The Queen of New Beginnings (2 page)

Clayton had a thing about splashy taps.

He disliked the sudden hostility of them. There they sat, as innocent as you like, just waiting for their moment when they could take the uninitiated by surprise. Strange houses always had more than their fair share of such taps. Along with toilets that had their own mysterious way of flushing. Fail to unlock the secret code and you could be in there for hours frantically pumping the handle trying to get rid of the evidence of your visit.

This house in particular had some viciously splashy taps, the sort that knew no half measures; they were either off or gushing like a geyser in all directions. The tap he’d just encountered had produced a force of water that was so powerful it had bounced off the basin and soaked him comprehensively.

One day he would get to the bottom of why. Was it all about water pressure? Or plain old ineptitude on the part of plumbers the world over? It was a mystery. But then so much of life was, to him. Never more so than now when everything felt like a monumental uphill struggle. No matter what he did, nothing seemed to go right for him these days. He was tired of it. Tired of the black cloud hanging over him. When would it ever end?

He dried his hands and gave his sweater, scarf and jeans a halfhearted pat, then went back into the bedroom. Out of a choice of seven bedrooms, he’d picked one that wasn’t the largest, but it had an interesting windowed turret in the furthest corner of the room. It also had a panoramic view of the garden and a more extensive view of a whole lot of nothing. The nothingness was green, hilly and sodden. Wet and depressingly dreary, it was pure hillbilly country. He could understand why Glen had said it would be the perfect place to lie low.

Glen had phoned him late last night, just as Clayton had given up ever figuring out how to switch on the boiler and inject some warmth into the place. “You’ve arrived, then?” Glen had said. “Everything all right?”

“No! Everything is not all right! The boiler doesn’t work, I’m dying of cold and there’s nothing to eat. Other than what I picked up on the train. And I ate that last night.”

“Don’t complain, Clay. With only twenty-four hours’ notice I’ve found you a house with furniture, electricity, water, even the Internet. So yes, feel free to go ahead and call me Mr. Wonderful. Just don’t expect me to throw in room service as well.”

“Tell me again about these friends of yours. What kind of people are they that want to live in this back of beyond place? I swear my nearest neighbour must be at least ten miles away.”

“I’ve known Craig and Anthea for years. In fact I was at school with Craig. He used to be in financial services, had his own business here in London, sold it for a killing and moved up there for a change of lifestyle.”

“And presumably they came to their senses and hightailed it out of here. Where’ve they gone?”

“They spend the winter months in warmer climes; they’ve bought a place in the Caribbean. As I said to you before, be glad they have. Stonebridge will be the perfect place for you to lie low. And remember, they’re letting you stay there as a favour to me. Don’t let me down. You’ve trashed your career; please don’t trash their home in a fit of pique as well. Oh, and don’t forget, the cleaning agency I’ve arranged to take care of things for you is sending someone round in the morning. About eleven, I think. Be nice to whoever it is. You’ll be totally dependent on the person they send.”

“So that’s two things I have to remember. One: I must not trash the house, and two: I must be nice to the cleaner. Anything else?”

“Yes. Sort your head out. And when you’ve done that, try doing some writing. After all, what else are you going to do up there?”

Good bloody question, Clayton had thought. “Is there anything happening down there I should know about?”

“There’s nothing.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you mean, what does that mean?”

“I mean, is there something that you think I shouldn’t know about?”

“What, like trivial stuff? Like I’ve been given tickets for the premiere of the new Collin Farrell and Daniel Craig movie?”

“Why would I want to know that?”

“I don’t know. You started this.”

“Look, just tell me, is there anything being said about me that I should or shouldn’t know about?”

“But if I think you shouldn’t know about it, I’d hardly tell you, would I?”

“JUST TELL ME!”

“There’s stuff. Yes. But I really don’t think you should know about it.”

He’d ended the call exhausted.

• • •

At twenty minutes past eleven, Clayton gave up waiting for the sound of the doorbell and decided to make himself a cup of coffee. He turned on the tap and water immediately bounced off the rim of the kettle and shot up into his face and down his dried-out front.

