Page 26 of A Clean Sweep
M eryl was merrily whizzing her Hoover around her flat, ABBA’s greatest hits blasting out in the background. She hummed along contentedly, pausing only to gulp down a mouthful of her fennel tea. So good for the digestion, even if it reminded her of liquid liquorice.
Cleaning her small pad took very little time.
Situated directly above the shop, it consisted of a decent-sized master bedroom; a tiny guest room that doubled up as her office; a combined lounge cum dining area and a galley-style kitchen.
There was only one bathroom with an overhead shower and access from both the main bedroom and living area.
Small but cosy, it suited Meryl perfectly and she had done her utmost to stamp her personality all over it.
Twinkly fairy lights festooned the place all year round, luxurious velvet throws in shades of chocolate and maroon were artfully draped over her cream leather sofa and chairs and the walls bore an eclectic mix of prints and photographs that added a splash of colour throughout.
Her lighting was subtle, just a few table lamps with low-wattage bulbs.
It might not be a palace but it was hers and she didn't even have to worry about driving to work every day.
The main reason for today's domestic duties was that Miroslaw was coming round for dinner that evening.
It was a Sunday and the only day that The Little Shop of Treasures was closed.
This would be their sixth date and Meryl was more than a little nervous.
Not that she feared anything bad would happen – he had always been the perfect gentleman – it was more a question of if something 'good' might happen.
So far, they'd kissed several times, latterly with infinitely more ardour and a hint of tongue.
Which meant sex could well be on the cards, although she suspected he would wait for her to give the green light.
Was she ready? She wasn't completely sure.
It had been a few years since her last relationship which had been a bit of a damp squib, both of them plodding on with half-hearted enthusiasm until they mutually agreed they had little in common.
Her online dating experiences had nearly put her off men for life until Miroslaw came along.
She certainly found him sexually attractive and she did miss feeling wanted and desired in that way.
And she was only forty-eight – yes, she did fib a little about her age – and not ready to settle for a life of celibacy and only singing Swedes for company.
Switching off the vacuum cleaner Meryl straightened a couple of cushions and gave the room a liberal spray of Seduction, one of a range of essential oil blends that were very popular in the shop.
She'd light a few candles this evening too, both to set the mood and ensure she looked her best. She'd picked out her outfit already.
An old favourite, a silky black top with a sequinned trim around the neckline coupled with wide-legged black trousers that disguised the odd lumpy bit.
She had considered putting on her control pants to suck in the aforementioned flab but decided against it.
They were the most hideous-looking item of underwear she possessed, and took about ten minutes to wriggle into.
And probably a good half hour to remove, by which time Miroslaw would have given up and gone home, defeated and deflated by their utter lack of sex appeal.
Nope, she'd stick to her old faithfuls which could be whipped off and tossed aside in the time it took for him to strip off his boxers.
Or his G-string. She prayed fervently it was the former.
After a quick shower, Meryl was ready to hit the shops.
She'd chosen a simple menu, big on taste but easy to prepare.
Miroslaw was keen on cooking so she wanted to impress, but equally didn't want to end up a sweaty and stressed heap in the kitchen.
So it was smoked salmon salad with a crème fraiche dressing to start, lamb cutlets with leek mash and mustard sauce for the main and tarte citron from the high street patisserie.
With coffee and brandy to finish. Or to set the scene for some postprandial hanky panky.
It was a crisp and clear day as Meryl strode purposefully around town.
She'd picked up the starter and main ingredients in the supermarket, along with a decent bottle each of white and red.
At least, she hoped they were decent. She always went for the deeply scientific method of choosing the ones with the prettiest labels.
Just the dessert to deal with and she could head back with hours to spare before show time.
‘A tarte citron, please.’
The patisserie was busy as always, Meryl reaching the front of the queue after a good ten-minute wait.
They were open seven days a week and produced a mouth-watering and calorific selection of sweet treats that could derail the most dedicated dieter.
She didn't mind. Desserts had never really been her speciality and their selection was always top-notch.
