Page 13 of A Clean Sweep

C eleste was cleaning out her cupboards.

Once a year or thereabouts she liked to have a good old purge – out with the old, in with the new.

Or something like that. Tatty old pots and pans, beyond salvaging with a Brillo pad; ageing towels which had lost their fluffiness, magazines she’d kept for some delicious recipe or scoop on the latest must-have rejuvenating cream but now couldn’t be bothered flicking through to find them, and – her favourite – clothes.

She found it incredibly therapeutic to fill bin bags with blouses, skirts, dresses and so on that had lost their appeal.

The lady at the local charity shop always looked ready to explode with joy when Celeste staggered in with her armfuls of booty.

Chiefly because Celeste only wore high-end fashion.

Maybe not quite Dior or Balmain but certainly a million high street miles from most of the threadbare junk that landed on the shop doorstep.

Literally abandoned overnight like an unwanted puppy, usually unwashed and with more holes than a leaky sieve.

‘Sorry, my darlings, but you just don’t do me justice anymore, do you?

’ she murmured apologetically to a pair of fine wool trousers in a pale dove grey.

In truth, she couldn’t quite do up the button anymore but Celeste wasn’t about to let that stark little reality rain on her parade.

So, she’d gained a few pounds? Better that than to be rail thin, all jutting bones and turkey necks.

She prided herself on her curves. Michael always said he liked a bit of meat on her, couldn’t be doing with those scrawny creatures with no arses and shoving lettuce leaves around their plates, whilst drooling over their dining companion’s coq au vin and butter-laden mash.

She really was so lucky to have Michael, she thought, shoving a purple chiffon blouse into a bag.

He never complained when she returned from a shopping spree, laden with expensive-looking purchases.

‘Got some nice things, sweetheart?’ he’d ask, peering at her over his glasses from the comfort of his Eames lounge chair.

He’d retired a few years ago, well set-up after a lifetime with a private bank dealing with clients who wouldn’t be seen dead in anything less than ‘hot couture’.

And he demanded so little, quite content to potter around at home, playing the stock market when the mood took him, always happy to drop her off and pick her up when a few sherries were on the cards.

Celeste had never really worked, at least not since her early twenties.

She wasn’t a natural at school, academically or on the sports field.

Science and mathematics bored her rigid, English was OK but she knew she had a tendency to get words mixed up.

‘My mum reckons I’m – what do you call it – anorexic?

’ she’d confided in Michael on one of their early dates.

To his credit, he’d never laughed or mocked her.

Just smiled indulgently and pulled her in for one of his life-affirming hugs.

Children weren’t something she had ever wanted.

She simply didn’t feel the maternal type and Michael, luckily, was happy to concur.

He had been married briefly once before.

His ex-wife was called Margaret but beyond that Celeste knew very little.

Nor did she want to know. She considered it the past and firmly believed in living in the present.

The only other thing she knew was that they had a daughter, Sophie, who now lived in Scotland and had two little ones of her own.

Relationships were strained between father and daughter, the odd birthday or Christmas card sent or received.

As far as she was aware they didn’t speak on the telephone or communicate by email.

She hadn't exactly demanded it when they met, or had she?

She couldn't really recall. Whatever. By all accounts his ex was a total bitch and had done her utmost to cut Michael out of his daughter's life. This suited Celeste just fine. She didn’t want to share Michael, selfish though that may be.

She was happy with her life, happy with her husband, and anything else might cloud the picture.

She got up every day, primped and readied herself and marvelled at the fact that she lived in a beautiful home with a husband who adored her and a lifestyle that made her the envy of many of her friends.

Although she had never had a career, Celeste considered herself the rock to which Michael anchored himself.

She had supported him unquestioningly and resolutely throughout his working life.

Always immaculately presented, with a home that glittered and gleamed as a beacon to their success and unity.

Dinner parties were hosted, guests treated to lavish, multi-course meals.