That was when he heard the doorbell. Two loud, demanding rings. Not a polite little ring—
yoo-hoo, I’m here!—
but two bossy intrusive rings—
Oi, you in there, get your sorry arse to the door!
He banged the kettle down and traversed the mile to the front door.

“You’re late,” he said, wiping his face with his scarf. “Timekeeping not your speciality, I take it?”

For a moment the girl, swamped in a thick padded jacket with the hood up, didn’t say anything. She just stood there in the porch, sheltering from the rain with her lips pursed tightly shut. Her eyes, though, were darting about, looking beyond and around him, as if she were casing the joint.

“I sorry for late,” she said eventually. “I lose myself. You going to keep me here on doorstep all day, mister? Why you covered in water? You been out in rain?”

He frowned at the foreign accent. That was all he needed, a lippy Polish cleaner. There again she didn’t look Polish. Romanian or Bulgarian perhaps. Now that she’d pushed back the hood of her jacket, he could see her hair was long and wavy and very dark brown. As dark as her eyes which, now they had stopped darting about, he realized were assessing him. Her stare was disconcertingly direct. “I was making some coffee,” he said. “The tap, it—” He stopped short. Why in hell’s name was he explaining himself to a complete stranger? She was here to keep house for him, not to interrogate him.

She shrugged and armed with a plethora of cleaning equipment, she stepped inside. “Thank you. A cup of coffee before I start working very hard for you. Thank you, mister.”

He closed the door, wishing she was on the other side of it. “Are you Polish?” he asked.

The dark assessing eyes leapt to his. “How many languages you speak?”

He silently groaned. Great. Her English wasn’t up to much. “I asked if you were Polish,” he said, this time more loudly, his words clearly and slowly enunciated.

“And I said, how many languages you speak?”

“Just English.”

“Oh, so mister who no speak anything but English thinks I am speaking Polish. Well, clean out ears, mister.”

Stunned at her rudeness, his jaw dropped. The cheeky little strumpet! He said, “I didn’t say that. All I meant was that you
sound
Polish.”

“Well, I not Polish. Not Polish at all. You insult me. This way to kitchen?”

He chased after her down the stone-flagged corridor. This wouldn’t do. Glen would have to ring the agency and arrange for someone else to come. He wasn’t going to stand for this sort of behaviour. He caught up with her. “I think there’s been a mistake,” he tried. “The agency must have sent you to the wrong house.”

She turned and stared at him. “No mistake, mister. This is Cuckoo House. I am Katya. All is correct.”

He searched again for a way out. “And you’re here in the UK legally? I don’t want any trouble.”

She skewered him with a fierce look. “You read too much newspaper shit.”

He scoffed. “I assure you I do no such thing. I wouldn’t wipe my arse with a single one of those rags.”

“And don’t get no funny ideas about me doing that for you, mister.” She wagged a finger at him. “You go to toilet on your own.” She turned her back on him, shook off her coat and began sorting noisily through her collection of cloths and cleaning products, setting them out on the table where the remains of his supper from last night still lay—several plastic sandwich packets and two cans of Red Bull.

He walked round to the other side of the table, using it as a barrier. “So if you’re not from Poland, where are you from? Romania?”

“Does it matter where I from?”

“I’m just trying to be polite.”

“Well, you not polite. You rude. You very rude man.”

“You think it’s an insult for someone to enquire about your cultural background? And if you don’t mind me saying, your reaction to me thinking you were Polish smacks of racism.”

She looked up sharply. “What’s that you say? You want to smack me? Let me tell you, mister. One smack from you and I report you to police! I have my rights.”

He put his hands up. “
Whoa!
That’s not what I said.” Choosing his words with extra care, he added, “I think it might be better if the agency sends someone who can speak English properly. It would be easier all round. Don’t you agree?”

“Now you accuse me of being stupid. Mister, I plenty smart enough. You will have job keeping up with me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I am very clever. My brain goes whir, whir, all day long.”

Clayton could believe it. Her tongue, too. “Tell me,” he said, no longer caring whether he offended her, “does your great big yapper ever stop?”

