Monday to Friday Man by Alice Peterson

want a lodger?’ He winks at me.
    I need to pay my council tax. ‘I just thought it’d be a nice change,’ I say brightly.
    His T-shirt reveals him to be a Manchester United fan, and for a terrifying moment I imagine him switching channels from How to Look Good Naked to Match of the Day .
    ‘Shall I show you round?’
    ‘Great.’ He leaps out of his seat. ‘Show me the way.’ When I walk on ahead of him I have this sneaking suspicion that he could be checking out my arse.
    ‘It won’t take long,’ I joke. ‘So, as you can see, this is the sitting room.’
    ‘Nice,’ he acknowledges.
    Ruskin follows us as I show Roy the small loo on the ground floor followed by the bathroom on the upstairs landing. I stop dead. My washing is still hanging on the drying rail over the bath, rows of knickers on display. ‘Sorry.’ I blush. ‘On we go,’ I say, scuttling out of the room.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he winks. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve seen a pair of smalls.’
    Oh God. ‘What do you do, Roy?’
    ‘I’m a teacher, maths and science. For my sins,’ he adds.
    Immediate alarm bells ring. Their hours aren’t long enough. I don’t want someone pitching up at five in the afternoon. Maybe all I want each month is a cheque through the front door – but no Roy attached to the payment.
    ‘I got posted to this school in Ealing,’ he continues, ‘but my missus wasn’t keen on moving and it’s too far to commute from Devon.’
    ‘Oh, I see.’ But all I can see is Roy sitting on my sofa marking textbooks.
    I take him up upstairs into the spare bedroom. It’s a small room with a painting of a Spanish olive grove on the wall, shutters and a double bed with a spotty blue duvet cover.
    He sits down on the bed. ‘Comfy.’ He smiles suggestively. I look away.
    What am I going to do? I’m not going to show him my bedroom. He’s a bit of a creep, isn’t he? How can I say no? I might have to tell him that on the odd occasion he will have to share the bed with my father, and that my father suffers from bowel problems. Incontinence. My father will need the side closest to the bathroom. That ought to do it.
    He jumps up, rubs his hands eagerly. ‘So how’s about tomorrow then?’
    ‘Tomorrow!’ I shriek.
    ‘Yep. Whenever suits the lady of the house.’
    ‘Oh, Roy, I’m not sure. You see the thing is . . .’
    ‘I’m a really easy person to live with,’ he interrupts, ‘you’d hardly know I was here. All I want to do when I get back from work is put my trackie bums on and chill out, you know what it’s like,’ he says as he winks at me again. One wink breeds another. It’s a disease.
    At this critical emergency point my mobile vibrates in my pocket, alerting me that I have a new text message. I ask him if he’ll excuse me for just one minute, quickly dashing out of the bedroom and downstairs. I have a message from Anna. ‘How’s Mr MTFM going? X’ Will call her later. Right now I have to sort this out, I think, hearing Roy coming down the stairs.
    ‘Come over NOW,’ I text Gloria. ‘Pretend u r interested in No. 21’. SEND.
    Roy rejoins me and settles himself comfortably on my sofa when someone knocks at the door.
    ‘Sorry, Roy, I was going to say, I have this other person interested in the room too, so . . .’
    ‘Oh.’ He springs up and chucks the magazine onto the floor. ‘Sure. I’ll get my bike.’
    I feel guilty as I watch him wheel his chariot across my carpet but then again, could you live with someone who said trackie bums? No, I didn’t think so. Ruskin doesn’t want to either.
    I open the front door and Gloria bursts in, dressed in her shapeless T-shirt, black leggings, flip-flops and silver hair tied back in an Alice band. She couldn’t look less like a Monday to Fridayer if she tried.
    I shake her hand. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ I say, mouthing, ‘thank you.’
    ‘What a charming house,’ she enthuses, bustling in. ‘I’ll take it!’
    Roy pushes his bike