18

~ Clean up stained teapots with a couple of denture tablets dropped inside, with hot water. And buy a spout brush.

I suppose if I'd been petty, I could have shoved Cleo's bucket where the sun didn't shine, but I didn't want to let Jim down, plus I needed money for clothes, so I arranged for Jim to collect me as usual on Monday morning. Still outside Molly's Bakehouse, though. I still didn't want to be seen in the overalls.

The week went by without any major drama. My last job as a Taylor Maid was at the Armstrongs' and it felt appropriate to finish there, since of all the houses I'd worked in over the past weeks, it had taught me the most. There had been such a challenging variety of chaos to smooth out: food-pocked work surfaces, scribbled-on walls, sticky floors, Lego clumps on every surface, unpleasant smells that had to be sourced and then eradicated … The list was endless, and the temporary order we achieved collapsed back into chaos between each visit. It was like some sort of mythological punishment, the Constant Tidying of Coleridge Terrace.

Still, now I knew how much Sally Armstrong relied on our efforts, I couldn't judge. We were making a difference, not just in her house, but in her head.

‘Last job!' said Jim, as he unlocked the door.

‘So kind of you to save the best for last,' I said. ‘Something to remind me that no matter how messy my own house is, I'll never have to scrape pancake batter off my light fittings.'

‘Never say never,' he reminded me, and pushed the door open.

I could tell something was wrong before we even set foot in the black and white tiled hall.

The house smelled … different.

I took a deep breath. No damp laundry, no soggy stir-fry left in the wok from the previous night.

No bikes thrown against the wall, no bags of cricket kit, books or broken umbrellas.

Well, one bike. But the helmet was in a bag, not abandoned on a doorknob like a black skull.

Was this definitely number 33?

I looked at Jim. ‘Did they have someone in this morning?'

‘Not as far as I know.' He pointed under the stairs. ‘Was there a shoe rack there on Monday?' Three rows of shoes were lined up in demure order, tiny trainers to giant football boots.

Jim and I commenced cleaning in what I can only describe as a wary fashion, just in case a hidden camera team leaped out at us. Instead of tackling half the house, we managed to do nearly all of it in the hours allotted. As usual I was left with the kitchen and had time to get a nice shine on the stainless-steel range instead of throwing everything into baskets and hoping I wouldn't have to poke mouldy bagels out of the hoover nozzle when I probed under the sofa.

The only clutter was a pile of leaflets that had been left on the edge of the counter top and, as I swept it up, I noticed that it was mainly pamphlets about ADHD. Curious, I started reading the top one, focusing on diagnosis in adults. There was a checklist of symptoms and yet again I thought, this is so me.

Inability to finish tasks? Yes.

Impulsive behaviour? Yes.

Restlessness, stress avoidance, mood swings, forgetfulness …

‘Hello!' Sally Armstrong appeared through the back door, and I jumped.

‘Hello!'

‘What do you think?' She swept a hand around proudly.

‘This is a lovely house,' I said. I almost said, ‘Did you hire a secret second team of cleaners?' But as I'd just been reminded of my poor impulse control by the pamphlet, I was able to stop myself in time.

‘Thank you.' She beamed. ‘I took some annual leave to get on top of things, and once I started cleaning I couldn't stop. Quite therapeutic, isn't it? I've taken four carloads to the tip!'

Only four carloads? Still, they had a big car. ‘You've done a great job,' I said. ‘Not much left for us to do!'

Sally saw the pamphlets in my hand and there was no point pretending I hadn't been looking at them.

‘Oh, gosh.' She pulled a face. ‘Last time I saw you we were going for Charlie's assessment, weren't we? I'm so sorry, I was very stressed. I hope I didn't ramble on too much.'

‘How did it go?' I thought it was safe to ask, since she was no longer looking like a woman on the verge of a breakdown.

