Janet Jackson Superhost: Warmth, humour and romance for a gorgeous heroine forced to reinvent hersel

1. Miles the Dentist

Miles the Dentist

Miles is my boss at the dental practice called Valley Dental, where I work as a receptionist. He’s mid-divorce and this is his first Christmas and New Year away from the family. Poor Miles. He was looking really depressed in the run-up to the holiday period, mooching around reception in between patients, dropping hints about how he was going to be all alone at Christmas for the first time in his life. After he welled up, talking about when his girls were little and begging a tissue off me, followed by a ‘Is the cottage available, Janet?’ I fell soft and agreed to let him stay there for Christmas week. I’d no one else booked in– and what could possibly go wrong?

Here’s the answer.

We’re three weeks into January and he’s still here! The baubles are all wrapped up and back in the old biscuit tin gathering spider webs up in the attic along with the wonky pine-cone wreath. Oh, and the four-foot cardboard Grinch that Mitzi turned up with on Christmas Eve, declaring tipsily, ‘Christmas is a commercial capitalist invention and so on principle I’ve decided not to partake in the exchange of Christmas presents this year.’

‘Tight arse,’ is how my seventeen-year-old daughter Chloe responded to that. She then crawled under the Christmas tree to retrieve and unwrap the bottle of expensive perfume she’d purchased for her aunt, replacing it with a crumbly lime-coloured bath bomb that she’d bought months ago.

‘She can have the giant bogey instead.’

Eurgh.Sometimes my sister is her own worst enemy. She’s so clever too, with a degree and everything, but it doesn’t translate to thinking things through. I suppose on reflection there’s always a bit too much booze involved. She’s rarely without a tipple, and any destructive self-centredness is beefed up with the stuff. My own weakness is food: cake, bread, pies, puddings, biscuits and pastry– although I do have a theory that baking only increases your judgement, thanks to all that stirring and relaxing and planning and taking one’s time to savour things.

I think my enjoyment of food might also have caused this issue with Miles: I’ve turned him with my dedication to cooking. He loves my onion and rosemary gravy. Take last Sunday. I was desperately trying not to notice that Miles (who, let’s not forget, is a well-brought-up, frankly quite posh bloke with dental qualifications and his own practice) had his face on the dinner plate and was licking up the last dregs of gravy from it. Even Mitzi’s current beau Carl, tattooed to the max, a rough-as-they-come builder with hands like shovels, was looking on agog.

Chloe pulled a disgusted face at me and stood up from the table deliberately slowly, scraping her chair for maximum drama, saying, ‘Er... try and leave some pattern on the plate, Miles.’

This did seem to stir my boss out of his hypnotic slurp.

‘Ha, yes. I will. Sorry. Blame your mother, Chloe, for her gravy of the gods. I could die happy, drowning in a bowl of that.’

‘Well, hurry up and get on with the drowning bit as we need the cottage next week. Carl’s family are coming.’

Mitzi delivers this lie completely deadpan, with one leg inside the room, one leg outside the patio door. She flicks a cigarette end into the garden, and it lands somewhere close to where my sweet peas came up last year. She then closes the door and sashays back to the table to play with her one carrot and potato Sunday dinner. My sister isn’t a fan of food.

Miles has no idea how to take Mitzi and looks at me for reassurance.

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll sort something out.’

Oh, why did I say that? It’s like I have a pleasing disease. I can’t stop saying yes. So much for using my better judgement. This is now week four of a stay, which is pretty much three weeks longer than we originally agreed. I mean, on the upside, he’s paying– so why would I say no? Lavander Cottage is full. Great. I’m only cleaning it once a week. Great. He’s very tidy so he doesn’t make much of a mess. Great. Only it’s not so great. My boss is living next door. Imagine, your boss! The lack of privacy!

Take today, a perfect Saturday January morning, and here I am, shuffling round the garden getting dazzled by a brilliant white sun whilst the frost nips at my exposed bits. No bra, giant green wader wellies– the only shoes I could rustle up from the mountain in the hall cupboard. I’m drowning in an enormous Pudsey Bear dressing gown that has seen better days, tied with a random scarf ’cos I couldn’t find the belt. I’m sipping my first cup of tea without a hint of mascara. I’ve not even cleaned my teeth and I’m chewing on the crust of Chloe’s last night take-out pizza crust. Sorry, I know it’s not a pretty picture.

