I had never thought too much about the cleaning ladies who came once a week to go over my apartment. I left their money before I went to work and, when I returned, things had been tidied up, the dishes washed and the carpets vacuum cleaned. Some were more conscientious than others; not that I was that bothered. I hardly saw them from one year to another; when I did, they were all middle-aged cheery ladies happy to make a bit of tax-free spending money.
I knew that they could only have spent an hour or two, judging by how much difference they made, although I paid them for three. The occasional girl friend would complain but it didn't worry me - I could afford it.
Then I was made redundant and started working for myself. This meant that I spent at least half the week working from home. I tried to arrange to go to see clients on Wednesdays, which was when the cleaners came; the sound of the Hoover used to drive me mad. But that was not always possible so I closed my office door and put up with the noise.
Then a new cleaner started. At first, I paid her little attention other than the usual "Good morning. How've you been?" stuff. I found out that she had left her husband and was doing this job until she found something better. She was always very reticent when I asked her what she had done before. I only asked because sometimes I could help with introductions to clients if someone was looking for office work. I had no real curiosity. It was weeks before I found out her first name; it was Brenda.
"I hate that name. Just call me Pet." She said.
She was pleasant enough: late twenties, blonde dyed hair cut short and a trim figure. She always wore tight jeans and a sweater. She reminded me of that early Rolling Stones song: "She was common, flirty; she looked about thirty. I would have gone away but I was on my own!"
I found I was spending more time at home on Wednesday. I guess I began to look forward to our little chats over coffee in the middle of the morning. She had a good sense of humour and we would often laugh about something or other. She would smoke a cigarette, which I usually hate but not with her - I liked the way she held it between her lips and sucked in. Then I would go back to work.
Nothing changed until one morning in early June. As spring turned into summer, on warm days, she had began to come along wearing just a T-shirt and no bra. She had small pert breasts with nipples that poked out endearingly. That day she was wearing particularly tight jeans and, for the first time I could remember, perfume and make-up.
"You look good today – who's the lucky guy?"
"You must be joking. I've had it with up to my eye-teeth with men!"
I wondered whether maybe she had a girl friend instead and changed the subject. I went back to work and was busy on the computer, trying to finish a presentation, when she came in to do my office. This usually only took a few minutes, but today she seemed to linger. She looked over my shoulder and I could smell a mixture of her strong perfume and the tobacco on her clothes.
"What are you up to? I always wonder what you do up here all day."
"Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid, but it pays the bills."
"We all could do with a little excitement in our lives, Edward. God knows, I could!"
