14

~ A quick way to clean your (empty!) kitchen bin is to use it as the bucket for your squeegee mop when you wash the kitchen floor. Fill with hot water and disinfectant, mop, rinse out, and voila, clean bin.

C leo asked me to call by the office before work on Friday, and I arrived at the same time as Elliot was leaving.

I could see Wes in the back of Elliot's car, in his school uniform and miles away, watching something on his iPad.

‘Hey, Elliot.' I raised my hand in a wave. ‘Recovered from the birthday celebrations yet?'

‘Robyn!' He smiled but something about his smile wasn't quite right. ‘Can't stop, I'm taking Wes to school. Cleo says go straight in.'

‘Everything all right with you?' I wanted Elliot to know not everyone in our family thought the worst of him.

‘All good!'

‘Work good?'

‘Yep!'

‘Family OK?'

His face clouded and I regretted asking.

‘Robyn, hurry up, I haven't got all day!' yelled Cleo, and I waved an apologetic goodbye to Elliot and headed up the stairs myself.

Cleo was alone in her office, but she wasn't on the phone or doing her emails. She was staring out of the window into the garden, and she looked upset.

‘Cleo! Are you …?' I started, concerned.

‘Before you ask,' she snapped, wiping an eye with the back of her hand, ‘this is nothing to do with Elliot, and I'm fine .'

‘If you say so.'

She turned away again, as if suddenly interested in next door's cat, which was stalking something in her rockery. Oh. It was next door's dog.

‘Shall I make you a coffee?' I asked, as I fancied one myself. A latte from Cleo's bean-to-cup machine put a fiver on my day's wages, once you took tax into account. I was slowly chipping back at the pile of pound coins in my mind that I'd spent on coffee in the last year.

‘Yes, please,' she said. ‘You know how I like it.'

I did. Five sugars. She was too embarrassed to ask anyone other than close family to make her a coffee and even then she didn't say it out loud.

By the time I'd spooned in half the sugar bowl, she'd recovered her composure and was back behind her control desk, the district cleaning commander once more.

I handed her the cup. ‘I saw Elliot on the way up. Everything OK with him?'

I was braced for a rant about how his present for Wes had fallen short of both educational and safety expectations, but it didn't come. ‘No, not really. I might as well tell you now – Rhiannon's been diagnosed with breast cancer. She's come back to the UK for treatment. She and Kev are staying with Elliot.'

‘Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that. Do the boys know?'

That was awful news. Elliot's sister, Rhiannon, was good fun and a great hairdresser. We'd all benefited from Rhi's balayage skills over the years, including Elliot and, controversially, Alfie.

‘I've told them as much as they need to know. The tests caught it early so fingers crossed, but …' Cleo sighed. ‘It makes you think, doesn't it?'

‘It does.'

She carried on staring into her cup, lost in thought.

I waited respectfully. I guessed this blew my non-job news out of the water. Was this what Cleo had summoned me to the office for? ‘Have you told Mum?' I asked, to break the silence.

She shook her head, then said unexpectedly, ‘Has Mum mentioned Grandad to you recently? Her dad, I mean?'

Grandad. It felt strange to call him that. He was more of a theoretical figure, more an ‘our mother's father' than Grandad. ‘No. Why?'

‘I was collecting Orson and Wes last night, and her phone rang while she was upstairs getting their things. I answered it for her, and it was someone called Gwen Thomas. Wanting to talk to her about her dad.'

‘Definitely her dad?'

Cleo nodded. ‘I passed the phone over, but when I told Mum who it was she just said, "Sorry, wrong number", and hung up. It wasn't though. This woman wanted to speak to her.'

‘Did she say what about?'

‘Not to me. The woman didn't say where she was calling from, and Mum didn't give her a chance to speak.'

How weird. ‘Did you try googling her name?'

Cleo gave me a boggling look that reminded me, rather endearingly, of the many ‘Robyn, you are so stupid' looks she'd bestowed on me in the past. ‘Gwen Thomas? Do you have any idea how many people there are called Gwen Thomas?'

