter:Dear Mrs Hancock, we are thrilled to confirm your placement at Heritage Retirement Home.Riz has been looking frailer lately, and I know she doesn’t have any living relatives. I close the drawer quickly as Riz shuffles into the room, the steel-framed walker making her progress slow. Even at eighty-four, her white hair is still thick, but it’s flat on one side; she must have been napping in her office. I unplug Henry and pull out my ear pod.
‘Do you want me to turn up the heating a bit?’ I rub my hands together. I’m cold… even in the summer, always feeling the need to have a jumper or coat on hand. I nod towards the window, landing my foot on Henry, the lead tidying away with a whoosh.
‘That would be wonderful, thank you, Mags.’ She pushes up her sleeves and begins manoeuvring herself. I step towards her high-backed chair, give the cushions a quick plump and stand back, not touching her. She grips the side of the walker, bracing herself as she releases the bar and reaches out towards the arm of the chair. I take a small step in her direction, but keep myself far enough away so we’re not touching. Riz flinches, a flash of pain crossing her features before being replaced with a look of frustration. Her eyes meet mine, defeat softening her gaze. ‘Would you be so kind as to give me a hand, Mags?’
