Page 6 of A Clean Sweep

T he next day, to Emily's surprise, she found several chimney sweeps listed in her area.

With no clue which one to choose she decided to go for her usual modus operandi, opting for the catchiest name.

Up Yours Chimney Services. A bit rude, maybe, but Emily was no prude.

And they were members of the European Federation of Chimney Sweeps, which sounded very impressive.

Perhaps they all met up once a year in The Hague or Brussels.

She imagined a giant table around which sat dozens of men – perhaps women too – comparing brush lengths and discussing the merits of coal versus wood.

Maybe having a sing along in Mockney accents.

She shook her head. Now she was just being silly.

A few minutes later, having spoken to a charming lady on the phone and arranged a visit for early afternoon, Emily decided to head to the shops.

Gathering up her bag and keys, she slung on her fleecy coat – there was a distinct glitter of frost on the driveway – and went into the garage.

Her little Mini Cooper awaited her, custard yellow with broad white stripes on the bonnet.

She adored her car, even if it was getting on a bit.

The last garage bill had been a shocker, but she couldn’t bear to trade it in for something newer.

As she pulled into a parking spot, her mobile rang. Celeste’s name flashed up on the screen. No doubt checking up on the aftermath of the book club, thought Emily.

‘Hi, Celeste. I’m just about to hit the shops so …’ She paused as she realised her sister was snivelling down the line, albeit in a rather forced manner.

‘Oh Emily, it’s simply awful ! I just heard, that lovely, lovely Tom Jones – no, silly, not the Welsh one that sings and gets pelted with underpants – the butcher on the high street. Made the best Cumberland sausages and his chicken and leek pies were to die for! Well, not literally, of course. ’

Emily realised she’d parked right outside the butcher’s in question.

She hadn’t been there for weeks but had decided to treat herself after landing a decent commission on a series of young adult books she’d edited.

A distinctly unladylike sniff of warthog proportions came down the line, followed by: ‘He died!’ Emily was unsure how to react.

Mr Jones had seemed a perfectly nice man but admiring his bangers and deft ways with flaky pastry hardly warranted such extreme emotion.

Still, Celeste was nothing if not overly dramatic.

‘I’m sorry, Celeste, that’s very sad. How did he die?’ Banishing images of the poor man taking a tumble into the mincing machine, she waited for a response.

‘Cancer, I’m afraid,’ said Celeste, injecting just enough tremor into her voice. ‘I think it’s quite a rare one. What’s it called again? Oh, yes. Now I remember. Cancer of the asparagus.’

Stepping into the shop, Emily noticed that the staff were all sporting black armbands.

And deeply sorrowful expressions as they dismembered some poor beast, the occasional tear threatening as they recalled his prowess with pork chops, his legendary French-trimmed racks of lamb.

His son, Alistair, appeared to be at the helm.

An unassuming sort with bulging forearms and a tattoo declaring 'meat is the answer' (take that, Morrissey), he looked up as Emily approached the counter.

'Morning, Mrs H. What can I get you today?

' Emily looked at her list. A complete blur.

She wrestled her reading glasses from her head.

Better. 'A pound of your pork sausages with fennel and chilli, please.

And two rib-eye steaks.' Blow the cost. At least she could share them with Tom the next time he and Tabitha dropped in.

And leave her daughter to her marinated mung beans and other monstrosities.

Duly wrapped and paid for, Emily headed next door to the deli.

The book club ladies had devoured every last morsel of her truffle-infused Brie, and she fancied some of their totally scrummy sun-dried tomatoes infused with garlic oil for a salad recipe tonight.

As she waited to be served, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

Susan Wainwright was right behind her, wicker basket slung over the crook of her arm.

' Such fun at book club last night! Well, apart from the house nearly burning down, of course.' Slight exaggeration. Although word had no doubt swept through town faster than a Californian wildfire of their near-death experience.

'Glad you enjoyed it, Susan,' Emily replied. 'It’s your turn to host it soon, isn’t it? I’ve forgotten the name of the book. What is it? I’ll download it later today.'