‘Better than I could have hoped. Just having someone explain what was going on in Charlie's head made such a difference, to everyone. We'd been blaming ourselves for being bad parents, Charlie was so sad about being naughty … Now we know where we are, what we're dealing with, we can work out how to live with it.' She waved a hand around again. ‘Even the house feels happier, don't you think?'

The house was probably happier not having balls bounced off its internal walls, I thought, but there was a calmer, lighter feel to the place. I wouldn't say it was open-house ready, but the ‘walk-in' feel was a million times better.

It was a happy ending, I thought, as Jim and I said goodbye and closed the door behind us. Or a happy beginning.

‘One more call,' said Jim, pulling out cautiously from Coleridge Terrace. For once I didn't blame him: you had to be cautious in Coleridge Terrace. One false move and a passing Chelsea tractor speeding to make a last call at Waitrose would have your wing mirror off.

I checked my watch. It was well past half five now. ‘I thought we were done for the day?'

‘You've got somewhere else to be?'

I hadn't. But that wasn't the point.

‘It won't take long,' said Jim, and set off towards the High Street.

I wondered if he was maybe taking me for a goodbye drink, and was surprised by the flicker of hope that he was. I wondered if I should have suggested it first, to say thanks. I wouldn't see Jim again after today and, despite our chat the night Terry had been taken to hospital, there were still things I was curious to know.

In my dating experience, when men avoid discussing where they lived (with their wives) or what they did at the weekends (with their kids) it made me suspicious, but I didn't think Jim was hiding anything. He'd willingly shared his lowest moment with me, but glossed over the parts that anyone else would have enjoyed showing off about – the high-powered career, the success, the travelling. Driving between jobs, I'd tried to lure him out with some open-ended questions about holidays or places he'd loved, but he smoothly turned the conversation on its head, and I found myself telling him more than I meant to about myself.

It was too easy to talk to Jim. He was just determined not to talk about himself, for whatever reason.

Disappointingly we drove through town, past many suitable bars and a couple of very unsuitable ones, including Ferrari's, until we were turning down Hildreth Street, and the penny dropped

Oh no. We were going to Terry's flat, weren't we?

I turned to Jim, ready to ask, but he was there before me.

‘Someone asked if they could have a word,' said Jim, mildly. ‘With you particularly.'

I squeezed my knees together as my imagination went into overdrive: Terry and his entire, accusatory family, lined up on Terry's leather sofa like a jury. Armed with a printout from the paramedics and ready to question me about my timekeeping. I'd definitely intended to check in on Terry, but when he was a bit further along the road to recovery.

I turned in the passenger seat to look imploringly at Jim. ‘Do we have to do this?'

‘Do what?'

I desperately wanted to leave Jim with a good impression of me, but the sight of Terry's flat reignited the smouldering embers of shame burning in my chest. Seeing Terry's family, and worse, being thanked by them, would be confirmation that I was an unreliable, terrible person. I really, really didn't want to go in.

‘Do we have to see Terry? Is he well enough for visitors?

‘You don't have to,' he said, evenly. ‘I mean, this is your last day. I could tell Terry you had to dash off. But knowing you, as I think I do by now, you'll obsess about what you should have said for the rest of your life. It'll grow out of all proportion. Boom.' He mimed something mushrooming. ‘Go in, apologise that you were late, say you're glad he's recovering. Take control.'

‘I cleaned his flat,' I said in a small voice. ‘On Wednesday night.'

‘Did you? That was kind. Why don't you tell him?' Jim's expression softened. ‘He likes you, Robyn. He probably likes you more than you like yourself right now.'

Whatever Terry thought about me, I realised, would be no worse than what I thought about myself. And Jim was right: I would shove it in my mental cupboard of guilty fuck-ups and it would slowly grow and grow until the pus-filled boil of shame engulfed the (relatively) tiny splinter of offence inside.

‘I'll come with you, if you want,' he offered. ‘If Jayne comes at you with Terry's crutches, I'll see her off.'

‘OK,' I said, and got out of the car before I could talk myself out of it.

