CLEANER: Chapter Three - Part Five

DAHLIA

This time when I went to the cleaning cupboard under the stairs I went in and closed the door after me.

It was silent in there amid the clutter. Every bit of the space was filled. There were boxes of cleaning products with the first few items already used. There was every tool of a cleaner’s trade; all top of the line of course – kept well-stocked by my assistant Katherine. It was nice to be closed in. This was such a “forbidden” area for me. To be in here, dressed as I was, really brought the make-believe alive. It was easier to imagine I was just a cleaner; just an ordinary woman.

The rubber gloves were there on the makeshift table. I picked them up and examined them. I'd never worn a pair in my life but I'd seen them on women working for me over the years. I pulled one on, enjoying the unfamiliar constriction around my hand. Then I pulled on the other.

There was a mirror on the back of the door. I looked at myself in it, feeling nervous at these badges I was wearing of my temporary office: the gloves, the dress, the shoes.

But the image still disappointed me. My hair and face were too glamorous; my figure too slim. It was the old adage about a beautiful woman looking good wearing a sack. I still looked too much like myself; like the model I'd been for all my adult life and most of my teenage years.

I wished my hair was dark, like Melissa’s. I wished I were as fat as her. I wished I had her glasses on. If only there were some way to swap bodies, just for the morning; to really become one another. The aspiration for perfection. It had carried me into a career as a super model but it had hit a wall here. That was impossible.

But I could imagine. And I could dream...

I picked up the mop and bucket and filled it with hot soapy water from the sink in my little room then took it out to the long corridor. That needed a good clean. I set the things down and took the mop, thinking back to Monday morning when Tommy was there; when Melissa had been the one mopping. It had been that which started me thinking and now I was doing it myself: swabbing the floor one way and then the other rhythmically. Forward, back, side to side, forward, back, side to side.

It was relaxing. It was nice. And it was so good to immerse myself in this moment; to be the cleaner.

As I worked I kept catching glimpses of my new drab shoes; my dress; the rubber gloves. Every time I did I got a little thrill of make-believe become real.

I worked my way up the corridor, putting my back into it, wringing out the mop periodically then getting down to it again. Steam rose from the tiles in the wake of the mop and I started to get hot. I was fit but this was a different kind of exercise than I was used to. It was working muscles I didn’t know I had. I began to perspire and then paused for a rest, leaning on the stick.

I imagined Melissa or Katherine finding me like that and shouting at me to get back to work and then scrubbed on, pretending I was doing as I was told.

I started to approach the lounge doorway. I could hear the television. Melissa was in there watching. In a minute I would come into her view in the doorway. The idea of that both scared and titillated me. Melissa had been right to suggest that she come downstairs. It did add to it a lot. The closer I got to being seen by her, the hotter I felt; the more I felt myself in the moment; just a cleaner doing her job.

Would she see me there? Surely she would. Would we make eye contact? Would I break that contact first, embarrassed to be shirking my duties? Would I keep working hard as she watched me? Would she go on watching me or turn with disinterest back to her program? I was only a cleaner after all. What possible interest could I have to a woman like her?

Just before I got level with the door I tensed, reluctant. The water in the bucket was too cool. I ought to go and refill it. Or I should move to the kitchen – work in there instead. My mind suddenly had more than half a dozen different reasons to avoid going that extra yard up the corridor.

But I had to do it. Of course I did. It was my job. I would be in trouble if I didn’t finish the whole floor.

I took a deep breath then pushed forward, seeing the opening to the door in my peripheral vision. I didn’t look into the room but I could sense Melissa’s gaze turning to me. My face went beetroot red but I kept mopping, knowing that she was watching me; feeling she was judging me. But I couldn't stop. I had to do my job. I had to do it well. My boss might tell me off if I didn’t do it well enough.

 

Now go and take a look at my new serial, THE SIXTH GUEST.