Susan shifted the weighty basket from one arm to the other, Emily catching a glimpse of a large box of colourful macarons from the patisserie at the far end of the high street.

'Beyond the Blindfold ,' announced Susan, beaming broadly.

'Thought we needed a break from all the heavy stuff.

I just read a little snippet about it on Amazon, but it sounds intriguing.

All about a middle-aged housewife who meets a much younger man on a package holiday to Greece.

All kinds of kinky cavorting to follow!'

Maybe she’d invent a minor ailment that evening.

Ingrown toenail surgery or varicose veins stripping.

The thought of reading about some menopausal woman getting tied up and spanked by some hunk called Georgios while smeared head to toe in baklava didn’t really appeal.

Would remind her too much of her own sad single status and unlikelihood of being smeared with anything exciting in the foreseeable future. Unless you counted Nivea body lotion.

Both women having made their purchases – mini samosas and a tub of salmon pate for Susan – they headed outside together.

'Love to chat more, Emily, but I’ve got an appointment now so better get a wiggle on.

See you soon!' With a flutter of her free hand Susan disappeared around the corner.

Emily looked at her list again. Just a couple of toiletries from Boots and she was done.

She was just finishing her lunchtime sandwich and glass of water when the doorbell went.

Glancing at her wrist, she was impressed that the chimney sweep was on time.

Punctuality was a big deal for Emily. She hated when people turned up to things half an hour or more beyond the appointed hour.

With no plausible excuses, like broken down cars or cancelled trains.

Just an airy, 'Gosh, just completely lost track.

Sorry!' As if every watch, clock and device in their home had been inexplicably sucked into a black hole designed specifically to thwart their chances of being prompt.

Placing her empty plate and glass in the dishwasher, she made her way to the door.

Opened it, a warm smile of welcome on her face.

'Hi there. Mrs Hardwick? I’m Joe McKenzie.

The chimney sweep.' He held out his hand. Emily gaped at it. Long, slightly tanned fingers. Well-groomed fingernails. Not so much as a speck of dust to be seen. She shook his hand, admiring his firm grip. Allowed herself a moment to take in his quite remarkably handsome face. He was smiling back, albeit a little quizzically. Help, she was still holding his hand. 'Come in, come in!' she twittered, feeling a bit like a character from that Harry Enfield sketch when two lecherous old dears scared off the gas man. ‘Ooh, young man !’ He followed her into the hallway and through to the living room. 'Here’s the fireplace,' she said, pointing to what was – quite obviously – a fireplace. Joe approached it, knelt down on the hearth and – taking a small flashlight from the breast pocket of his light grey overalls – peered upwards. He said nothing, just switched off the flashlight and got to his feet. ‘OK, I’m guessing there’s some kind of obstruction, but I’ll need to get my tools out of the van and take a closer look. Won’t be long.' He strode off towards the front door, Emily noting his long, muscular legs and broad shoulders. For goodness sake, woman, she chided herself. Talk of Susan’s torrid book choice had filled her head with inappropriately lustful thoughts towards innocent young males. She’d be fantasising about being tickled by feather dusters next.

For the next hour or so Joe worked away at discovering why Emily’s fire had temporarily transformed the room into a smoke-filled version of the Phantom of the Opera’s underground lair.

He laid out dust sheets on the carpet, covered his sturdy work boots with plastic protection and produced what looked like a steroid-pumped vacuum cleaner.

With the aid of various connecting rods, he inserted a lengthy brush into the chimney, then took himself back outside and onto the roof using an enormous, sectioned ladder.

Emily, meanwhile, had nipped upstairs to tidy up her hair and check her make-up.

Which she’d have done anyway, she reasoned, even if Joe had looked like her actual gas man.

Who was very sweet but less babe magnet, more Neanderthal man.

Pleasant enough, if you discounted his hairy knuckles and peculiar grunts when dismantling the boiler, but not quite the stuff of erotic daydreams.