Terry was in a wheelchair in the sitting room, a more elaborate hospital version of his usual model, with a saline drip and a protective frame around his leg. He was wearing a box-fresh M we were sitting much closer than we would in a bar. I wasn't going to see Jim again after today, I reasoned, so it didn't really matter if I was a bit gushy now. ‘You were right, what you said about facing up to mistakes. I really appreciate you sharing your own story, to get that into my thick head.'

He nodded, slowly, and I tried not to notice an aftershave that I didn't think he'd worn before. It was clean, but subtle. It made me think of salty air and blue skies.

‘I have learned my lesson,' I added, half-joking. ‘I will address my chronic avoidance. And my timekeeping and my disorganisation, and some other things that now point to me having faulty brain wiring. I've made an appointment to see my GP after work next week.'

After what Sally Armstrong had said about ADHD presenting differently in girls, I'd done some research of my own: three Internet diagnostic tools said I should probably get some medical advice about adult ADHD. How much easier could my life have been if someone had checked that out before now, I'd thought, staring at my laptop one sleepless night. The stress I'd had learning lines, meeting everyone's expectations, the endless, endless lists. Why hadn't Mum spotted that? She was quick enough to take Cleo to the specialist when they thought she was dyslexic.

‘Good for you,' said Jim. ‘Nothing wrong with asking for help.'

He smiled, and the lightness in my chest increased. I felt floaty. Bright and light, without the guilt that had been following me around like a rain cloud.

‘Have you got time for a Friday drink?' I said, impulsively.

Jim paused, and in that instant I felt the absolute disappointment of him saying no. My mind flung up the unknowns – the girlfriend, the wife, the boyfriend – I felt as if I was on the crumbling edge of a cliff, staring at the crashing waves below.

Please don't say no, I thought.

Then he said, ‘Yes. That would be nice.'

Jim suggested a pub that he'd found near where he lived, which turned out to be in the properly old part of town near the cathedral, where properties rarely came on the market.

‘My house used to be an almshouse,' he said, over his pint. ‘I think there might be a ghost but it's quite a benign one. It turns down the heating.'

‘Seriously?'

He nodded. ‘I come home to find the heating's been turned down. Not off, down .'

‘You're sure it's not someone else in the house?'

If Jim spotted my artful attempt to flush out a partner, he didn't let on. ‘No one else to do it, unless you count next-door's cat. And even he's stopped coming round now it's so cold.'

I would have to tell him about the Doom Barn, I thought. ‘Did they tell you that when you bought it?'

He shook his head. ‘Bloody estate agents, eh? Fortunately, I'm only renting. I downsized when I resigned. Wanted to keep my options open.'

‘Snap! I sold and now I'm renting too. Temporarily.'

‘So you're not staying there long?'

‘You say that as if you're relieved for me.'

‘What? No, it's a nice flat.' He pushed the bag of crisps towards me; he'd opened the bag neatly down the seam and flattened it out so it made a plate. Even in the pub, Jim didn't make a mess. ‘Maybe not what I imagined you in but still nice.'

‘And where did you think I'd live?' I asked casually, as though the very idea of Jim speculating on my whereabouts after hours wasn't itself an intriguing thought.

‘I don't know, somewhere old, with nooks and crannies. Fancy windows. You always point out fancy windows. And stairs. Even though they're annoying to clean.'

‘Well, funny you should say that …' I helped myself to some crisps. ‘That's exactly where I will be living in the not-too-distant future. I've invested in the redevelopment of a country house just outside the town, and as part of the deal I get first choice of the apartments.'

‘And what have you picked?'

‘I've picked the garden flat.'

‘Why's that? Are you a keen gardener?'

