Charley. ‘Your first customer.’
‘Really?’
The phone rang again.
‘Gosh, it’s busy today.’ Patricia picked up the phone. ‘Grove Cleaners, how may I help you? . . . I beg your pardon? . . . Fanny, is that you? Calm down, dear.’
She rolled her eyes and sighed in an exaggerated manner.
‘I can’tunderstand you. Stop shouting. Fanny . . . can you hear me?’
Then Patricia lost her temper.
‘Fanny! What the bleeding ’ell is going on there?’ All traces of the cut-glass accent had gone. In its place was pure cockney. ‘Well, what do you want
me
to do about it? Empty the bloody Hoover bag, you silly mare! If the blasted guinea pig’s not in there, then you’re in the clear. If it is, nip downthe pet shop and get another. What? I dunno. A tenner? No, of course I’m not going to pay for it. You Hoover up the family pet,
you
bloody pay for it!’
Patricia slammed down the phone and turned back to face Charley.
‘These bloody girls! Some of them are so thick . . .’ She caught Charley’s wide-eyed stare. ‘The customers like the posh accent, sweetheart. Makes them think they’re not going toget some deadbeat like Fanny cleaning their homes. So, whaddya think? You game for this cleaning lark or what?’
That was it. Interview over. Charley had a job.
Chapter Twelve
‘ NO WIFE OF mine is going to be a bloody cleaner!’ shouted Steve.
‘For God’s sake!’ screamed Charley. ‘I will not have this row over and over with you. It’s a job!’ She put her hands on her hips and scowled at her husband. ‘Which is more than you’ve got at the minute.’
He stomped out of the lounge, leaving Charley to finish packing the box in front of her. She had stuck a fewphotographs on the walls to keep up the impression of normality but with the house now almost devoid of furniture, they looked ridiculous. She plucked the last of the photographs down from the wall and stared at the picture of a happy couple getting married. Steve was looking uncomfortable in his suit; Charley was swamped by a meringue of cheap ivory silk. But they were grinning like idiots, youngand in love.
It had been a happy day, if perhaps a little soon after the beginning of their relationship. If you could call six months of sex in the back of his Fiat a relationship.
At the age of eighteen, Steve still lived with his tyrant of a mother. She was a scary religious nut who went even nuttier when he’d told her that Charley had accidentally become pregnant. One row followed another.By the time she miscarried at eleven weeks, the church had been booked and there was no going back. So they said their vows and got married.
Steve’s meteoric rise in the local fashion trade took them both by surprise. On the advice of a mate, he had borrowed some money from the bank and set up a small shop selling knock-off clothing. By some kind of miracle, the clothes were popular and peoplestarted to come into the shop in droves. The bottom had begun to drop out of the housing market and customers were looking for cheap ways of staying fashionable.
In those days Charley helped out in the shop at the weekends and it had been fun . . . certainly different from the boring office work she was used to. Steve made all the business deals and she worked the till. Then they had become ambitiousand decided to open a second shop. She gratefully gave up her office job as the money began to roll in. Two more shops were added to their empire in as many years.
But when had their ambition turned to greed? Was that when it had all begun to slip away from them? Now they had nothing, she thought as she dropped the last photograph into the box. Nothing but each other. They were back to wherethey had started.
She carried the box into the kitchen and set it on the floor, next to the counter top. Glancing at the clock on the oven, she realised it was time to leave for her first cleaning job. Patricia had told her that it would take a week or so to build
‘Really?’
The phone rang again.
‘Gosh, it’s busy today.’ Patricia picked up the phone. ‘Grove Cleaners, how may I help you? . . . I beg your pardon? . . . Fanny, is that you? Calm down, dear.’
She rolled her eyes and sighed in an exaggerated manner.
‘I can’tunderstand you. Stop shouting. Fanny . . . can you hear me?’
Then Patricia lost her temper.
‘Fanny! What the bleeding ’ell is going on there?’ All traces of the cut-glass accent had gone. In its place was pure cockney. ‘Well, what do you want
me
to do about it? Empty the bloody Hoover bag, you silly mare! If the blasted guinea pig’s not in there, then you’re in the clear. If it is, nip downthe pet shop and get another. What? I dunno. A tenner? No, of course I’m not going to pay for it. You Hoover up the family pet,
you
bloody pay for it!’
Patricia slammed down the phone and turned back to face Charley.
‘These bloody girls! Some of them are so thick . . .’ She caught Charley’s wide-eyed stare. ‘The customers like the posh accent, sweetheart. Makes them think they’re not going toget some deadbeat like Fanny cleaning their homes. So, whaddya think? You game for this cleaning lark or what?’
That was it. Interview over. Charley had a job.
Chapter Twelve
‘ NO WIFE OF mine is going to be a bloody cleaner!’ shouted Steve.
‘For God’s sake!’ screamed Charley. ‘I will not have this row over and over with you. It’s a job!’ She put her hands on her hips and scowled at her husband. ‘Which is more than you’ve got at the minute.’
He stomped out of the lounge, leaving Charley to finish packing the box in front of her. She had stuck a fewphotographs on the walls to keep up the impression of normality but with the house now almost devoid of furniture, they looked ridiculous. She plucked the last of the photographs down from the wall and stared at the picture of a happy couple getting married. Steve was looking uncomfortable in his suit; Charley was swamped by a meringue of cheap ivory silk. But they were grinning like idiots, youngand in love.
It had been a happy day, if perhaps a little soon after the beginning of their relationship. If you could call six months of sex in the back of his Fiat a relationship.
At the age of eighteen, Steve still lived with his tyrant of a mother. She was a scary religious nut who went even nuttier when he’d told her that Charley had accidentally become pregnant. One row followed another.By the time she miscarried at eleven weeks, the church had been booked and there was no going back. So they said their vows and got married.
Steve’s meteoric rise in the local fashion trade took them both by surprise. On the advice of a mate, he had borrowed some money from the bank and set up a small shop selling knock-off clothing. By some kind of miracle, the clothes were popular and peoplestarted to come into the shop in droves. The bottom had begun to drop out of the housing market and customers were looking for cheap ways of staying fashionable.
In those days Charley helped out in the shop at the weekends and it had been fun . . . certainly different from the boring office work she was used to. Steve made all the business deals and she worked the till. Then they had become ambitiousand decided to open a second shop. She gratefully gave up her office job as the money began to roll in. Two more shops were added to their empire in as many years.
But when had their ambition turned to greed? Was that when it had all begun to slip away from them? Now they had nothing, she thought as she dropped the last photograph into the box. Nothing but each other. They were back to wherethey had started.
She carried the box into the kitchen and set it on the floor, next to the counter top. Glancing at the clock on the oven, she realised it was time to leave for her first cleaning job. Patricia had told her that it would take a week or so to build
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