‘So what's your best guess? Who is she?'

‘I have no idea. She could be his neighbour or his carer, or his second wife or his secret daughter. Literally, anyone.'

‘Maybe Grandad's ill? Maybe he's died?' I paused. We knew so little about Mum's family that the possibilities were limitless. Nothing was too random. ‘Maybe he's left Mum his massive EuroMillions fortune and a castle on the Isle of Man?'

‘My money's on ill,' said Cleo. ‘And that's what worries me.'

We stared at each other, gloomily. We'd overheard a few half-conversations in the past, but this time we were more than capable of filling in the missing parts with adult fears.

‘I've thought for a while that I need to know if there's anything in our medical history, for the boys' sakes as much as anything,' she went on. ‘Yes, it's painful for Mum, I get that, but her grandsons are here and now.'

‘Have you tried to talk to her about it? Maybe coming at it from that angle?'

‘I've tried a few times over the years. She just clams up, says there was nothing, everyone was very healthy.' Cleo huffed. ‘But how would she know?'

‘What about Dad? Might he know how to get in touch with … her dad?'

‘He just says, it's up to your mum. Won't get involved. He's so protective of her. And it's not just the health side of things. I wanted to ask her about …' Cleo bit her lip and looked away, and I knew there was something else she wasn't telling me. Something too private and painful to share.

‘What?' I pressed her, but she shook her head.

What was so bad that she wouldn't share it with her own sister? Panic ballooned in my chest. ‘Cleo, you would tell me if you were ill, wouldn't you? Or one of the boys?'

‘What? No.' Cleo's attention snapped back. ‘No, I'm fine.'

We held each other's gaze for a moment while she struggled with her own frustration, and I tried to think of something wise to say.

Then Cleo clicked her pen and resumed normal service. ‘So! When were you going to tell me about your news?'

‘My news?'

‘That you've got a new job.'

‘I haven't,' I said. ‘Who told you that? Mum?'

‘It slipped out.'

‘Yeah. Right.' I put my cup down, ready for the onslaught. ‘I thought I had a job, but it fell through. So, yes, I am available to clean for you for the foreseeable.'

Cleo frowned. ‘Explain.'

So I explained, and when I told her I'd been publicly shamed on TikTok, she sniggered and said, ‘What? Someone posted your Paddington screen test?' which I thought was below the belt.

‘I'm applying for others,' I said, haughtily. ‘I've got projects in the pipeline.'

‘Fine, fine. Just give me warning if you've got an interview, please, don't take the piss, be upfront – all that stuff we've talked about before. Be honest with me, it's all I ask.'

‘I will,' I said. ‘Brownie's honour.' I did the Brownie salute for good measure, which was ironic given the provenance of half of Cleo's badges.

‘I'm serious, Robyn.' Cleo fixed me with a piercing look. ‘Honesty. I expect other people to lie to me, Elliot and those bitches who stole my client list, and people who swear blind they never pour fat down their sinks, but if you and I aren't honest with each other …' She paused, and I saw a flash of the old Cleo, the big sister I'd loved to help in the rare moments she wasn't ruling the world. ‘Then everything's gone to shit, frankly.'

It was one of the nicest things she'd ever said to me.

‘I've learned my lesson,' I said, earnestly. ‘You can rely on me, Cleo.'

‘Good. Your job sheet's by the door. And wash the cups up on your way out.'

Jim and I didn't usually clean Nikki Nardini's holiday cottage but Cleo had added it to the end of our day's timetable. Nikki was a pal of hers from Women in Business, she'd noted, so we had to do it properly.

‘You'll like it,' Jim told me, as we pulled up outside. ‘It's so new that the dust hasn't had time to get in any cracks.'

Nikki provided a list she required us to tick off so she could say she'd met various hygiene specifications. It was even more detailed than the standard Taylor Maid checklist, but I'd stopped taking lists personally. They made things easier; you didn't have to think. I wasn't even offended that Nikki's had ‘flush loos' on it.