I fidgeted with the crisps because I wanted to look at Jim, and I didn't. It was the end of a long week and I'd had half a glass of wine, but that wasn't what was making me feel so relaxed. Now we were out of work time, he'd switched into that conversational mode I recognised from the holiday cottage, or the night he brought me takeaway. Talking to off-duty Jim was like being swept down a river, effortless and scenic. I also realised that what I thought was his permanent judgemental expression was just the way his face fell when he was listening properly. He had Judgy Resting Face, I realised. A bit like Ivor.

‘I want to get a dog,' I admitted. ‘Eventually. If I can take it to work. I'm starting off with plants – I've got an aspidistra called Astrid that I haven't killed so far – and when I can take care of plants, and myself, I'll be ready for a dog.'

‘What are you talking about? You're a grown woman. What makes you think you couldn't look after a dog?'

The fact that Jim had to ask that meant either he was being polite, or he clearly hadn't noticed much about the real me. But he'd asked, so I answered.

‘I don't always look after myself that well. I don't sleep properly, I forget to have meals, it's months since I last went to the gym. Dogs deserve better than that. But I would love one. I like the way they listen to you.' I took a sip of wine, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Anyway, I've started with Astrid. If I can keep her going for six months I'll know I'm on the right track.'

And if I kept the dog alive for ten years, then I got a gold adult star, or something.

Jim regarded me over his beer. ‘That's your main goal in life? To keep your plant alive and then maybe get a Nessie of your own?'

‘Is there anything wrong with that?'

‘No!' He turned his glass round and round. ‘Old habits die hard. Where do you see yourself in five years' time? What would you say is your main career goal? Sorry.'

I pretended I was thinking but something in his words struck a nerve. What was my career goal? Where was I going to be in five years' time?

I didn't know.

The realisation made me sit up straighter. Jim had accidentally put his finger on something that had bothered me for years.

I didn't have a destination. The last ambition I had was to get into drama school after university and when I'd failed to do that I'd just drifted into my adult life, looking backwards instead of forwards, all the while getting twice-yearly reminders that I'd failed, in the form of dwindling repeat fee cheques, floating past me like wreckage from the ship I'd sunk.

But until I knew what I wanted to do, that was always going to be inevitable. I just needed to find a new destination. Face the front, not the back. Although wasn't that what the property development with Mitch was meant to be?

‘Did I say something wrong?' Jim asked.

‘No, no.' I'd spilled my drink, but now had the excuse of mopping it up. ‘I'm just glad they didn't ask me that in my interview. I don't actually know.'

‘It's a stupid question – none of us know. How can we? If you'd asked me five years ago I wouldn't have said that I saw myself being the best cleaner in a small housekeeping business.'

‘But you still had to be the best cleaner.'

Jim's eyes twinkled. ‘Of course. My mum would have laughed her head off.'

‘I suppose in five years' time I'll be an estate agent. A partner,' I added, to sound ambitious.

‘You don't have to be. Travel, go and work somewhere else for a bit. Someone I worked with retrained as a paramedic, he loved it. Changed his life. Maybe that's Terry's gift to you.'

I'd been dying for the loo for at least twenty minutes but hadn't wanted to break the conversation to excuse myself, in case Jim thought it was an exit strategy, the end of the drinks. However, now I had no choice about excusing myself. ‘Hold that thought,' I said. ‘I just need to …' I nodded towards the Ladies.

‘No problem,' said Jim. ‘I'll get some more crisps.'

The toilets were right at the back of the pub, and I was weaving round the tables when I spotted someone at the bar that I really didn't expect to see.

Mitch.

I stopped dead. What was he doing here? We'd spoken only that morning about meeting up at the weekend; I'd suggested Friday night cocktails to celebrate my final day as a cleaner, but he'd apologised, explaining he wouldn't be back until the small hours of tomorrow morning. He was away dealing with some urgent problem on site (I think he said Ireland) and was on the last flight out.

As ever, seeing Mitch leaning on the bar, chatting animatedly to another bloke in a suit, gave me a quick swoop of lust, but not as much as normal. Possibly because I didn't understand why he'd told me a deliberate lie.

