By Diane Broughton

The familiar smell of burnt toast greets me as soon as I open the door to her apartment. She must have been running late again. Sure enough, there is the toaster on its side, a volcanic spew of charred crumbs spread across the kitchen worktop, a half drank cup of coffee abandoned amongst the debris.

I do a quick reset to gauge the scale of the task today. Besides the decimated toaster, the worktop is populated with those neat little cardboard boxes that look like gifts. The dishwasher is half full of plates with days’ worth of congealed food. The bins are full. The cooker top is clean, but the microwave looks a bit suspect. As ever the fridge is pristine and almost empty, aside from some ‘milk’ and some kind of butter substitute. I’ll soon have it have it all spick and span again.

I have noticed that when I get a new client, they often attempt to clean up before I come. This usually falls by wayside after a while. However, Ms. Pritchett never made any such attempt, for which I admire her really. I’m being paid to do a job, and it’s a job that I am very good at. I don’t need someone to prepare the ground and there is no need for embarrassment about the general messiness of our lives.

In the bathroom, there’s the usual pile of bunched up wet towels on the floor. How many towels does one person need? Though I do remember our bathroom looking like it had been hit by a tsunami after my two boys had finished with it.

The bedsheets are smeared with something that looks like jam but is probably some kind of fruit – coulis I think they call it. I watch a lot of cooking programs, and I think a coulis would be more in keeping with Ms. Pritchett’s lifestyle. I must admit that since I’ve been cleaning here, I sometimes indulge myself with some tea and toast in bed. I’ve even bought myself one of those miniature brush and dustpans they use in restaurants to deal with the crumbs. I’d never have thought of doing it before until I saw the evidence of her weekend breakfast habits. I pick up the book on her bedside table. What’s the latest self-help tome is she reading?

“Women Who Give Too Much”

How much is too much, I wonder? Life is all about give and take really. It’s all a question of balance. She will soon add it to the neat row of books above her bed on the topic of self-improvement.

I put on the washer and pour myself a cup of tea from my flask. Ms. P has a vast array of tea, aside from the regular one that I drink, and her ‘milk’ is not actually milk. I only met her once, at the interview. It must be three years ago now. A confident young woman with a beautiful face but one that was not much prone to smiling I noted. Extremely specific about what she wanted but I don’t mind that. More importantly she would pay me by direct debit every month and I’ve always received a nice little Christmas bonus.

“I’m not just a cleaner,” I told her.

“I’m a business owner. I run a small cleaning business with several long-term clients. All above board, tax and insurance paid.”

She liked that as I knew she would. It keeps things transactional, and it helps with the client guilt factor I find.

When I strip the bed of its finest Egyptian cotton bed linen, 1000 thread count, I find a teddy bear squashed down the side of the bed. He looks quite worn but he has a cute little face. Really? How old is she? But maybe it’s her childhood teddy. It reminds me of my youngest child, carrying around his teddy with him everywhere. How upset he was when I put Ted in the wash until I told him Ted was having an adventure on the water flume. “Whoo, whoosh! Look how much fun Ted is having!”

Before I start the ironing, I ask Alexa to play some Nat King Cole, and I sing along. My late husband introduced me to Mr. King Cole, and he’s been my favourite singer ever since. I save ‘When I Fall in Love’ for the last item of ironing. When it comes to the minor section, take a deep breath and really belt it out

“And the moment I can feel that

You feel that way too” …

Just then the doorbell rings. She must have been having a difficult day as she usually lets me know if she’s expecting a delivery. A young man stands in the doorway holding a large bouquet of flowers and looking a bit sheepish.

“Delivery for Ms. Pritchett?”

“Thank you, they’re beautiful,” I say, as if I’m the lucky recipient and why not?

I can’t resist taking a peek at the card, nestled in amongst the foliage,

“Sorry things didn’t work out. Thanks for everything, Matthew.”

Oh dear, what a thing to come home to. For poor Ms. P it seems like love really is ‘ended before it’s begun’. I decide it’s not appropriate to put the flowers in a vase but it seems a shame to let them wither. I fill the sink and place the end of the stems under water. She’ll probably just put them in the bin and who could blame her really?

I have a last check around to make sure everything is shipshape. Poor little Ted lies abandoned on her bedside chair. I pick him up and tuck him in on the pillow beside her.

                                                                      *   *   *

Diane Broughton lives in London, UK. She is a former librarian, an  avid reader and a lover of short stories. Having focussed on critical writing throughout her career, she is now able to explore the realm of writing short fiction herself.