‘I'll start with the bathroom.' Jim nodded towards the stairs. ‘You do the kitchen.'

I propped the list on the windowsill and began cleaning but soon found he was right about how immaculate the place was; my cloths didn't get dirty as I wiped the surfaces. The hob was like a mirror. Even the pans were shiny.

As Jim went past, I caught his arm. ‘Look!'

‘What?' He turned round.

I opened the pull-out bin. It was empty, with a fresh bag inside. Then I opened the dishwasher: empty and turned off at the plug. ‘This place is spotless. Are you sure we're supposed to be here today? Don't holiday lets normally turn around on a Monday or Friday?'

My question was answered by the arrival of the flustered owner, Nikki, who was followed by a teenager wielding a camera. ‘Hello, hello!' she said. ‘I'm so sorry to interrupt. Is this a good time?'

People were always apologising for interrupting my cleaning. I don't know why. I never minded stopping.

‘Have we got the right day?' Jim enquired. ‘Everything seems to be clean already.'

‘Didn't you get the message? I thought I'd explained to Cleo.' She turned to the teenager. ‘Paige, do you want to take over from here, love? I'm very much in your hands, so to speak.'

Paige didn't need to be asked twice.

‘Hi, I'm Paige. I'm the photographer.' She held out her hand and shook ours. ‘Nikki's tasked me with creating some seasonally directional content for her website.'

Nikki nodded as if that was exactly what she'd told Paige.

‘So … you want us to light the log burner?' Jim guessed. ‘Move some tables around? Set up some coffee?'

‘Yeah, exactly that.'

Perfect, I thought. What a nice end to the day, making coffee and moving a table.

‘Actually,' Paige went on, ‘what would be awesome would be if I could use you in some shots? We need something to give guests an idea of what they might use the space for, you know, catching up with friends, romantic weekend in the countryside …' She waved a hand around.

‘Do you mind standing in for that?' Nikki enquired. ‘Cleo said it would be all right.'

‘Did she?'

I glanced at Jim. He didn't seem to be acknowledging the major problem, which was that we were both wearing red boilersuits.

‘There would be a model fee,' Nikki added, in case that was the problem. ‘Bottle of wine each?'

‘We're not exactly dressed for it,' I pointed out. ‘Unless you want your holiday cottage to look like it's also an indoor tyre-fitting centre.'

Nikki laughed more than that joke deserved.

Jim turned to me. ‘You've got your clothes in a bag in the van,' he pointed out, which was true. I didn't leave my home dressed like I'd escaped from the Crystal Dome. I had standards. ‘I've got a change of clothes too.'

‘Have you?' Jim was always in his overalls. If I hadn't seen him in the office that first day, I'd assume he slept in them. ‘Why?'

‘I'm going somewhere after work.' Jim looked evasive, but before I could ask him why, my phone rang.

It was Cleo. I went outside to take it, and Jim followed me.

‘Everything going OK with Nikki's shoot?' she asked.

‘You might have warned me,' I said.

‘I didn't want to give you the chance to say no,' she said breezily. ‘Anyway, you two are the best team for the job.'

‘What makes you say that?'

‘Because you know about angles and lighting and whatnot, and Jim looks like the sort of person who can afford to rent Nikki's overpriced holiday cottage. Have you seen how much she charges? It's outrageous.'

I frowned. ‘You're on speakerphone.'

‘I'm not offended,' said Jim.

‘But I am,' I said in a Nikki Nardini voice. I think she was from Edinburgh or thereabouts. Which was good because that was the only Scottish accent I could do.

‘I know that's you, Robyn,' said Cleo.

Paige appeared at the front door. ‘Can we start with the sitting room? I need some help with the sofa.'

‘Sure!' Jim seemed relieved to have a task, and I volunteered to arrange the board games. Making an artistic mess was something I was good at.

Paige buzzed around taking different photos of the furniture then instructed me and Jim to pretend we were playing Trivial Pursuit as part of a fun weekend away.

‘You'll need to get changed,' she reminded Jim, and pointed to the downstairs bathroom.

