I keep thinking of his pale grey eyes and the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled at me. The way his chestnut hair curls a little on his tanned neck, and how the sun picks up summery golden strands here and there.
The idea of taking a shower, putting on clean clothes and walking along in the sunshine to meet Gabe at The Anchor bar is really appealing. If I work really fast, maybe I’ll be finished in time to make it along there by seven?
My heart starts skipping along at the thought, but I tell myself not to be so ridiculous.
The last time a member of the opposite sex filled my thoughts like this was back in sixth form when I had a crush on gorgeous Gary Oates with his flashing dark eyes and wicked sense of humour. He sat next to me in history lessons and made me laugh all the time. Even our frosty-faced teacher, Miss Jarvis, was charmed by Gary’s daft jokes.
He’s in prison now for fraud, I heard.
By six, though, it’s clear that a drink with Gabe is completely off the menu. I’ll be lucky if I’m finished here by closing time. And in fact, it’s after midnight by the time I finally finish cleaning the last window.
Exhausted but pleased at what I’ve achieved, I rinse my cloths, and deposit all the cleaning equipment in reception by the door, as instructed by Mrs West. She’s asked me to meet her back here at ten in the morning, presumably to look over my work and pay me, which I’m quite excited about. I’ve calculated that I’ve worked a total of fifty-four hours, not including a couple of twenty-minute breaks each day, so I should easily be able to afford the weekly charge at the nearby Sunny Acres camp site. I’ve already checked it out and I actually can’t wait to get off Mrs West’s driveway and no longer feel beholden to her for her generosity.
Back at the camper van, I eat cold baked beans straight from the tin, which I’m actually getting used to, and glug down some water. Then I undress and crash into bed, snuggling under the freshly-washed quilt with a feeling of relief that the job is finally done.
*****
Next morning, I’m up and dressed by nine, eagerly anticipating my meeting with Mrs West. It was the sound of her driving off that woke me, soon after eight-thirty.
Knowing I’ll be paid today gives me a lift, and I decide to throw caution to the wind and treat myself to breakfast at a local café. Having been filling up on bread and jam, and a bag of croissants that grew stale quite quickly in the heat of the van, my mouth is watering at the thought of a fresh Danish pastry and a proper cup of cappuccino. After I’ve met with Mrs West, I’m planning to move the van to the camp site, rent a plot for a fortnight, then walk down to the harbour with my watercolours and my easel, and find a secluded place to paint.
Mrs West hasn’t mentioned my next job. Not that I’ve seen her to actually talk to. I’m just assuming I might have a day or two off before I’m given another assignment. I grimace to myself, crossing my fingers that it won’t be a job similar to the one I’ve just completed. (I don’t think I’d mind if I never saw the inside of a hotel ever again – even as a paying guest!)
I linger over my coffee and Danish, determined to enjoy every last mouthful. But I’m distracted by the sight of a man and his young daughter walking across the green. The little girl has red hair, caught back in a ponytail, and she’s dancing along beside her dad, chattering to him excitedly about something. He’s smiling down at her with such love in his eyes, it makes my heart ache. He bends and picks her up, setting her on his shoulders, and they walk off.
A lump rises in my throat.
I wonder what Dad is doing now? Is he missing me? Or is he enjoying being alone with Eleanor too much to give a lot of thought to when I might be coming home?
I push the thought away and glance at my watch. Time to meet Mrs West.
I arrive at the hotel at ten minutes to ten. Unsurprisingly, Mrs West isn’t there yet, but it gives me a chance to nip in and have a last check in all the rooms to make sure everything looks spick and span. I realise I’ve missed a window in the restaurant, but I decide I can easily do that before I leave.
Twenty minutes later, I’m beginning to worry because she still hasn’t arrived.
Nagging doubts about the job begin to wriggle their way to the surface. It’s strange that we haven’t discussed rates of pay. And Mrs West was very vague when I suggested keeping a note of the hours I was working. And don’t genuine cleaning companies send their employees out in teams to tackle big jobs like hotels? I’ve been brushing these niggles under the carpet, so to speak, but I’m getting nervous now…
And then Mrs West’s car turns into the car park, and I heave an inward sigh of relief.
‘Hello!’ she calls cheerfully, getting out of the car. ‘It’s a shame you’ve missed the glorious sunshine, being shuttered away in here all week. But at least you’ll have a week off now.’
‘Oh.’ My heart sinks. ‘Isn’t there another job for me, then?’
‘There is actually.’ We walk over to the main door and she lets us in. ‘I had a call just this morning from a factory owner. Just a couple of miles up the road. He wants a deep clean. But it won’t be until the week after next? The job’s yours if you’d like it?’
I hesitate. A factory? What if I’m tackling it on my own again?
But beggars can’t be choosers…
Mrs West’s brow wrinkles. ‘Of course,’ she says coolly, ‘I’ve plenty of other workers to call on if it’s not to your taste.’
‘Oh, no. I mean, yes,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Count me in. I’ll do it.’
She nods. ‘Good.’ She walks around the hotel, inspecting my work, and I follow her a little sheepishly, as she runs her finger along ledges and tuts once when she finds a little dust I’ve managed to miss.
‘This place was filthy,’ she remarks in the kitchen. ‘But you’ve done an excellent job, Lucy. Well done.’
Relief surges through me.
‘Now. Payment,’ she says, as we return to the reception area.
‘Ah, yes. I made a note of all the hours,’ I say, bringing out a sheet of note paper. ‘I had a few breaks but I haven’t included those. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to; if there was a legal requirement to…’ I shrug, handing the note to her.
She frowns at it. Then she hands it back to me without a word.
Digging into her bag, she brings out a brown envelope, which she gives to me. ‘There you go. I pay my workers a flat fee for the job, not by the hour. It’s hardly fair that fast workers should get paid less than slower workers for the same job, is it?’
I look at her, confused. Is she saying that I’m a slow worker? That I took too many hours to finish the job? Because I seriously have never worked faster at anything in my life.
‘I’ve deducted some money for the domestic services I’m supplying. You’re welcome to keep your van on the drive for now and we’ll review it after every job. I’ll be in touch about the factory.’ She rattles this off at such breath-taking speed, I hardly have time to process it. ‘I find my workers prefer cash in hand. For obvious reasons. Right, must dash. I’ll be in touch about the factory job.’
I stand there, stunned, watching her drive off. Then I open my envelope and count my wages.