So there I am, happy as Larry, bent double in the flowerbeds searching for evidence of bulb leaves poking up, everything roaming free, when the cottage door flies opens and out pops Miles. Dashing dentist Miles. Literally dashing. I mean it, he never stops. If he’s not going on twenty-mile cycle rides, he’s fell-running: rain, hail or snow– he doesn’t care. He arrived back at the cottage yesterday drenched to the bones, looking as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. These days, he’s so skinny, I reckon I could fell him like timber with one misjudged trip. Honestly, I’m tired just watching him– and here he is, freshly showered and shaved, his racing bicycle at his side, immaculate in body-hugging silver and black Lycra, leaving my eyes with absolutely NOWHERE to go. I reckon that I, on the other hand, look like I’m auditioning for the part of abandoned half-sister of Jabba the Hutt.

‘Morning, Janet, it’s a glorious one.’

‘Morning, Miles. You’re up bright and early.’

‘Yes, on the road for seven-thirty. I’ll be able to get a good sixty miles in today, all being well.’

‘Wow.’

‘Isn’t it. You should come out with me.’

‘Yes, I should.’ (Never going to happen.) ‘I don’t know if my rusty wheels could do six miles, never mind sixty.’

‘I’ll take a look at it, if you like. Probably just needs a service. You around later?’

‘Probably.’

‘Smith and Kline are playing at the White King this evening if you fancy going for a drink.’

‘Smith and Kline?’

‘Excellent, hard folk, bit of Northumbrian pipe. They were long-listed for the Mercury a few years ago.’

‘Amazing.’ (Mercury? Must have been retrograde at the time.)

‘Excellent. See you there, say, around seven?’

‘Great.’

He leans on his razor blade of a bike and then with an energetic stride his leg is over and he pedals off with a jolly salute.

I think about my pleasing disease. I wonder what medics would call it– ‘Yes Pox’? Anyway, I’ve got a strong case of it. Hard folk? I’m a fan of Abba and Billy Joel, given half a chance. These days, I never even get to choose the music in my house or my car. Someone else is always deciding what’s playing, Chloe with her Dua Lipa and Mitzi with her 80s’ Goth medleys. So, do I like hard folk? I’ve absolutely no idea. Well, there go my plans for a repeat binge of The Crown.

Mind you, it will do me good to get out. Mitzi and Carl are always staying in these days, since they’re saving for the wedding. Really? Who has a big wedding when they’re over forty? They are three weddings in, for goodness sake, and those are just the ones Mitzi can remember. I’m being mean but I end up feeling like a third wheel in the living room once they start cuddling and giggling after a second bottle of wine.

It’ll be good to go out. At least he’s friendly, Miles, and he does things. He looks after himself. Maybe I should stop moaning and leave him in the cottage? It could work. It WOULD NOT work. I don’t want to have to worry about what my boss does or doesn’t know about my private life; it’s all way too close for comfort. Hold on, Janet. Did Miles just ask me out on a date? And did I just say yes? What was I thinking?

Right– that’s it. I’m unblocking the calendar. Miles is getting his notice. I am officially re-opening the cottage for general business. Whatever I do, I can’t mix up my personal life and my work life and my home-work life– you know what I mean. Now that really would be a disaster.

*

I arrive at the gig determined to establish that this date isn’t officially a date. I’ve deliberately not gone too dressed up. Too much and it would look like I’ve assumed it was a date and I can’t have that. My outfit needs to be relaxed enough for a gig, nice enough to not be too unattractive. I opt for a fluffy jumper– I always think fluffy is good, it’s got a sensuality about it that’s not ‘in your face’. Burgundy, to go with the jeggings and ankle boots with a heel. I’ve nailed it. I hope.

I walk into Hebden. It’s a crispy night, with a bright tiny crescent of a moon, and the ground’s not too slippery underfoot. I don’t really like going into a bar by myself. It’s as if people are staring and judging, and though I tell myself that no one cares, that everyone is too involved in their own life, and what’s more that it’s twenty-first-century Britain for heaven’s sake and a woman can be out on her own, none of that makes any difference.