As she paid and accepted the proffered plastic bag containing its lemony sinfulness she noticed another customer she vaguely recognised.
A plump lady standing by the shelves of hand-made petit fours, lifting up one box, then another.
She looked distracted, distressed even, her movements jerky and her hands shaky as she selected then rejected the choices.
Who was she? And how did she know her? Then she remembered.
She was a friend of Tabbie's mum. She'd met her once or twice when Tabbie had invited her back to the family home.
If she recalled correctly, on one occasion it had been just before book club, which Emily – Tabbie's mum – hosted from time to time.
They'd had to run through some possible new stock items for the shop and had decided to have a quick tête-à-tête at her mum's because Tom was hosting a boys' night and made it clear that women were categorically not welcome.
Unless they came bearing six packs, takeaway pizzas and the promise of a pole-dancing routine.
‘Susan? Hi, you probably don't remember me but I'm Meryl. Tabitha's boss? I run The Little Shop of Treasures. We met at her mum's, Emily's, a while back. And some other time, I'm sure, but anyway… Are you OK?’
The other woman stared blankly at Meryl, with red-rimmed eyes and a trembling mouth.
She was now clutching a box of mini éclairs and looked in danger of squeezing the life out of them.
It was clear something was wrong but Meryl was unsure how to proceed.
Not a meddler by nature she was reluctant to appear nosy or pushy but, equally, she felt unable to simply walk away.
‘Look, I can see you’re upset and it’s absolutely none of my business but if there’s anything I can do? Here, let me take those for you.’
Meryl slid her plastic bag up her outstretched arm as she gently removed the slightly crushed box of éclairs from Susan’s grasp.
As she did so a solitary tear slid down Susan’s cheek and she gave a little sob.
Meryl turned to the thankfully empty counter and hurriedly paid for the goods, slipping them into the basket at Susan’s feet.
‘In my opinion you need a sit down and a cup of something good and strong. I’m a good listener if you feel like talking, but I’m just as happy to sit in silence if that’s what you prefer. I just think you could do with a bit of company right now. What do you think?’
Moments later they were seated in a little bar around the corner.
Meryl had ordered herself a small glass of white but Susan had declined alcohol and was nursing a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallow sprinkles.
She still hadn’t spoken, aside from a whispered ‘thank you’ when Meryl guided her gently out of the patisserie and along the street a few hundred yards.
She quietly surveyed her companion as they each sipped their drinks.
Susan seemed a little calmer, a milky moustache adorning her upper lip which gave her a vaguely comical air in contrast to her earlier despair.
Meryl decided against pointing it out, the poor woman clearly having bigger issues on her mind than a bit of unintended facial adornment.
‘So, would you like to share what's troubling you?
I promise I'm completely non-judgemental.
If you're actually a man trapped inside a woman's body or you harbour a desire to rid the world of Z list celebrities with a Kalashnikov, then I'm all ears.
I have to confess I'm a die-hard ABBA fan and have been known to wear dungarees and ogle pictures of Pierce Brosnan on the internet.
He's even on my screen saver. How sad is that?’
At this point, Susan looked up and laughed. Actually laughed, a proper, from-the-belly, chortle that lit up her face and showed a hint of the real person within.
‘None of the above, sadly. The truth is … I have cancer. And I don't quite know how to deal with it. And there's not a person on earth I can share it with. Except you. And why sh ould you care? You don't know me. You've been so kind but I can't burden you with this.’
Susan rose as if to leave but Meryl beckoned for her to stay. Her head said to walk away but her heart went out to this lonely lady who had spilled her darkest secrets and so clearly needed a friend to confide in.
‘What kind? If you don't mind me asking? I've known a lot of people who've faced the big C and everyone has dealt with it in different ways. If I can help …?’
Susan looked at her with a mixture of despondency and desperation.
She was clearly split in half, wanting to spill out all her worries and fears yet afraid to do so with someone she barely knew.
Who could laugh at her behind her back, poor fat lady with a disease so prevalent yet it took her months to pick up the signs because she hated her body so much?