I made another pot of tea – for set-dressing purposes, obviously – while he was changing. I'd already taken off my overalls and was back in my jeans and a white T-shirt, fortunately one that didn't need ironing. Nothing I owned needed ironing.

Nikki had done a great job with the cottage, I thought, admiring the dove-grey walls punctuated with original oak beams and tasteful engravings. The sort of country nest you'd enjoy pretending was yours for a weekend, without the stress of wondering how you'd cope with no storage or mains drainage.

‘Is this OK?'

Jim reappeared in the doorway and it took my brain a moment to process that it was actually him, and not some passing stranger.

It could have been a stranger. It wasn't the Jim I mopped floors with nor the Jim I'd met in the office on my first day. This Jim was wearing dark blue jeans and a checked shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, with a pair of dark suede trainers. Everything fitted him well, and somehow the clothes changed his whole face. He looked years younger, for a start. I noticed for the first time that his eyes were blue, not grey. A slatey blue.

Where did he go to wear those clothes? I wondered. Why were they in the van? Was he going somewhere or was that just his off-duty wardrobe? Was there someone at home who'd chosen that shirt, someone who'd bought him that belt for Christmas? Something twisted inside as I tried to imagine Jim's girlfriend.

Paige interrupted my train of thought. ‘Great, can you sit there?' She began arranging us. ‘So, pretend you've just got a question right. Hold this.' She handed me a mug. ‘And you, you're asking the questions.' She shoved the question cards at Jim, and stood back. ‘OK, go.'

Where was the light in this room? I angled my face to find the most flattering light and started improvising Fun Weekend Away with some pretend quiz answers. ‘Is it "Daydream Believer" by the Monkees? 1977! Anna Mae Bullock!'

Jim looked at me as if I was mad. I nodded for him to smile and he adopted a nervous rictus grin. The clothes hadn't changed him entirely: he was still about as far from relaxed as it was possible to be.

‘Come on!' I said, gaily. ‘Ask me another! This weekend away was a great idea! I'm having enormous fun.'

‘Why are you moving around like that? You're making me feel seasick.'

‘It's to keep the photos natural,' I said. ‘It helps, try it.'

Jim shuffled on the sofa as if he was trying to dislodge a wedgie without using his hands.

‘Stop, stop, stop,' said Paige. ‘One of you's having fun, the other's just heard their dog's died.'

‘I'm smiling,' Jim protested. ‘This is my normal face.'

‘Really?'

We tried it with me asking the questions, Paige shooting from behind Jim, but it was no use. His shoulders remained tense, his arm lay stiffly along the back of the sofa. He winced when she showed us the thumbnails so far.

‘I'm going to make some tea.' Paige eyed Jim critically. ‘See if that helps.'

When she'd gone, we made ‘wtf' faces at each other. Jim seemed crestfallen about what he'd just seen on Paige's camera.

‘Do I really look like that?' he asked.

‘Like what?'

‘Like …' he winced. ‘Like someone's weird uncle. Why is it so hard? You look like a normal human being.'

‘Thanks.' I offered him a biscuit from the tin Nikki had provided. ‘Just pretend to be someone else. OK, here's a game we used to play …' I was about to say, ‘On a new set', but changed my mind at the last minute. That wasn't a conversation for now. ‘I'm going to ask you a question, but you have to answer it with another question. Don't think too hard, just say whatever comes into your head. Loser has to eat a biscuit. Right, I'll start, where did you get those jeans?'

‘Why? Is there a problem with them?'

‘No! I mean,' I racked my brains for another question that maybe didn't sound so loaded. ‘Are those your favourite jeans?'

He regarded me quizzically. ‘How many pairs of jeans do you think I have?'

‘Would I be in the right ballpark if I said you had … one pair of jeans?'

‘Would you judge me harshly if I said I preferred chinos?' Jim parried my questions smoothly, like a table tennis player.

‘Don't you think you're a bit young for chinos?'

‘How old do you think I am?'

