The Desperate Wife’s Survival Plan

by Alison Sherlock

Walking up to the front door, Charley was suddenly wracked with nerves. She had no idea why. It wasn’t going to be rocket science. She had cleaned her own home, hadn’t she? She took a deep breath. She would just get on with the job, take the money and get the hell out of there. How difficult could it be?

  Brushing off her anxiety, she rapped firmly on the front door knocker. A cacophony of barking exploded from inside the house and Charley took a step backwards. She heard the sound of a woman shouting amongst all the woofing and yapping. Gradually, the noise became muted before the front door was opened.

  ‘Are you the cleaner?’ boomed the middle-aged woman standing in the doorway.

  ‘Yes. Hello, I’m Charlotte.’

  The customer introduced herself as Miss Fuller and went back into the dark hallway.

  ‘Dogs are going mad for their walk,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Never had a cleaner before.’

  Despite the idyllic setting, the house was a mess of paperwork, boxes, dog baskets and general untidiness. It wasn’t filthy but it wasn’t pristine either. And the smell of dog was definitely in the air.

  ‘Blasted landlord has told me that I’ve got to keep the place tip-top. Can’t possibly move away at the minute. I’ve only just planted a new lot of potatoes.’

  Charley glanced out of the window and spotted four dogs tearing around the garden.

  Miss Fuller threw open the back door. ‘Leave those cabbages alone!’ she roared.

  She slammed the back door shut and led Charley on a tour. Front room, dining room, utility room, a couple of bedrooms which were mostly used for storage. And a grim bathroom which hadn’t seen a drop of bleach for decades.

  By now, Charley was seriously worried. She had only been allocated three hours. This house looked as if it needed three years spent on it.

  Back in the kitchen, Miss Fuller told her all the cleaning materials were under the sink. ‘Hoover’s in the hall cupboard. We’re off for our walk. Should be back in an hour. Just start wherever you like.’

  She left through the back door, calling the dogs as she went. ‘Herbert! Mozart! Come on, you lot! Desmond, I told you to get away from my cabbages!’

  Charley watched them recede out of sight and then turned to face the inside of the house. It was weird being alone in a stranger’s home. She felt unnerved, as if she were an intruder.

  With a sigh, she opened up the sink cupboard, grabbed a duster and some furniture polish and made her way to the front room. An hour later, she had dusted, scrubbed and cleaned as much as she could downstairs and was already exhausted.

  She trudged her way upstairs to the bathroom. Grimacing, she squirted cleaner around the dark rim inside the bath and stood well back to avoid the toxic aroma of bleach and chemicals. Then she scrubbed at the places where the chemicals had done their job, giving the bath a streaked effect. She was running out of time, with the bedrooms and vacuuming still to do. She would just have to get the bits she’d missed the following week, and hope Miss Fuller wouldn’t notice.

  Charley heard the back door slam and some movement in the kitchen.

  ‘Want a cup of tea?’ came a holler.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she shouted back, hoping the offer was for her.

  Next she heard the sound of scrabbling paws on the tiles in the hallway, followed by pounding on the carpeted stairs. Something was coming for her and there was nowhere to hide. Charley drew herself up to her full height and braced herself.

  A blur of yellow labrador rushed around the corner into the bathroom and leapt into her arms, knocking her down on to the floor. Pinned to the lino, she had no choice but to endure his rough licks and bad breath.

  ‘Herbert!’ came a shout from the doorway. ‘Stop that! Leave poor Charlotte alone.’

  The dog instantly abandoned Charley, leaving her free to struggle to a sitting position.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ boomed Miss Fuller. ‘Have your cup of tea.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she stammered, checking for broken bones as she stood back up and Miss Fuller strode downstairs again.

  Charley brushed herself down before catching her reflection in the mirror above the sink. What a mess! Her t-shirt was damp and appeared to have new white blotches where the bleach had splattered it. Her hair had escaped from its ponytail and was now framing her face in wild black curls. She peered closer and found one small curl coated with a dew drop of doggy saliva.