Putting an ‘I don’t give a monkey’s’ expression on my face, I open the pub door and am instantly hit by a waft of chatter and warmth. It’s so busy that no one even turns to look. I head to the bar and I’m only there a moment before Miles slips in beside me.

‘Hello, Janet, you look very nice,’ he greets me. ‘Have you walked here? You feel cold.’

‘Hi, yes, it’s a lovely night, and wow, it’s packed in here.’

‘Yes, it’s obviously got out that Smith and Kline are playing. Come and take a seat, I’ve bagged us a table. What’s your tipple?’

‘Half . . .’ I ponder.

‘. . . a bottle of Rioja?’

I laugh, Miles is funny. By the time he returns with a half of lager and a bottle of red the band are starting to hit their groove and it’s impossible not to enjoy the atmosphere. The White King is a lovely new bar, one of so many bars in Hebden, with dark walls and loads of greenery, and a tiny stage the musicians struggle to fit on. The sound is a strange mix of cello and tub-thumping, some noisy drums and a weird bit of pipe. But the singers’ voices are gorgeous, with brilliant harmonies and uplifting cheery lyrics, and our bottle of wine goes down a treat. It is followed by another and then a Jamaican Mule cocktail drink of some kind.

We’re in the taxi home and before we know it there’s lots of laughter and some hand-holding and a kiss. I can feel the waves of chastisement from here, but hey ho, I end up spending the night with Miles in the cottage. No regrets. It was lively, to say the least. He’s certainly got some energy, let’s put it that way. I make sure I disappear early morning and now we have reverted pretty much to business as usual. No big discussion, no heart-to-heart, just a grown-up mutual understanding and that is fine by me.

Janet Jackson, wild woman.

And the next morning, all fired up and confident, I tell him he has to go. Get me! Boundaries– I knew I had some tucked away somewhere. He’s a bit shocked. It was after the second cup of tea. I had made some buttermilk blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, just so you know I’m not without heart.

‘Oh. Really? You’re getting rid of me already? When I’m enjoying these pancakes sooo much.’ He looks downcast. ‘What a shame. When do I need to go?’

‘This week? You have been here three weeks longer than we agreed, Miles. And I need to get my business up and running again.’

‘Would raising the rent change your mind?’ (Argh, stay strong, Janet, stay strong.)

‘I think things have got a bit... blurry.’

‘OK. Yes. Blurry. Of course. I’ll get myself organised. Go this week.’

‘Thank you.’

*

Three weeks, two days and a bonk later, Miles moves out. It takes a whole day. Strapping the bikes to the roof-rack of his car is the most time-consuming part. Carl gives him a hand after one falls off and the scream of anguish from Miles brings us all out to check he’s OK. Everything else fits into two holdalls. As he gets into the car, I ask him to leave a review.

‘I don’t usually leave reviews, Janet.’

‘I bet you don’t usually stay three weeks longer than originally agreed and take home a six-pack of home-made frozen gravy and a chicken-and-mushroom pie, either?’ I hand him over a freezer bag with some Tupperware containers of gravy and a fabulous, if I say so myself, puff-pastry pie. He couldn’t look happier if he’d pipped the Yellow Jersey winner from the Tour de France at the last leg finish line.

‘Oh Janet, you absolute star.’

‘Oh Janet, you absolute Five Stars, please. I’m going for Superhost.’

He laughs. ‘Once I’m settled and on the laptop, I promise I’ll do a glowing review.’

‘Thank you.’

We hug. It’s nice. It’s friendly. It’s grown-up and I’m feeling absolutely in control.

Until today.

One week later, I’m in work. At Valley Dental, it’s been a busy morning and I’m in the kitchen making a peppermint tea for Mrs Fashanu and a water for Thomas Driver, who felt a bit dizzy after a root canal. When Miles wanders into the tiny kitchen I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I think he’s looking for me.

‘Janet! You look very nice today,’ he says, followed by, ‘I love the colour of your skirt.’ It’s dark green, I’ve worn it a hundred times.

‘Thank you,’ I reply. ‘I’m making some drinks, would you like one?’

‘Yes, please, will you bring me one up? A tea, please, if it’s not too much trouble.’

