CLEANER: Chapter Eight - Part Two

DAHLIA

I hesitated before opening the front door, wary that I might draw it back to find myself facing somebody I knew: Katherine, Tommy, my brother, the milkman, anybody. I looked down at myself again, feeling my new self-image sink in that little bit deeper.

Then I walked away from the door and circled behind the stairs, heading for the side entrance. Partly because from the side of the house I could get a better view of the front approach; enough to dodge back if anybody was there. Partly because... because it suited my sordid little masquerade.

I opened the much smaller door and slipped out, creeping warily along the side of the house, relieved that no one was visible. I regarded my car: a sporty little cherry red convertible, wishing it weren’t so flashy; so incongruent with my new look. It was tempting to walk down to the bus stop as Melissa had done, but that sounded like too little control for my liking. At least for now. The car didn’t matter.

I got in and self-consciously drove it to the lip of the drive; looked both ways. The lane was clear. I checked my face in the mirror, getting a shiver of nervousness and pleasure to see my glasses, my dark fringe.

Was I really doing this?

It was about the craziest thing I’d ever done. But I wanted it so badly now, I didn’t think I could have turned round. I was going to do this and I wasn’t going to question it. If I wanted to throw up from the delayed stress when I got home, that was fine. For now I was one hundred percent in the moment. It was just like my TV appearances or walking down the catwalk. I had to suspend all fear, at least as long as the moment lasted.

I pushed down on the accelerator and turned out in the road.

Suddenly I was required to look at things further off than I was used to and the mild prescription on my glasses became a problem as my eyes struggled to adjust. I slowed, squinting, forcing my eyes to get used to it, punting along at a safe speed while they did so.

It was difficult for a moment – I almost reached to take them off – but as I persevered, I gained in confidence; the distance vision swept into better focus; the faster I felt I could drive.

I passed through the village and made my way down to the bridge into the back of Barton; took the turn, my nervousness stepping up a notch.

I wished I wasn’t driving my swanky car. If it wasn’t for that then I’d already look and feel exactly as though I lived here among the rundown buildings and dirty streets. Perhaps I should buy something cranky and second-hand... for if I dared to do this another time.

But of course I was going to do it again. It wasn’t a plan as such; not yet; but my body was alight. Why wouldn’t I want to repeat such an absorbing experience over and over as often as possible?

The streets were as narrow and difficult to navigate as ever but it was always easier to work one’s way in than out. The spiral of roads drew me in gradually; inexorably; until I reached the centre of Barton and the big open air car parks. I found a space quite far away from the shops and parked up, sitting for several minutes with my hands on the steering wheel before I could pick up enough courage to proceed.

My rate of breathing was elevated. I slowed it, closing my eyes, reminding myself of the inner calm I had decided on as I started my journey. It was harder than I expected, but not impossible. I was in control of this situation. I didn’t know anyone in Barton. Even if I saw someone, they would never recognise me in this get-up.

I turned off the engine and opened the door. Again I sat there, putting off the moment of egress as one minute became two and then three.

Then I got out, standing awkwardly on the gravel surface and looking out across the car park. There were a few people around. No one paid me particular attention. If they had, what would they have thought? What was a cleaning woman doing driving a convertible? Probably.

I paid for a parking ticket and put it on the dashboard then locked the car and stepped reluctantly away. I kept looking back as I drew off, the urge to return and get back inside strong. But I didn’t. I went on walking and as I did, my awareness of my mode of dress expanded again. The shabby off-white coat. The cleaner’s uniform showing underneath. The matching cheap-looking shoes. The swing of my bobbed hair as I walked. The glasses on my face distorting my vision.

More people were ahead through the gap into the street. Several people were emerging from the adjoining alley, walking toward me.

I tightened up, seeing them, knowing they would see me; potentially judge me. This was the moment, right now, when others would see me dressed in this ridiculous outfit; would recognise who I really was and laugh at me, or... or not.

But they barely even looked at me. They came closer and then passed by without even a glance at my face. The collision I had expected, one way or the other, ended without any kind of interaction really at all. It left me momentarily deflated, until I realised the profundity of the experience and a buzzing tingle ran from the back of my neck to my heels.

By their very indifference they had confirmed the validity of my disguise. They had shown no reaction in either direction because to them I was just another lowly Bartonite heading into town to do some shopping; a cleaner on her way home from her shift.

My transformation had worked! I had really become an ordinary woman as far as anyone else could tell.

And now it was time to immerse myself fully in that experience.