  She sank on to the side of the bath, staring down at her ragged hands. No longer manicured, no longer pristine. Slave-to-money hands. Cleaner’s hands.

  After gulping down her tea, she finished dusting the bedrooms and went downstairs to find the Hoover. She opened the hall cupboard and was greeted by a mess of coats, brooms and boxes.

  Pinning the ironing board back with one elbow, she held a broom high out of the way in order to make way for the Hoover. However, the broom handle dislodged a plastic tub on the top shelf and a large number of shoe-polish tins and brushes tumbled down around her. Charley shouted out in surprise and then pain as the tins bounced off her head. She screamed at the messy cupboard, screamed at the pain in her scalp and then screamed at her own wretched life.

  She sank to the floor. Wracking sobs appeared from nowhere, and once they started Charley found she couldn’t stem the tide. Her tears were dripping on to the lid of an old ice-cream box.

  She thought back to her lovely Gaggia Gelatiera ice-cream maker. To when her beautiful home had been filled with expensive things, as well as laughter and smiles. A time when it had been filled with the love between her and Steve.

  That all felt a very long time ago.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE CLUB HAD once been a large rundown pub in the High Street, but now it was the only cocktail bar in Grove. After its makeover, it was frequented by Upper Grove clientele who relished the long leather sofas, soft lighting and sophisticated atmosphere.

  Not that there was much sophistication amongst her work colleagues, thought Samantha, staring across to the dance floor with disdain. There was nothing worse than watching middle-aged people trying to be cool. Moves like Jagger? More like David Cameron, she thought.

  God, she was bored. All the oldies were bopping on the dance floor. All the youngsters were downing tequila shots at the bar. She had already had to endure a soggy pizza in the Italian restaurant down the road, stuck between snotty Miranda and the head of Human Resources who kept talking about work. Was this night never going to end?

  Or even begin, she wondered, her eyes flicking around the club trying to pick out Richard, the new Sales Director. She noted a few men looking in her direction but avoided making eye contact. She knew she looked fabulous. Her hair had behaved itself; the new blue bodycon dress clung to all the right places. Modesty was for other people. She was looking good.

  But it all felt such a waste. She took a sip of her Cosmopolitan, to relieve the boredom. Not that she ever got drunk. Samantha liked to be in control. She wasn’t going to let go and make a fool of herself like the others.

  ‘Hello.’

  The voice was so close to her ear that when she spun round, she found herself, finally, face to face with Richard.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, giving him the full benefit of her smile.

  He was standing very close to her. ‘Enjoying yourself?’

  I am now, thought Samantha. But she wasn’t going to rush this.

  ‘I was just watching the floor show,’ she said, nodding at their dancing colleagues.

  He followed her gaze. ‘Do you think they know how bad they look right now?’

  She gave a low, soft laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

  He turned back to sweep his eyes briefly over her before bending forward to whisper, ‘And do you know how good you look tonight?’

  She locked eyes with him before smiling. ‘Of course.’

  He smiled as he straightened up. ‘Well, I’ll probably take off soon. No rest for the wicked and all that.’

  She took a sip of her cocktail as he
continued to watch her. Stay cool, she told herself.

  ‘Do you want to share a taxi?’

  She tried to contain her excitement as she shook her head. ‘Thanks, but someone’s got to show them how it’s done, don’t you think?’

  She put down her glass on the nearest table and walked towards the dance floor. Once there, she forced herself to relax into the beat, her body swaying in constant, fluid motion.

  Finally, she moved her head to flick her hair behind her shoulders and glanced across to where she’d been sitting. Yes, he was still standing there, watching her, his eyes heavy with what she was certain was desire.

  She was desperate to share that ride home with him, knowing what would happen next. But a drunken kiss after the office party, followed by the inevitable embarrassment, wasn’t good enough for Samantha.

  Slowly, slowly, she told herself. Let him do the chasing. He’ll be worth the wait.