It’s a pain to take one up to him as he’s right at the top of the building, but it’s not very often he asks, and as always, he’s very polite.

‘No bother. You don’t like a lot of milk, is that right?’

‘Sturdy, Janet, that’s the way I like it: strong enough for the spoon to stand up.’

I totter up the stairs with a tray of drinks, drop them off with everyone and arrive at Miles’s room last as Judy, his dental nurse, is coming out.

‘He wants me to go and buy him some jelly babies for the young ones,’ she says, vexed. ‘I thought we were trying to wean kids off sweets. I’ll take my drink back down, thanks, and warm it up in the kitchen when I get back from the shop.’

As I enter the room and put his mug of tea down on the side, Miles immediately removes his mask and smiles.

‘Janet, what a treat. Thank you.’

He comes round the chair, and before I know it, he’s got his arm around my waist and we are kissing. KISSING! IN WORK! I’m leaning back then somehow I’m lying on his chair and Miles is pretty much climbing on top of me. What if Judy comes back early? In my panic I hit the electric switch and we are both slowly elevated upright.

‘Janet,’ he pants, ‘I have a huge crush on you.’

‘Miles, you are crushing me.’

‘Sorry, sorry.’

He leaps off me and I pull down my ruffled skirt, adjust my tights and rearrange my blouse. As I clamber off the chair, I accidentally press the water jet, which launches a spear of water onto my skirt, creating a dodgy-looking patch. I’m feeling flustered and a tad annoyed.

‘We cannot carry on like this in work,’ I snap. ‘It’s not professional, Miles.’

‘Of course. I’m so sorry. You just look sooo nice.’ And his arm is curling round my waist.

‘Miles. Enough! I’ve got Mr Driver in reception.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. So sorry.’ Miles steps back and scurries behind the chair. ‘Can I take you out for dinner tonight, Janet? A thank-you for letting me stay at your lovely cottage and for all the wonderful meals I’ve eaten at yours.’

I’m floundering a bit. He’s so intense, charming, and direct. I want to say simply, ‘Yes,’ but after what happened last time, us ending up in bed, it could develop into something. He, this... it makes me nervous. What is this all about– and do I really want any of it?

I gulp. ‘I er . . .’

He smiles and takes my hand and kisses it. Oh crikey. I might melt. ‘We had such a nice time last week.’

Why did I go to that bloody gig?How old am I? Old enough to know much better.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but that was just after Christmas, Miles. Special circumstances.’

He laughs. ‘A dentist isn’t just for Christmas, Janet.’

‘Ha. You know that’s not what I mean. Are you sure? You’re not even divorced yet, Miles.’

‘I’m sure, all right. I’d love to see you again and again.’

‘Well, I’ve guests to sort out in the cottage.’ I’m lying now, but I’m trying to buy myself time. Something is bothering me, but I’m not sure what it is.

‘Well, we can eat later if you prefer?’

‘No, I prefer to eat earlier, otherwise I get indigestion and won’t sleep.’

I am saying this just as Judy returns with the sweets. I collect his mug, which is still full but thank goodness she doesn’t notice– and make my escape.

The text comes later in the afternoon.

Thai Rose. Booked for 6 p.m. Hope early enough for you. Looking forward to it. Mx

Oh gosh. Am I really doing this? I decide to drive so I don’t get tempted to drink. I need to chat to Miles sober. What is this guy after? What does he want? What do I want? What will it feel like when work know we’re a thing? What if we fall out? What do I do for a job then? And do I need a man at the moment? I have my motorbike man, Malky, but that’s a casual every-now-and-again do, and being available every time he can be bothered– well, it makes me feel a teeny bit cheap. And let’s be honest, winter isn’t bike-riding weather.

The thing is, it’s nice having a bit of fun, and I do like having something to look forward to. Something that doesn’t involve cottage cleaning, dental reception work, laundry or emptying the dishwasher. Maybe that’s all I want, some fun. Who am I kidding? I want to fall in love and find a wonderful man who’ll worship the ground I walk on and we’ll live happily ever after, The End. Oh gosh. What a deluded romantic I am. Do I honestly think that’s Miles? Aren’t I simply the rebound divorce stocking-filler? There is no point starting things and complicating my life if I’m not really sure.

