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

8. Laura Bloody Watson, Part Two

Laura Bloody Watson, Part Two

Harvey the cat has taken to running into Lavander Cottage whenever the door opens. I can’t help but feel insulted. It’s as if he is constantly awaiting his chance to enjoy the luxury lifestyle afforded to him by Laura’s upgrades. Fortunately, Laura seems relaxed about it. Harvey is on full charm mode with her, lots of purring, rubbing up against her leg and looking handsome on the windowsill. They both seem to enjoy the attention. I try to suppress my feelings of rejection, as I moon over at him preening in the window there. I suppose I am feeling a teeny bit sensitive about everything at the moment.

I’m going into work today for the first time since I found out about Miles. I’m expecting him to be in. We have had no communication since his emoji text. I am feeling generally quite relaxed about it all and decide I am almost over him. I have reminded myself every day that we were never going to be anything serious. After all, we have very little in common, and I always knew we were ill-matched. I’ve zero plans to become a Lycra bike lady. So it’s over. Done. He has also not been honest about seeing lots of other people at the same time as seeing me. ‘Everyone’s at it, Mum,’ Chloe informs me. Fine. I understand this is the world we live in. But not to say or hint or explain is neither very nice nor is it honourable. I’ve known Miles a long time, and I deserve better. I will have better. Or I’ll not bother at all. This is what I keep saying to myself endlessly on repeat.

Chloe has put together the outfit I’m to wear. A tailored skirt with a pussy bow blouse, court shoes, a blow dry and lipstick. It’s a lot of effort, this so-called revenge dressing, but Chloe insists it’s essential for my self-worth and progression to closure. I’m just wondering if I’ve brought a blister pack as my shoes are already rubbing and all I’ve done so far is walk to the car.

As I’m leaving, Mitzi pops her head out of the window of the Velux. I can barely make out what she’s saying but she’s holding what looks like a starfish.

‘What’s she waving?’

Chloe looks up. ‘Oh, I think that’s her mini-Miles.’

‘Her what?’

‘Yeah, she told me about it. She’s doing some sort of spell thing.’

There’s a muffled cry from above and then something comes sliding down the roof tiles over the gutter and lands with a dull plop on the drive between us. It’s mini-Miles, now looking very much like a small broken figure.

‘Was that meant to happen?’ I wonder aloud.

Chloe shrugs and Mitzi joins us, looking out of breath in a sequin bikini.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ I ask her.

‘Well yes, Janet, I’m not dressed yet, I was doing a morning incantation.’

‘Is that thing really supposed to be Miles?’

‘I was going to save it until tonight but he launched himself.’

‘You let him go deliberately.’

She shakes her head. ‘I swear he leapt. I was showing you him for a bit of moral support.’

‘He’s not looking too good,’ Chloe notes. She nudges him with her foot; the crude figure has a stick pointing out where it joined the leg to the body.

Mitzi picks the figure up. As it dangles, looking vulnerable, the wool wrapping unravelling in the breeze, she considers it for a moment.

‘He’s good. Stay strong, glamour puss.’

I cringe. It will be obvious to everyone at work that I’m making extra-special attempts to look good, which will give the game away. Then I reassure myself that, since I’ve had no further communication with Miles, he has no idea where I am at. Tony is oblivious to anything and Judy knows anyway, and no one else matters. As I reverse out of the drive, I turn back and see Mitzi hanging the broken figure on the outside light, which she then turns on. Gosh, I think. Now he’s going to get roasted. Poor mini-Miles.

*

The first half of the day flies by and without a spare moment to think. There’s a run on emergency appointments and so many new people asking to join the practice that I’ve had to create a second waiting list. Lunchtime comes and I’m starving. I’m microwaving some home-made moussaka I’d brought in, having discovered three portions of it hiding under some tortellini in the freezer. I’ve no idea how long it had been there. It’s taking an age to warm right through and I’m peering into the microwave to see if I need to give it another minute. I always go by smell with a microwave; looks are one thing, a bubble is obviously a good sign it’s cooked through, but you can’t beat the aroma. Once the smell is there, it’s done.