  Apparently the average four year old will ask over 400 questions a day. It was only ten o’clock in the morning and Flora was already on number 300. Or so it felt like to Caroline.

  ‘Why is it raining?’

  ‘Because the clouds have got moisture in them and need to let some of it go,’ replied Caroline, peering at the recipe book.

  ‘Why have the clouds got moisture?’ asked Flora.

  ‘Because some warm air has passed over the sea and made a cloud.’ Caroline stared down at the mixing bowl. She was certain she had measured the ingredients correctly, so why was her pastry congealing into a soggy mess?

  ‘Why was the air warm?’

  Perhaps if she added some more flour . . . or would that make the pastry too dry?

  ‘Mummy! Why was the air warm?’

  Caroline blinked and stared across at her daughter. ‘Because it was a lovely warm day. You know, like in summer when we go to the beach.’

  ‘Can we go to the beach?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not today.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s raining!’ Caroline took a moment to calm her agitated tone of voice. ‘It wouldn’t be much fun, would it?’

  ‘But why is it raining?’

  Thankfully Jeff came into the kitchen at that point. ‘Hello, lovely ladies.’

  ‘Daddy!’ shouted Flora, running up to him. ‘Can we go to the beach?’

  ‘Not today,’ replied Jeff, pouring himself out a mug of coffee. ‘Daddy’s got to work.’

  ‘But only this morning,’ said Caroline, with a smile.

  Her husband shook his head. ‘Just got an email requesting a full report. It’s going to take most of the day.’

  She frowned. ‘But we were all going out this afternoon.’

  ‘To the beach!’ shouted Flora.

  ‘No, not to the beach,’ said Caroline. ‘But maybe the park.’

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ said Jeff, turning to leave.

  Caroline marched up to him, her hands covered in raw pastry dough. ‘I thought you were going to spend some time with us this weekend,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Work’s got to come first,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You know how tight it is out there at the minute.’

  Caroline suddenly felt very weary. ‘But I could do with a break too.’

  ‘Well, switch the TV on,’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s not good for her,’ she replied, also keeping her voice low.

  ‘Didn’t you ever watch any Disney films when you were growing up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why is it so bad for Flora?’ Jeff gave her a small pinch on her bottom. ‘After all, you didn’t turn out so bad.’

  With a wink, he left the kitchen.

  Caroline sighed as she turned around. There was no way that pastry was going to turn out well. She smiled at her daughter. ‘How about a trip to the supermarket?’

  ‘Yay!’

  Julie finished work at four o’clock and headed home, looking forward to spending a couple of hours in the garden now that the evenings were becoming lighter.

  Perhaps once she had finished, she could sit down on the little wooden bench on the patio and admire her handiwork with a nice cup of tea. Or something even stronger.

  But as she swung her car into the driveway, she realised there was another one already parked up. Her son was home. She told herself she should be pleased but found, in reality, that she was filled with dread. She didn’t want an argument, or to listen to Nick’s lies that evening. She just wanted to potter in her garden undisturbed.

  ‘Nick?’ she called, as she opened the front door and walked inside.

  ‘Hello, Ma,’ he said, coming into the hallway.

  His black hair was long, almost to his shoulders. He was a tall, lanky lad – the same build as his father. Facially, he was like him too, with his large nose and pale complexion.

  Julie stared at her son for a moment. There had been no message, no contact from him since his grandmother’s funeral. The funeral which he had omitted to attend. She briefly considered voicing her anger but knew it would only lead to him spouting some excuse.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘Aren’t I allowed to visit my dear old mum?’ he said, sweeping her into an awkward hug.

  ‘You’re a bit late. Mother’s Day was last Sunday,’ she told him, once released.

  It had been a struggle, visiting her mother’s grave so soon after the funeral. Julie had placed a large pink rose on the newly dug ground and said a prayer for her mum. How she missed her.

  ‘I was gonna call,’ said Nick, following her into the kitchen. ‘But I didn’t have any credit.’

  ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked, filling the kettle.

  ‘We could always have something stronger to celebrate.’

  His words hung in the air as she dropped tea bags into the mugs.

  ‘Celebrate?’

  Julie’s heart sank. Her mind reeled as she tried to pick from the various options running through her head. Had he just escaped a lengthy jail term? Got a girl into trouble?

  ‘Look, I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘I know you’ve been blue since we lost Nan.’

  How would you know? thought Julie.

  ‘You’re rattling round this old house on your own.’

  Julie braced herself. She realised now what was coming.

  ‘So I’m gonna move in and keep you company for a while,’ said Nick.

  She nodded and smiled as she filled the mugs with hot water.

  Her Prodigal Son had returned. Unfortunately Julie wasn’t at all happy about it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, Charley braced herself for her next cleaning job. After the horror of cleaning Miss Fuller’s dog-filled house on Monday, she’d believed it couldn’t get much worse.

  But as the door opened she realised how wrong she had been.

  ‘Hi, I’m Charlotte. Your new cleaner.’

  Her words faltered as she stared at the blonde woman standing in front of her.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’ said the customer whose name was Mrs Benedict.

  Charley sighed. ‘I think we’ve met at the golf club. My husband was a member.’

  The woman’s eyebrows shot up as high as her Botox would allow. ‘Really?’ Mrs Benedict coolly appraised her. ‘Yes, I remember now. You’re the one with the shops, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did I hear something about bankruptcy?’

  Charley’s humiliation was complete. She was now a cleaner for someone with whom she used to share drinks at the golf club. Not that Mrs Benedict, or Martina as Charley had previously known her, had been a close friend. But they had been of equal social standing. Until now, that was.

  ‘How’s Gerry?’ asked Charley, as they went into the hallway.

  The woman glanced over her shoulder. ‘I think we’d better keep it as Mr and Mrs Benedict, don’t you? I’m not sure I want to be on first name terms with my staff.’

  Charley blanched at t
he word ‘staff’ before meekly following Mrs Benedict towards the kitchen. Once there, she was shown the cleaning products and quickly set to work.

  But each time she went into a new room, she found Mrs Benedict would quickly follow her. Charley would smile, silently willing her customer to leave her to get on with her work. But the woman wouldn’t budge and obviously expected Charley to carry on cleaning in front of her.

  She was wiping down the sink in the downstairs bathroom when Mrs Benedict appeared once more.

  ‘Have you everything you need?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Charley found she hated anyone watching her whilst she cleaned, especially the toilets and bathrooms. It felt so degrading. She wondered if there would ever be a time when she didn’t feel that way.

  The silence was unbearable so she made an effort at some small talk whilst she attacked the taps. ‘How old are your children?’

  ‘Bethany is six and Felix is eight. We’ve just taken him out of the local school. He’s showing intelligence far superior to the other children in his year so he’s gone private.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Bethany is more of a creative child.’

  Ah. So she wasn’t blessed in the brains department, translated Charley.

  ‘She’s a natural actress, though. Always the star of the school plays. Last term she shone as part of the forest in Narnia.’

  The child had been in the star role of a tree?

  ‘How lovely,’ said Charley, with a fake smile. She was an actress too.

  ‘You will wipe down the tiles, won’t you? And polish them?’

  Thankfully Mrs Benedict didn’t wait for any reply and left the room. Charley could then allow herself the exasperated eye rolling which she had been saving herself from.

  Eventually she had finished the majority of the rooms downstairs and headed up to the bedrooms. She felt exhausted. Cleaning was so much harder than it looked. She had renewed respect for poor old Cinderella, not least because she’d had an enormous castle to clean.

  She’d expected to enjoy cleaning the children’s bedrooms but these particular ones were slightly creepy. Although toys and drawings were in evidence, they were outnumbered by the amount of embroidered pictures hung on every wall. Love Thy Mother and Father, said the majority. Perhaps the kids needed reminding, thought Charley.