Bloody hell, Janet Jackson, lighten up. You’re going out for an average Chow Mein with a work colleague. That’s all.

*

It’s great to park in Hebden after five, there are plenty of spaces. I’ve got the parking app, so I spend five minutes having my face recognised, and the bloody two-type verification carry-on, which means I have to have a code sent to me by the bank, which I then approve, all for a twenty-pence ticket. The world is ridiculous.

I open the door of the Thai and, like at the pub, am greeted by a wave of warmth, accompanied by the heady scent of hot oil and jasmine. There’s Miles. He looks good– I think he’s even ironed a shirt. I wonder who he has hovering in the background to do his ironing? Must be a woman. I shall be disciplined and try to find out. I make a mental note: Don’t eat too much, ask lots of questions, and definitely don’t drink.

Three glasses of sake later I’m in Miles’s apartment in Hebden. You’re right– it’s pathetic, though the question that keeps popping up in my head is, Why not? No one even notices I’m not at home, unless they’re hungry or the washing pile threatens to crawl out of the house and take over the neighbourhood. My daughter is currently at a sixth-form college studying for A-levels, and she has no interest in housework at all.

Miles apologises because his new rented flat is so cold. I’m just grateful that the peri-menopause seems to have turned my core temperature up a degree. Whilst he fiddles with the handset that is supposed to get the heating going, I take in the room. Huge TV, enormous rowing machine, with the best spot in the house located beside the floor-to-ceiling windows. Here, in the daytime you could sit and stare out onto the canal. There are weights of every shape and size spread across the floor. I peer into the kitchen. No evidence of cooking or food. Back in the sitting room, there’s not much comfort. No cushions or blankets. It’s all a bit grim. However, I spot a photo of his grown-up girls. Sweet. And a basil plant that seems to have found its way here by mistake. As Miles curses and bashes his handset on the sofa arm, I grab a cup and give the plant some water.

‘I think that’s on.’ Miles flings away the handset and marches up to me. ‘Looking at you, Janet, let me tell you that I’m very turned on.’

‘That’s so cheesy, Miles.’

‘I know.’ We both laugh, he pulls me to the brink of the sofa and over we go.

*

It might be something to do with being a farmer’s daughter, but I can manage on not a lot of sleep. I leave at 4.30 a.m. Pick up the car and toodle home, shower, have a big breakfast of porridge, berries and toast, sort some washing, do a bit of cleaning and am in Valley Dental and on reception fifteen minutes early. I am determined to keep things professional at work, so I ignore Miles completely. Every time he wanders into the kitchen, which he does a lot today, and even when he gestures at me to join him as he heads out of the main door for lunch, I refuse. At no point do I compromise myself professionally. I convince myself that I’ll stay strong.

He sends me a song on Spotify that I attempt to listen to but turn it off mid-way as it comes across like men shouting at each other in a tin factory. I’m packing up, last in the building as it’s my job to lock up, and anxious to get out on time, when Miles appears. He gives me a huge smile and I can’t help flushing up, though I do my very best to disguise it. He sidles round the reception desk and cosies up to me.

‘Where have you been hiding?’ he asks. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘Not tonight, Miles, I’ve promised Chloe I’ll watch something with her.’ Lies, lies, lies.

‘OK, well, let me give you a lift home. It’s dreadful out there.’

‘I’m all right, thanks, I need the fresh air.’ True, true, true.

As I tramp along the cycle path getting wet through from the mist, I try to clear my head. What is it about this guy that has me feeling so nervous? Is it that it feels only about the sex? And if so, why does that matter? What 1950s moral universe do I come from? It’s as if there’s something else bothering me that I can’t put my finger on. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself, I send him a text.

Miles, I hope I’m not just your bit of rough?

What would be wrong with that?

A LOT would be wrong with that.

The answer comes immediately:

Can I not just like you very much? Plus you don’t have any rough bits, you’re all wonderful, soft and delicious... can I come round tonight?

Yes, after 8.

I have the willpower of a gnat.

***** Five Stars

Fabulous location, wonderful warm host. Highly Recommend.

Don’t book your boss into your accommodation. It’s one of those rookie errors. Proves awkward when you want them to move out.

If you make good gravy,be careful. It can lead places.