Читать книгу A Summer Of Secrets - Alice Ross - Страница 12

Chapter Three

‘Oo, Joe, you’ve missed a bit.’

Joe Massam ran his hand a shade further up the silky-smooth thigh. ‘Oh, really. And which bit would that be, then? Here?’

The blonde giggled. ‘Not quite.’

‘How about here?’

‘Mmmm. Close, but not close enough.’

‘Here, then?’ His hand slipped expertly between her thighs and the blonde began moaning with pleasure.

Joe smiled. Missed a bit, indeed! He prided himself on never missing any bits – during his window cleaning, or his “additional services”. Indeed, over the eighteen months he’d been window cleaning and providing his “additional services”, his reputation for never missing a bit had spiralled. And demand for his “additional services” had consequently flourished.

Not that, when Joe had initially taken over the round, he’d ever intended providing anything other than a quick rub down with his shammy. He’d been fortunate to be offered the round in the first place. Before that he’d been labouring on building sites and DJ-ing a few evenings a week. But then, when Gina left and his whole world had fallen apart, so, too, had Joe. Drink – or, more specifically, whisky – had become his new best friend, efficiently obliterating every ounce of self-pity, and every miserable, depressing thought from his head. He didn’t bother turning up for his evening gigs, and on the rare days he’d managed to drag himself to the building site, he’d been as much use as an umbrella in a tsunami. Which didn’t go unnoticed by the management. When his negligence had almost caused a colleague to lose an arm, it proved the wake-up call he needed. Without waiting for the inevitable – and justifiable – disciplinary action, he handed in his notice and left immediately. He had no idea what he was going to do, but he knew he had to get his act together. Stop drinking. Put his house in order. Then, after a month of dossing about, unable to face signing on, his meagre savings dwindling at a rate of knots, his mate, Jacko, tossed him a lifeline.

‘My uncle’s been diagnosed with angina. Can’t carry on with his window cleaning business and is looking for someone to take it over.’

Joe hadn’t needed long to consider the proposition. He’d never cleaned a window in his life, didn’t know a shammy from a sherbert dip, and was as fond of heights as he was of extracting his own nasal hair. But how hard could it be? And after coping with the stress of the last few months, surely he could cope with climbing a ladder. Plus, the idea of being his own boss, of being responsible for no one but himself, really appealed.

So he’d accepted the proposition.

‘You won’t regret it,’ Jacko assured him. ‘There’s loads of potential there. You could even think about expanding the business. Odd jobs, that kind of thing.’

Joe was pretty certain the kind of “odd jobs” to which Jacko referred hadn’t included those he’d eventually branched out into. But none of that had been intentional. It had just kind of … happened.

Having met Jacko’s uncle a couple of times to discuss the formalities, Joe had to admit that the contrast between him and the business’s previous owner could not have been greater. The thirty-year age difference aside, Joe, with his pleasant, easy-going demeanour, rugby-player physique, dark wavy hair, even darker sparkling eyes, and square jaw covered in a permanent shadow, was a complete contrast to the older man’s brusque manner, balding head and bulging beer belly.

‘Bit of a snobby lot on the round, mind,’ his predecessor warned.

Joe found them quite the opposite. From day one, the rich, bored housewives of Buttersley had pirouetted around him like a herd of excited gazelles.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee, Joe?’; ‘Can I get you something to eat?’; ‘Can I change your water?’ became standard patter.

And rather than Jacko’s uncle’s cursory wipe of the windows with a dirty cloth, Joe took pride in his work. He considered it a privilege to be allowed anywhere near such spectacular houses. And it didn’t take him long to discover that many of the female occupants were equally as attractive. These women had time and money on their hands – lots and lots of time. And heaps and heaps of money. Both of which they invested in their appearance. Fanatically regular gym visits resulted in firm, toned bodies; hours in the beauty parlour in silky-smooth skin; high-earning husbands and children’s nannies equated to lots of time on their manicured hands; and private swimming pools resulted in impressive summer tans.

It was on one of these tan-cultivating days that the idea of Joe providing “additional services” had first been planted …

Felicity Charrington fitted the profile of Buttersley’s yummy mummies perfectly. A thirty-five-year-old vision of pampered and preened loveliness, with a mane of honey-blonde hair, legs up to her neck and a pair of non-surgically-enhanced boobs that would drive any red-blooded male to distraction.

When Joe arrived at her palatial home just after lunch to clean the ridiculous number of windows therein, Felicity and half a dozen girlfriends had been frolicking by the pool at the bottom of the garden.

Joe tried not to look. For one thing it wouldn’t be very professional, and for another, women like that would never be interested in him. But, he soon discovered, women like that were more than interested in him. With the sweltering combination of the unrelenting sun and the back-breaking work, he’d tugged off his T-shirt, revealing a toned, brown torso. Working out at the gym had helped him keep off the booze, and had soon developed into an addiction. The results, Felicity Charrington’s guests discovered, were impressive.