‘Were you born in …?' I did some quick mental maths. If Jim was about thirty-eight, minus five years to be flattering, that would make him born in … ‘1990?'

He screwed up his face. ‘ What grade did you get in your Maths GCSE?'

‘A C,' I admitted. ‘But I missed a few lessons.'

Jim pointed at me. I realised I'd fallen into my own trap.

‘You got me.' I ate a biscuit from the plate. They were good biscuits, oaty and buttery.

‘1985,' said Jim, while I was trying to think of a new question.

He didn't have to tell me that. He wanted me to know.

‘Too young for chinos,' I said. ‘You should get another pair of those jeans, they suit you.'

He looked pleased. Flattered.

It took me by surprise.

‘Much better,' said Paige out of nowhere. I hadn't even noticed she'd started shooting again. ‘Can you give me some breakfast vibes now?'

‘Breakfast vibes?'

I shrugged. Something was keeping me and Jim on the sofa. ‘I think she means she wants us to make toast,' I said, and forced myself up.

We followed her into the kitchen and started messing around with the toaster and kettle.

‘What did Cleo mean when she said you had experience with cameras?' asked Jim.

‘Are you asking for the game, or because you want to know?'

‘Is there a difference between those two options?'

I offered him a plate with a croissant on it. Should I tell him? Mitch loved hearing about the famous people I'd met (and had asked more than once now if I was still in touch with any of them), but I knew Jim would focus in on the career progression. Why I wasn't acting any more? What went wrong? He might even offer me advice on fixing it.

‘Here's another game,' I said. ‘You tell me three facts about yourself, two made up, one true, and I'll see if I can guess which is which.'

‘OK.' He frowned. ‘I represented the Isle of Wight at U11s cricket, I was on Mastermind with the works of Tolkien as my specialist subject, I used to be a model.'

‘Seriously?' I could believe any of those to be true. ‘Erm, the Mastermind one is true?'

Jim seemed affronted. ‘What? I look like someone who reads Tolkien? Thanks.'

‘The cricket?'

Paige was moving around us in the background, no longer giving us instructions.

‘Too slow for me.'

‘You were never a model! How come you're so bad at this then?' That sounded a bit rude. ‘I mean, what were you modelling?'

‘I was at a conference in California with colleagues, and the hotel asked if they could use us in publicity photos.' Jim leaned on his elbow; it wasn't very convincing ‘relaxing'. ‘I had to pose in the hot tub with my boss's wife as if we were on honeymoon.'

‘No!' Jim. A hot tub. A boss. California. A portal had opened into Jim's other life and information was flooding in. My mind reeled, trying to process everything. ‘Where was your boss?'

‘Right there next to us.' He grimaced. ‘Apparently, they "didn't look like a couple".'

‘And you two did? In the hot tub? How did that work out?' Jim, in a hot tub, pretending to be on honeymoon. What an … unsettling thought.

‘It went about as well as this is going.'

‘And how was the flight back?'

‘Terrible,' said Jim. ‘Absolutely terrible.' There was a pause, then he flashed me a brief grin that hinted at a mischief that I'd never imagined, let alone seen in him.

Then the smile was gone and serious Jim was back again.

I missed the smile already.

‘This is great,' said Paige. ‘Can you sit down at the table now?'

Jim pulled out a chair for me and said, ‘OK, your turn. And it has to be as embarrassing as that, please.'

‘Ah …' I pretended to think. My heart had sped up. ‘My voice has been dubbed into forty languages, I can juggle fire sticks, I'm banned from every Starbucks in the west country.'

‘Wow. One of those is true ?'

I nodded, delighted – despite myself – at the intrigue in his expression.

Jim scrutinised my face, as if the answer was in my eyebrows, my nose, my lips. I had to drop my gaze as his eyes slowly travelled over me.

‘OK. So, I'm going to go for … Starbucks?'

I shook my head.

‘Really? OK, um … the … fire sticks?'

I was vaguely aware of Paige moving around but I think we'd both more or less tuned her out.

‘Nope.' I pointed at the biscuits.

‘I don't get it.'