She’d listen enraptured to an important colleague’s mind-numbing chatter, always with the perfect hostess smile on her perfectly painted face.

She kept the yawns and face-pulling until bedtime, when Michael would laugh at her spot-on impressions and congratulate her on another outstanding evening.

Her only little secret – if you could call it that – was a hobby she’d taken up a few months ago.

Out of sheer boredom, if she was completely honest with herself.

Michael had had his years of slogging away in the banking world, so could be forgiven for taking pleasure in doing very little, or nothing at all.

Celeste was proud of what she’d achieved as a wife and home builder but nagging away at her over the past couple of years had been two small words.

So what ? She didn’t have degrees or certificates or accolades from City high flyers.

She’d never been quoted in The Financial Times (or even the local rag, come to think of it).

She imagined her gravestone – sleek, polished marble – engraved with the words, ‘Here lies Celeste Atherton. Wife …’

Michael had tried to cajole her out of her dark thoughts when she voiced them. Which wasn’t often.

‘Sweetheart, if I’d wanted a ferocious lawyer for a wife I’d have gone looking for one.

Then I’d never have seen her anyway and we’d have ended up divorced!

And if that was her specialist field I’d have lost everything.

I chose you. And I love you, just how you are.

’ He’d plant a kiss on her forehead then retreat to the sanctuary of his study.

She’d been flicking through a few tired-looking magazines at the hairdresser.

Not her usual fare but getting her extensions redone was a long and tedious process.

One in particular – Tea Break – had kept her reasonably engrossed as her stylist Steph clipped and sizzled her human hair add-ons into position.

She’d just finished reading a piece on a woman who professed to still love her husband despite his fondness for dressing up as a baby – a twenty-two stone bearded one – when another article caught her eye.

‘Ladies, do you have a steamy novel just bursting to get out? A passion for romance with just a hint of naughtiness thrown in? We’re looking for new and previously unpublished manuscripts for our competition.

The winner will receive ￡5,000 and have their story appear in instalments right here in your favourite weekly read!

’ Glancing around and realising that Steph had nipped off – probably for her nicotine fix – Celeste swiftly tore out the page and shoved it into her handbag.

She spent a flipping fortune in here restoring what Mother Nature had decided to deprive her of.

One poxy page of a tatty magazine hardly amounted to grand arceny.

‘Celeste? Just heading out for a walk. Probably be a couple of hours. Thought I’d try and up the ante a bit.

’ Michael peered around the bedroom door, already wearing his quilted jacket and sturdy shoes.

‘No problem,’ replied Celeste, tying a knot in bag number three.

‘Enjoy, darling. See you later.’ Ever since she’d bought him a fitness tracker for his birthday Michael had been obsessed with getting in his recommended 10,000 steps a day.

Often this involved nothing more than a stroll to the shops and several circuits of the house – she swore he was wearing holes in the carpets – but more recently he’d taken to going on proper walks. Sometimes for hours on end.

So, she had an hour or two to get on with her project.

That’s how she liked to think of it, an assignment she’d set herself, with a fixed deadline.

Only one week to go. The clock was ticking but Celeste was quietly confident she’d make it.

And inwardly bubbling over with excitement at the thought of maybe – just maybe – seeing her work in print.

With her name attached! Then she’d be somebody.

And they could add ‘writer’ to her epitaph.

Although she hoped she didn’t pop her clogs before she saw her dream come true.

Like that poor Swedish chap whose books became international best-sellers after he’d died. No fun in that.

At first Celeste had been hesitant to start, even though she’d always loved writing short stories when she was younger.

She’d never shared them, just scribbled away furiously in a lined school jotter when she wasn’t bogged down with hideous maths homework or trying to invent excuses to skip PE.

Her sister, Emily, was always the more intelligent one, the one who went to university and studied English Literature.

She’d ended up getting pregnant and married, her grand career plans derailed by motherhood.