‘Hey, gorgeous. Why don’t you come down and join us?’ one of them called to him.

Show us your shammy,’ preceded another bout of female cackling.

Joe pretended not to hear. Drunken women had always turned him off, but he didn’t want to offend. The Charrington house was a good earner. Plus, if you upset one client in a place as tightly knit as Buttersley, word would be around the village faster than he could wring out his wash-leather. So he quietly carried on with his work until, an hour or so later, two taxis bowled up at the door and whisked the gaggle away.

All except Felicity.

‘Why don’t you come in and have a drink, Joe?’ she called out the kitchen window. ‘You haven’t stopped since you got here. You must be parched.’

Joe was parched. And shattered. And he could do with a break from the sun.

‘Don’t want you drunk in charge of a ladder,’ she continued. ‘There’s some lemonade here. With lots of ice.’

‘Thanks. I will, if you don’t mind,’ he called back.

Once in the kitchen – the biggest Joe had seen in his entire life – he found Felicity as sober as a judge. ‘Sorry about the girls,’ she apologised, shaking her head. ‘They’re a bit … excitable at times.’

‘That’s all right,’ he chuckled. ‘They were just having a bit of fun.’

Felicity plopped down on a breakfast stool and crossed one long, tanned leg over the other. ‘And what do you do for fun, Joe?’

Joe almost choked on his lemonade. What the hell did she mean by that? And why was she looking at him like that? All doe-eyed and pouty-lipped.

‘Um, the usual, you know,’ he blustered. ‘Going to the pub, the gym. Nothing special. What about you?’ he asked, desperate to deflect the attention.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t have much fun these days. My husband’s away so often I’ve forgotten what he looks like. My daughter skips from one extra-curricular activity to another. And I rattle around this huge house all by myself.’

Of all the houses one could rattle around, Joe thought this would top the list. But somehow he didn’t think that was what she wanted to hear.

‘I’m sure there are a million things you could be doing,’ he proffered instead. ‘How about charity work? Or a new hobby?’

A despondent sigh ensued. ‘Tried both but haven’t found anything that really … satisfies me. You know what I mean?’

By the heavy emphasis placed on “satisfies”, Joe began to suspect exactly what she meant.

‘There must be … something,’ he muttered, suddenly feeling awkward.

‘Oh, I’m sure there is.’ Felicity smiled coyly. ‘‘And if you’re ever interested in helping me find it, you know where I live.’

Joe stared at her blankly. Surely she wasn’t … But by the way she gazed at him again … Shit. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead he gulped down the remainder of his lemonade and made a hasty retreat, his head reeling.

There’d been no sign of Felicity when he finished his work, so he left one of his printed cards on the kitchen bench, saying he’d be back later in the week to collect payment.

His heart had been hammering so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest when, two days later, he called for his money. He’d given the matter a great deal of thought since the proposition, and had arrived at the following conclusion: they were two lonely, consenting adults who found one another attractive. What, then, was the harm in them having a bit of fun together?

Of course, he might have got the whole thing wrong. Might be reading far too much into it. Maybe she hadn’t been propositioning him at all. But the minute she’d opened the door, wearing nothing but a short, ivory-silk robe, he knew he’d been right.

‘I’ve been wondering when you’d call,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come in?’

Joe nodded.

He became a regular visitor to the Charrington house after that. At least once a week. Felicity was right. Her husband was never around.

‘Of course, you know this is just a bit of fun,’ she pointed out on every one of Joe’s visits.

And Joe did know. He’d been in love once and look how that had turned out. No, fun was the order of the day for him from now on. And he and Felicity enjoyed lots of it. Then one day, after a particularly sweaty bedroom session, she’d come out with a surprise comment.

‘I’ve been telling a couple of my girlfriends about you. If you’re interested, you could add them to your “rounds”.’

Joe burst out laughing. ‘You don’t mean …’

Felicity nodded. ‘Oh, but I do. They’re drop-dead gorgeous. And they’d make it worth your while.’

Joe had only needed a minute to consider the proposal. ‘Why not?’ he chuckled. After all, a bit more of what he and Felicity got up to could only make life even more interesting.

So he did. Then, as word spread, more and more “clients” were added to his round. They now totalled twelve. Some he saw more regularly than others. But all were, he ensured, completely satisfied with his services. Because, just as Joe took pride in his window cleaning, so, too, did he in this new branch of “work”. He’d always thought if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. So he even expanded his knowledge in the more “specialist” areas some of his clients preferred, with lots of reading, and the odd DVD. But he never asked them for money. That would have made the whole thing sordid somehow. The contents of the envelopes that discreetly appeared in his pockets were all donated to his favourite charity – which was precisely how he looked on his “additional services” – as a charity. These women craved love and attention. Something they obviously didn’t receive from their husbands. Joe made them feel special. Wanted. Desirable. But his actions weren’t entirely selfless. Given the event that had brought about the end of his world, his shenanigans permitted him the taste of something very sweet and satisfying: revenge.