There’s the ping, so I open the door and am handling the pot very cautiously in case it’s hot, when a hand rubs itself right up my thigh and on to my backside. Well, as you can imagine, it’s a shock and causes me to drop the pot. I stumble backwards to escape getting burnt, the pot hits the floor and its contents are splattered everywhere– across the doors, the worktop, my pretty blouse and the kitchen lino. I turn around to see who was mauling me and there’s Miles, grinning inanely.

‘Whoops,’ he says.

‘Whoops?’ I’m seething. ‘You caused that. Groping at me when I’m holding a hot pot, what a stupid thing to do. I could have got third-degree burns.’

‘I know who is the hot pot around here.’

‘Oh, shut up, Miles, and pass me some bloody kitchen roll.’ I’m so angry.

He laughs and unravels a ream of sheets. I turn and give him a hard stare.

‘Do you see me laughing?’

‘OK.’ He makes a face, like I’m not being fun, then he fidgets and I can tell he’s trying to decide how to pitch things.

Finally, he comes out with: ‘Janet, I’m sorry. That was totally my fault.’ He takes the dirty sheets of kitchen roll from me and puts them in the bin, then unravels some more and reaches with it to wipe my blouse. I snatch it off him and continue the job, working my way around the kitchen.

Through gritted teeth I hiss: ‘Can you move, please, so I can get this cleaned up.’

He kneels down next to me and makes direct eye contact. ‘Let me make this up to you and buy you some lunch.’

I stand up, stuff the bin with the kitchen roll and wash the bowl and my hands. His apology definitely helps. I’m feeling calmer but I don’t turn around to him. I face the sink, and say, ‘No. I don’t want to do that.’

He’s approaching me from behind again; I can literally feel his body heat but I ignore the temptation to turn.

‘Please let me, Janet, I feel awful for ruining your lunch.’

I take my time with the tea-towel, dry my hands with it, fold it and put it back on the drainer. I then take a deep breath and turn to him.

‘I said no, Miles. I don’t want anything from you. I regret that I ever let things become so unprofessional. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going back to my desk.’

I have to wriggle past him, since he deliberately doesn’t move to let me pass so I’m forced to touch against him. I don’t look at his face. When I take my seat, my heart is going 100 miles an hour, and I’m sure I look flushed though I try composing myself. A raft of grumpy-looking clients are seated in reception, all of them seemingly looking in my direction. I rummage in my bag under the desk where I find half a Wispa and a small box of MS No Sugar butterscotch sweets. Not the healthiest lunch but it will stave off the cravings.

Miles doesn’t come through the main reception, preferring the back route presumably. I’m trying to decide if I made myself clear– and did I do OK? I didn’t cry and I don’t feel too upset. I think getting angry sort of cauterised the other emotions. You can’t feel soft and vulnerable when you’re ready to slap someone round the chops with a dishcloth. Shame about the moussaka though, I love that recipe.

I’ve nearly finished the whole box of butterscotch mints and I’m rifling through my coat pockets to see if there’s anything else to chew on, when I see my phone has missed messages, lots of them, all from Miles.

Hey gorgeous, sorry about lunch again.

Hey, don’t go quiet on me, let me make it up to you.

Janet, you’re playing very hard to get and I don’t know why. I said I’m sorry.

Janet, what did you mean about regretting being so unprofessional?

Are you in a huff with me?

Come up, let’s talk about it. I’m free after 3, come up and let’s discuss.

You look hot today by the way. That blouse is smokin’.

The messages go on and on– a mixture of apologies, demands and sexy stuff. I am battered trying to manage the reception and cope with the messages. He must be typing them in between every patient. What must Judy think, I wonder? Maybe he’s always on his phone and she’s used to it. Yes, that’s probably it. If he’s not texting me he’s texting someone else. Trying to keep us all sweet.

It’s coming up to ten past three and the last client, Tanya Monks, has come downstairs and rebooked for a month of veneers treatment. She must have money to burn, I think, since her teeth already look lovely. I’m wondering what to say to Miles. I dread the thought of him coming down and having to face up to him again. He’s a mixture of good looks, charm and persuasion. It’s hard work resisting him even though I know he’s a rogue and all that. The thoughts of sex are hard to dispel too.