He turned to order another drink from the barman and in turning saw me, and – was that a momentary hesitation? – waved me over. If he was embarrassed to be caught out, he didn't show it.

‘Robyn! How are you, gorgeous?' He kissed me on the cheek, and introduced me to the people he was with, whose names I promptly forgot. The introductions included their property companies, anyway, and I didn't like the up-and-down look they gave me.

‘This is a nice surprise,' I said. ‘I thought you were in Ireland?'

He slung his arm around my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘Did I say that?'

‘You did.'

‘Hey hey, Mitchell,' said one of the men. (Steve, probably. Or Chris.) ‘What are you up to?'

I could tell from the rapid movements of Mitch's eyes that he was thinking fast, and then he said, ‘I've been in Leominster, babe. Did you think I said Leinster?'

‘I don't believe you specified a place.'

I was playing along with the ooohs from Mitch's companions but in truth I was ticked off. He knew this was a big deal for me, moving on from Taylor Maid, and he'd been so enthusiastic about my new job. Why hadn't he wanted to celebrate with me? And now he knew he'd been caught out, why wasn't he admitting it?

Mitch turned back to his companions. ‘Robyn here is one of our best local agents, and she's celebrating a fantastic new job with a new agency. I should be celebrating with her right now, not talking shop with you guys. But we can put that right, can't we? Prosecco all round?'

I didn't want to celebrate with random men. I wanted to celebrate alone with Mitch. And this week hadn't just been about the new job; there was so much more I needed to talk to him about.

I politely removed his arm – more ‘oooh!'s – and said, ‘Thanks, but I'm here with a friend. Great to meet you, but I'll leave you to it.'

‘Bring her over!' said Steve, or Chris. ‘We'll get a bottle!'

I could see Mitch scanning the pub for this friend and I was glad that he'd see Jim, not some single girl who could be brought over to flirt with his mates.

But there was no one at our table. Had Jim gone?

I felt a grip of disappointment.

‘She gone?' Mitch made a sad face. ‘Never mind, join us. I've been telling Andy here all about Lark Manor, but you paint a much better picture than I do.' He turned to them. ‘Robyn is amazing when it comes to communicating a property vision. When we found Lark Manor, she was the first person I wanted on board, not just for the sale but for developing the concept of what aspirational millennials really want.'

The two men looked impressed, and any other time I would have been thrilled to hear Mitch say those words – and even more excited to discuss Lark Manor – but not tonight.

I managed a quick, unconvincing smile. ‘Sorry, guys, don't want to abandon my friend for too long. Love to chat about Lark Manor another time though?' I glanced at Mitch. ‘We're pencilling in a meeting about that in the next week or so, aren't we?'

I said it casually, but I meant it; Mitch might be used to having his money tied up in projects but I wasn't. I didn't need a binding timetable, just an update on how the sale was going. In an effort to calm my nerves, I'd dug out the contract Allen had sent me, but it was the most complicated document I'd ever dealt with, full of clauses and technical phrases I hadn't come across before. It took all my concentration to unpick single paragraphs at a time. And there were no dates.

Mitch squeezed my waist. ‘Absolutely! But come on, it's Friday night.'

I extricated myself, much to Mitch's evident confusion, but by the time I'd wriggled through the packed pub, there was no sign of Jim. Friday evening drinkers had spilled onto the pavement outside, but he wasn't one of them.

I stood there, feeling strange.

Did Jim think I'd stood him up? Had he seen me with Mitch, Mitch kissing my cheek, putting his arm round me?

My phone pinged with a message. Sorry to dash off – Cleo texted with an emergency at Welbeck Street. Good luck on Monday! J

And that was it. I stared at my phone. No more Jim.

Back in the pub, the Friday night atmosphere was ramping up and I glanced back, debating whether or not to join Mitch and his friends.

Reluctantly I decided to go back in for one drink. If only because listening to Mitch wax lyrical about Lark Manor to his property mates reassured me that it was going to happen.