Page 14 of A Clean Sweep

There were two main reasons for Celeste to feel absolute terror at the thought of entering the competition.

Number One – the submission had to be between 40 and 50,000 words.

As these days, her writing was confined to grocery lists and the occasional email, she could not imagine producing that number of words.

It would be like trying to scale Everest in stilettos.

Except, to her amazement, she had found a flow and rhythm to her writing, some days clocking up 1,000 words or more.

Number Two – Celeste was well aware of her tendency to use the wrong word from time to time.

But with the aid of spell and grammar check on her computer she was confident she hadn’t made any serious errors.

Anyway, she was sure they had editors who would correct potential boo-boos.

The key thing was that she’d produced something she believed was both steamy and readable.

Perhaps not the next Fifty Shades of Grey but at least a few shades of blushing pink.

Less props involved but her manly hero would hopefully seduce the Tea Break faithful with his impeccable pecs and mind-blowing stamina in the boudoir.

Her most recent chapter had him going at it for thirty-seven minutes.

Not including foreplay. Or after play. Luckily his playmate was a plucky soul with thighs of steel and a pelvic floor that could crush Coke cans.

Celeste booted up her laptop. Another day, another chapter.

Maybe the second last one. What was the word, penintimate, something like that, anyway.

Sounded about right, considering the subject matter.

Her insatiable male character, who went by the name of Leo, had managed to vanquish all contenders for the hand and heart of his chosen one, the seductive yet sturdy Seraphina.

Whose name came from the Hebrew language and meant ‘ardent or fiery’.

And she was certainly both, passionate to the point of making mere mortals weep and wave white flags of surrender and as likely to burst into flames as a well-tended hearth.

Which reminded Celeste, she really should ring Emily and make sure she was all right after the book club evening.

She leant back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head.

Writing was more fun than she could ever have imagined but it did give her sore shoulders and an aching neck.

She twisted her head one way then another, wincing as she heard a loud click.

Another 500 words or so and she’d take a break.

A Tea Break , no less. Celeste gave a little inward smile as she imagined their readership getting in a right old flap as Leo and Seraphina hit orgasmic highs that could lift the roofs off ancient buildings and have the Gods reaching for their ear plugs.

And eye masks. Yes, she’d created a little slice of mythological mayhem with a liberal dose of good old rampant sex which she was sure could be a contender for first prize.

All she had to do was come up with an amazing climax – and there’d already been a few of those – and ￡5,000 could be hers.

The first money she’d earned for herself since who knows when.

A cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake later, Celeste was torn between getting on with her writing and calling Emily for an update on her chimney crisis. She decided on the latter. Leo and Seraphina’s final grunts and gasps could wait.

‘Emily! Comment ca va?’

Celeste had quit her evening French classes on the grounds that they were too boring and full of earnest souls keen to grasp the finer points of grammar, whereas she just wanted to sound more alluring and be able to decipher menus in some of the posher restaurants Michael took her to.

She’d never forget her abject humiliation when they’d dined at some Michelin rated establishment and she’d asked for ‘conard’.

The waiter had retreated with a purplish tinge to his face and even Michael had almost choked on his mouthful of lightly bodied Burgundy.

‘What? What did I say?’ she’d demanded. Although she already knew she had come up with another Celestism, as they had come to be known over the years.

‘Sweetheart, you just ordered an arsehole. The French word for duck is ‘canard’.’ Michael had wiped his eyes on his napkin, patted her hand affectionately.

Celeste had withdrawn her hand abruptly, mortified yet annoyed that the understandable swapping of one vowel sound should cause such mirth at her expense.

‘Obviously, I didn’t need to order an arsehole when I have one sitting right opposite me,’ she’d retorted, in a rare moment of biting back. Michael looked suitably stunned for all of three seconds, then reached for her hand again.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s an easy mistake to make. Forgive me?’

He’d looked at her with his earnest, dark brown eyes and she’d felt her humiliation melt away, thawed by his kindness and devotion.

‘You’re forgiven. As long as I can have the trio of chocolate desserts with a liqueur coffee for afters.’