I need to get out of here. I’m not due to leave until 4.30 p.m. as it’s usually my job to lock up, so I can’t just up and go. I abandoned my post last week with Judy because of Miles-related trauma, leaving reception in the lurch, and I can’t do it again. Focus, Janet. The downstairs loo has run out of toilet roll, I should put some in. I pull two toilet rolls out from the utility cupboard and put them into the loo. It’s a shame, I’m so good at this job. I know what to do and can deal with most everything that presents itself. But not this, I tell myself. This isn’t going to work. I can’t face seeing Miles every day.

I put the phone on to answer-machine mode and place my trusty metal Paperchase pen into my bag along with my matching diary. I look at the mini-succulent I brought in years ago when I first started the job. It’s barely grown, pot-bound, but it’s sturdy and happy enough and it’s been with me here for ever. I’m wondering whether to take it or not. Am I leaving my job? I’m not sure.

My phone buzzes and I can see it’s Miles texting me again. I ignore it. I pick up the cactus and put it in the bottom of my bag. Throw my coat over my arm and without saying anything to anyone, I leave the building. Gently closing the door behind me.

I’m home in minutes, I don’t know how, driving on absolute auto-pilot. My head is a blur of questions. A glass of wine will be nice, I decide. A nice big glass of Sauvignon, with some crisps, maybe. And then how about a box set. That thing I started watching that was a bit boring but everyone says it gets better if you get past the second episode. Am I on top of the washing? Do we have any clean towels? No one’s complaining. I’m home, I tell myself. I’m safe now.

I get out of the car, only to see Laura stride out of Lavander Cottage as if she’s been watching and waiting for me. Arghh. Come on, Superhost. Dig deep. Brace yourself.

‘Hi Laura, how you doing?’

‘You look smart, Janet. Can I have a word?’

My spirit takes a deep dive into the wheelie bin. I should do a Miles on her– say ‘yes, but keep it quick as I’m tired after work’. Instead, I do my people-pleasing thing.

‘Of course you can. Is everything all right?’

‘Well, it was. Apart from your cat.’

‘What – Harvey?’

‘Yes, Janet, Harvey.’

‘He’s not scratched you, has he? He can be quite unpredictable.’

‘No, nothing like that. There’s been– a smell.’

A smell?

‘I wasn’t sure what it was and I turned everything upside down looking for it.’

Great. She’s seen everywhere the mop has never touched.

‘It took me quite a while to locate the source.’

Everywhere, she’s been absolutely every-bloody-where.

‘To put it bluntly, he’s been doing his business in the blanket box.’

‘What!’ Harvey hasn’t pooed indoors for years. Not that I know about it. He doesn’t have a litter tray or anything.

‘He’s been using the spare blanket box as a toilet, Janet. Would you mind taking a look?’

A bit of me wants to laugh. He wasn’t visiting Laura for luxury throws and perfumed cuddles, he was looking for a comfy litter tray. The little bugger. I head into the cottage, braced for the worst. That’s the thing, I decide, about wearing nice clothes. They’re good for standing still and having your photo taken. Otherwise, they just get ruined by the everyday stuff. The spills, the splashes and let’s face it the rolling-up of your sleeves, hitching up your skirt, kicking off your shoes and dealing with the turds. There’s never a single day that doesn’t come without some mess or mishap or worry to give that Perfect Life stuff a run for its money. Not one day without some little whiff of manure.

I pick up the blanket box that, sure enough, contains a number of offerings from Harvey and take it outside to deal with. More kitchen roll filling up the world’s binbags. Have I seriously just walked out of my job of the last seven years? What on earth am I doing?

I go into the main house. Harvey rubs himself around my legs as I wash out his water bowl and refill his food bowl with cat biscuits. He’s a swine. Males are all bloody swine, Janet Jackson, as you well know. So what’s the plan, genius? What exactly are you going to do now?

Keep your pets away from guests. It might start with a nice stroke but that’s not a guarantee it will end well.

Mop everywhere you can. The Lauras of this world look for the muck.

Not qualified. Ask elsewhere.

Second thoughts. Jamie Oliver does a lovely moussaka recipe.