***

‘Oh, my God. Portia!’ In her tiny cake shop, Crumbs, Annie O’Donnell whipped off her oven gloves and dashed round the other side of the counter to embrace her best friend. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

Portia laughed. Something, she realised, she hadn’t done in a long time. But the image of Annie’s concerned, pretty face, with a smear of flour on her cheek, and her lopsided blonde ponytail, instantly lifted her spirits.

‘I didn’t know myself until yesterday.’

Annie released her friend, took a step back and placed her hands on her slender hips. ‘You look even more exhausted than you did at the funeral. You okay?’

Portia shrugged. ‘Struggling on, I suppose. How are you all doing?’

Annie shook her head dismissively. ‘Oh, we’re fine. But we haven’t had to deal with what you have the last few weeks. And it sounds like Jasper’s been completely useless.’

Portia sighed. ‘No surprise there. I couldn’t believe it when he announced he was flying back to Cuba a couple of days after the funeral.’

Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, now you’re in Buttersley, Jake and I can help. I’ll give him a call. Let him know you’re here and tell him to make up the spare room. And of course it goes without saying that you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’

Portia smiled. She’d been in Buttersley less than an hour and already felt better. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I thought I’d stay at the gatehouse cottage. You’ve far too much on at your place, what with the children, and Jake writing, and everything. I’d only be in the way.’

Annie balked. ‘How can you even think that? We’d love to have you.’

Portia reached out and took her friend’s hand. ‘It’s lovely of you to offer but I need a bit of space. Some time to clear my head, what with everything that’s happened lately.’

Annie narrowed her eyes. ‘You sure?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Well, okay, then. But you’ll have to check the place is habitable first. It’s an age since I’ve had a chance to pop my head in. If nothing else, it’ll need a damned good clean. I can come over and help once I’ve closed up here. And then you can come to us for dinner. At least let us feed you.’

Portia laughed. ‘Only if it’s not putting you to any trouble.’

Annie gave an exasperated tut. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re never any trouble.’

Furnished with a bag of Annie’s chocolate and hazelnut cookies, Portia popped into the grocery store a little way along the street, where she purchased some basic provisions, as well as a couple of pairs of rubber gloves and various bottles of cleaning products.

Annie was right. The gatehouse cottage hadn’t been lived in for a couple of years. Not since Annie, who’d previously lived there, married her writer husband, Jake, and moved to a much bigger abode. Portia only hoped a good clean was all it needed. She really should’ve called Annie yesterday and asked her to check if the place was habitable. But if the verdict had come back that it wasn’t, she still would’ve come. Her desire to escape London had verged on the urgent. And her desire to see Annie’s friendly face equally so. She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at how much time she’d spent moaning to Annie on the phone of late. But there wasn’t another soul on the planet she felt anywhere near as close to. Yes, she had lots of acquaintances, lots of people she could call up at a moment’s notice if she fancied going out for a drink or to a club. But try and talk to them about anything other than who’d bought the latest handbag, or which restaurant was flavour of the month, and they’d gaze at you blankly. She and Annie, on the other hand, had history; knew each other better than most siblings. They’d attended boarding school together, becoming inseparable almost immediately. And despite the physical distances that had stretched between them since then, their special bond never weakened. Something for which Portia – at no time more than the present – would be eternally grateful.

So absorbed was she in her musings that, laden down with bags, she didn’t notice another body entering the shop just as she was leaving it, until she barged into him.

‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry.’ She tilted up her head, her gaze fusing with a dark, piercing one, from a tanned, handsome face.

‘That’s all right,’ he said, his mouth stretching into a disarming grin.

Portia smiled fleetingly, waiting for him to move so she could sidle past.

He didn’t.

‘Looks like you’re going to be busy,’ he remarked, a nod of his head indicating the bags bursting with cleaning products.

‘Er, yes,’ she muttered, aware of her pulse beating at twice the speed it had before this encounter. ‘I’d, er, better get a move on.’

‘Of course.’ He stepped aside. ‘Would you like a hand with your –?’

‘No. Thanks. I’m fine,’ she blurted out, stumbling on the step in her haste to escape.

In the safety of her car, Portia pressed the central locking device and attempted to calm down. Her heart was now racing so fast she wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it had brought on a coronary. Of course she wasn’t, she reasoned, used to random people speaking to her. That didn’t happen in London – and certainly not in the many war-torn countries she’d frequented. Well, not unless the person concerned verged on the deranged. Somehow, though, she didn’t think the young man in the shop verged on the deranged. He’d merely been pleasant, passing the time of day.

The issue wasn’t his mental state. It was hers. Her nerves evidently so fragmented she couldn’t cope with a simple exchange of pleasantries. Which proved what she had suspected: that she had some serious recuperation to do.

She only hoped Buttersley was the place to do it.