She looked at him blankly. She had a quirky face, he decided, wide cheekbones and a small pointy chin. Almost pixie-like. “Do you ever stop talking, is what I asked,” he said.

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “I know what you ask. I was proving you wrong.”

“How so?”

“Mister, you really are as stupid as you look. I was proving I can stop my big yapper any time I choose. And please, I like my coffee with milk. No sugar.”

Clayton gave up.
Stupid!
She had actually called him stupid. Didn’t she know who was paying her wages? He went over to the kettle. “And when does the mothership come back for you?” he muttered under his breath as he risked the tap again.

“Nothing wrong with my hearing, mister. I no alien. And if you want the truth, I am from Latvia. You even hear of my country?”

• • •

It was his appalling rudeness that had set Alice off. That and her apprehension about being back at Cuckoo House. She had come close to telling Ronnetta she had changed her mind about taking on the job, and the reason why, but curiosity had got the better of her. Why not go back? What harm could it do? More to the point, if she were honest, wasn’t it what she’d always wanted to do one day?

But undoubtedly she had caused quite a lot of harm by the looks of things. Ronnetta was due a massive apology. She had messed up this job in grand style. She had given the client—Mr. Shannon—every reason to complain and demand someone else to take her place, preferably one with a civil tongue in her head.

It wasn’t the first time she had adopted a different persona when she helped Ronnetta out—not that Ronnetta knew that. It was the actress in her. Occasionally she dressed for the part. Sometimes she wore a blonde wig and pretended she was Astrid from Dusseldorf, here in England to learn zee goot English. She’d had some fun with Astrid. But Katya was new. She had been devised very much on the spur of the moment. In fact, Alice was rather pleased with her latest creation.

It had been fun putting such a rude man in his place and she would make no apology for that. As though it was a major task he had been set, she had watched him clatter ineptly about the kitchen making the coffee. Tall and thin, he seemed all angles. She wondered if he always looked so crumpled and angry. Interestingly his eyes looked younger than the rest of him. The coffee finally made, he had taken himself off, leaving her, he’d said pointedly, to get on with her work.

If the kitchen—which was nothing like she remembered—was anything to go by, excluding the isolated mess on the table, the house appeared clean enough. She hoped he wasn’t going to prove to be one of those mucky types, incapable of doing anything without making a mess.

It was difficult to pin an exact age on him; he could be mid-forties or early fifties. But oddly, there was something familiar about him. Maybe he just reminded her of someone. He’d look a lot better if he tidied himself up, though. A shave and a brush through his thick unruly hair would be a good start. He could also do with losing the attitude and lightening up. And while he was about it, sorting out his dress sense wouldn’t go amiss either. The tatty old pullover he was wearing was fraying at the cuffs; it had definitely seen better days. As had his jeans—one of the back pockets was ripped and hanging off. And the scarf around his neck was distinctly moth-eaten. Overall he cut an eccentric and shambolic figure. She could almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

She took a sip of the coffee he’d made, winced at the sweetness of it—damn the man, he’d added sugar—and dismissed him from her mind. She had more important things to think of. Like having a good snoop round. To establish, after all this time, exactly how she really felt being back where she had grown up.

And where better to start than upstairs in her bedroom?

But first, how about some heat? The house was bone-numbingly cold. She went over to the nearest radiator and touched it. Mm…if she was going to spend any amount of time here, there would have to be some changes. Mr. Shannon might like the idea of freezing to death, but she did not.

• • •

As he warmed his hands on his mug of coffee, Clayton considered his latest attempt at his obituary on his laptop. This time it revolved around being found frozen to death by a crazy Latvian housekeeper.

The room he had retreated to was directly beneath the bedroom he had chosen and he was sitting at an antique writing desk in the window of the turret. He gazed disconsolately out of the window. It was still raining. The sky was still grey. It still depressed the hell out of him. If Glen had thought this was a suitable place for him to get his head sorted while lying low, he’d made a big mistake. It only added to his problems. It compacted the realization just how pathetic his life had become.