‘I was in a film and my voice was dubbed into forty languages.'

‘Get away!' Jim looked curious. ‘What kind of film?'

I told him. He laughed. I felt pleased.

‘I feel like there's a bigger story there.' He tilted his head, encouragingly.

‘Upstairs?' said someone behind us.

We turned round.

‘Upstairs,' said Paige. ‘We need to do the bedrooms.'

We moved upstairs, and Jim started the question game again, with an opening, ‘Is this the weirdest job you've ever done?' Mostly we were trying to catch each other out or make each other laugh – ‘If you were an animal what would you be?' (me, squirrel; Jim, stag) ‘What's your favourite smell?' (me, fresh bread; Jim, rain) – but now and again I caught him looking at me curiously, and wondered whether his opinion of me was changing.

I'd always had a weakness for quick-witted men and Jim volleyed my questions back with elegance, barely giving me time to think. It was properly fun, so much so that I didn't really notice what Paige was doing until she thrust some fluffy white dressing gowns at us, and said, ‘Here, put these on.'

That brought us to an abrupt stop. ‘What?'

‘I'd like some shots of you bringing her a breakfast tray in bed.'

Wow. Weirdly, tea in bed felt more intimate than if she'd asked us to pretend to cosy up on the sofa.

I turned to Jim, trying to laugh it off. ‘What's the chances of that, eh? Two fake romantic holiday photoshoots.'

‘I'm not sure…'

‘You don't have to take any clothes off,' said Paige, impatiently. ‘Just put the dressing gown on. Please. We're almost done.'

Jim and I exchanged glances. For a moment, I thought he was going to refuse. Was he wondering if I was going to refuse?

‘I'll go and make a pot of tea,' he said.

While Paige took photos of the blinds up, then the blinds down, I slipped into the bathroom and checked my face in the mirror. My mascara was smudgy but my eyes were bright and I had a glow out of proportion to the quick touch-up job I'd done on my make-up using whatever I had in my bag.

I wasn't expecting to see Jim already back upstairs – and also in a dressing gown. It was shorter than mine, finishing just under his knees, and his legs and feet were bare. He had really attractive calves, long and muscular. Lightly tanned.

I dragged my gaze away, then glanced back, then looked away again, making a point of admiring the wallpaper.

‘I tried it with him in clothes but it looked weird,' Paige explained. ‘Like you were ill, not on holiday. Right, you perch on the side of the bed and he'll bring the tray over.'

I smiled up at him for the camera, but that made me feel even stranger – Jim, bearing down on me with breakfast in bed – and my eyes dropped back to his ankles, leading down to long, strong feet. Normal feet. Bare feet. For some reason I kept picturing them wet in the shower, walking through sand on holiday somewhere hot.

Jim lowered the tray onto the crisp white duvet; there was a chintzy teapot, two mugs and a vase with a rose in it.

‘Is this how you normally serve tea in bed?' I asked, trying to sound light, but my imagination was stuck on an image of Jim's feet on a sandy beach, his legs in Bermuda shorts. A Panama hat, a long unbuttoned linen shirt.

Stop it, I told myself. Come on, a question about … tea? Milk in first? Or …?

He beat me to it. ‘Is there anything nicer,' he asked, ‘than a cup of tea in bed?'

‘Someone bringing it to you?' Oh wait, that sounded a bit suggestive. Too late.

‘Having someone to bring it to?'

Our eyes met and I couldn't look away. Neither could he. A smile, cautious yet devastatingly confident, played at the corners of Jim's mouth. We didn't move for a moment, as if neither of us was completely sure what had just happened.

‘That's great,' said Paige, unwittingly coming to our rescue. ‘I've got everything I need, you can get dressed now.'

I gingerly hopped down off the bed while Paige moved the furniture back into place. Jim had already departed with his tray.

I let out a long, silent breath.

In the course of my acting career I'd pretended to be a Victorian detective, a trainee witch, a chorister and various kinds of dead. Nothing had been as weird as that.

Thank goodness it was Friday night.