Celeste realised her thoughts had drifted away and Emily had been speaking for quite a few seconds. She snapped back to the present, banishing thoughts of arseholes and divine chocolate tortes from her head.

‘Sorry, darling. What was that? I was just ringing to see how things were, if you managed to sort out your chimney problem?’

‘Hi Celeste. I just said everything was fine. Yes, I found someone online, he came round the next day and retrieved a dead bird. Michael was right – well, he usually is, isn’t he?

All it needed was a good clean then he dropped by yesterday to fit a special guard to stop it happening again.

So, all good. Fantastic. Couldn’t be better, really. ’

Strange. Her sister seemed incredibly enthusiastic about having her chimney swept. Although she supposed that living on her own meant she got lonely sometimes, so even a humble tradesman dropping by might brighten an otherwise dull day.

‘What was he like then? I can just picture him now. A stocky little fellow, all sooty jowls and cap-doffing. Did he have a cockney accent? I mean, a real one, not like Dick Van Drake in that movie? What was it called again? Honestly, my memory’s getting worse these days.’

Emily smiled, both at how completely wrong Celeste was in her imagining of Joe and the thought that he would hopefully ring her soon to arrange a time to drop by.

It was already ten o’clock and she didn’t want the line to be engaged when he called.

She wished now she’d also given him her mobile number, but she could do that when he arrived. Or would that be way too forward?

‘ Mary Poppins . The film you’re thinking of. And, no, he didn’t look like that at all. His name’s Joe and he’s maybe around thirty and quite good-looking, actually.’

She refrained from saying ‘drop-dead gorgeous’ as she knew it would pique Celeste’s curiosity no end. She’d probably pester Emily for his number and call him around for a quick inspection. Of him, not her fireplace, as she and Michael had a fake gas-burning one.

Just then her phone made a buzzing noise, indicating another call was coming in. Damn! Time to get Celeste off the line, pronto.

‘Sorry, Celeste. I really have to go. I've got a pile of stories to edit and deadlines approaching. You know how it is. Well, you probably don't but … must dash. Chat soon. Bye! ’

Celeste was a little taken aback at Emily's curtness.

She'd been all set for a good old chinwag.

A distraction from Leo and Seraphina and their wanton ways.

Which made her smile inwardly as Emily had absolutely no idea her flighty big sister was a few knee-trembling moments away from completing her own slice of fictional rumpy pumpy.

So, just one more sliver of cake and maybe a tiny glass of bubbly – the sun was definitely over the yardarm somewhere on the planet – and she'd settle down for the mind-blowing finale.

‘Hi Emily. It's Joe. The chimney sweep.’ As if she could possibly have forgotten his name or got him confused with another Joe.

‘Hi Joe. How are you? Listen, I really appreciate you calling and offering to fix my drip…’

Why did everything she said seem laced with double entendres?

Yes, I am a leaky and sad old woman who needs a good servicing.

Preferably more than once a year and without call out charges.

Or replacement parts. Although lately her hips hadn't been so much as lying as protesting that she wasn't the bouncy young thing of days gone by.

When she could gyrate on the dancefloor to the sounds of the eighties, handbags stacked in the middle, would-be suitors circling like pimply predators.

Acne to acne, pus to pus. Sorry, Mr Bowie.

‘No problem. I'll be with you in fifteen minutes, if that's OK?’

More than OK. If George Clooney himself had just rang to say he was stopping by for a quickie she couldn't have been more delighted. Or excited. And just a tad petrified.

‘Great! See you soon!’

Emily put down the phone, praying that her enthusiasm didn't betray the fact that she had a serious case of the collywobbles.

Her stomach was churning, and also making embarrassing rumbling noises.

She knew she should have forced down some breakfast but her appetite had been non-existent.

Too late now. She poured a glass of tap water and willed herself to calm down.

She didn't even wait for him to ring the bell this time, opening the door the second she heard his van pull into the driveway. She watched as he eased his long legs down from the seat, reaching across to pick up a small toolbox.

‘Hi, Emily. Gorgeous day, isn't it? Too nice to be stuck indoors, eh?’