2.
Maggie
The following day, my alarm went off at six-thirty. I quickly turned off the beeping and grabbed my things to take a shower. By eight, I was at the bus stop waiting in my coat, hat and woolly scarf. It was a chilly but bright morning, a little bit windy. There were a few other people there, but he hadn’t arrived yet, and my heart sank a little.
After yesterday, I was eager to see him, to find some sign he’d stood close to me on purpose, some sign he’d stared at me for that prolonged moment before boarding the bus because he was curious about me, just as I was curious about him.
I was tracing the lines in the pavement when I sensed a change in the atmosphere. A scuffed boot entered my field of vision. Him. I cast my gaze up and towards the direction the bus would be coming, trying to avoid the fact he was standing right next to me. I was too nervous to look at or acknowledge him; however, I was aware of how his boot almost kissed the side of my shoe. His tall frame felt like a shield, blocking the cold wind.
A bundle of barely restrained energy sat low in my belly. It only took another minute or two for the bus to arrive, but it felt like an eternity.
I sat in my usual seat, and he sat in his, though I sensed an extra layer of tension between us. Perhaps it was all my imagination. My brain had turned him into a silent friend because I was so starved for companionship. Sometimes, I’d imagine what he might say to me if we ever had a conversation. Would he ask me my name? Comment on the weather? Perhaps question what it was that upset me yesterday?
A part of me wanted him to talk to me, but the other part was apprehensive, mainly because I found friendship tough. Siobhan was probably the person I was closest to, and that was because one night we’d stayed up late talking. She told me about her son who’d died as an infant, and I’d told her all about my mother. I tended to avoid making new friends because, sooner or later, I’d have to tell them about myself, my family, my childhood, and I was too scared they’d no longer want to be around me once they knew the truth.
Thankfully, Siobhan was old and wise enough to accept me, despite my past. I found with some people, once they discovered you were homeless at any point in your life, you became tarnished in their eyes. Like you’d brought it upon yourself somehow.
But him, well, he was someone I saw each day, and I could take solace in his nearness without there ever being any incentive for us to talk. In a way, it was the perfect friendship. We could orbit around one another, share an occasional glance and for a brief time feel like we weren’t completely alone. We never had to get close enough for rejection to become a possibility.
The trip to work that morning was uneventful. We arrived at our stop and alighted, each going our separate ways. I often wondered where he worked, but there were lots of businesses around—restaurants and shops and hotels. It was too tough to make a guess.
Mild rays of autumn sun shone through the trees that had turned brown and red and gold as I made the short walk to work. My shoes crunched on some of the fallen leaves, and I inhaled the fresh morning air. Today, I was cleaning for Mr Luttrell and Mr Cole, an older couple who lived around the corner from Mrs Reynolds. It was a much smaller house, but I enjoyed working for them because they were kind and respectful, and they never acted like they were better than me, not like Mrs Reynolds.
Mr Luttrell had made his money in publishing, while Mr Cole was a highly acclaimed artist whose paintings regularly sold for hefty sums.
I grabbed the spare key from its hiding spot under one of the many potted plants by their front door and let myself in, smiling when I was greeted by the enthusiastic bark of their Labradoodle, Noddy. He was the friendliest dog I’d ever met, always happy to receive guests. Other houses I’d worked in over the years had dogs that simply barked and growled at me the entire time. But not Noddy.
I’d always wanted a dog of my own, but my landlord had a strict No Pets rule. Siobhan tended to agree with him, citing she’d spent enough years raising kids back when her husband was still alive, and she didn’t need any dog babies hanging around needing to be cared for. I’d told her the dog would stay in my flat and wouldn’t be a bother to her, but she’d countered with the fact I worked all day, and it was only a matter of time before the dog came scratching at her door, laying its sad brown eyes on her and making her fall in love with it.
She wasn’t wrong. As I said, Siobhan was one of those women who was tough on the outside but soft as marshmallow on the inside. A dog would have her eating out of the palm of its paws in no time.
The house was empty, aside from the dog. Mr Luttrell would be at work, and Mr Cole normally spent his days painting in the studio pod at the end of their garden. I usually kept out of his way; though, sometimes, we shared a cup of coffee and a chat mid-morning. I always found it endearing how he talked to me like he would a neighbour or a friend. I was just the cleaner, but he didn’t act like that made any difference. He treated me like an equal. We talked about the news, the weather, the latest pop culture gossip.
With Noddy hot on my heels, I headed for the utility room to grab the cleaning supplies. I always started with the bathrooms, then the bedrooms, before finishing with the kitchen and living area. As I said, this house wasn’t particularly large, but given its location, I estimated it cost close to a million euros. The couple had decorated it in a style referred to as Dark Academia, with navy, grey and forest green panelled walls, antique furniture and plenty of bookshelves I was required to dust on a weekly basis.
Noddy lost interest in me after a while and scarpered off, probably to Mr Cole’s studio to pester him for attention. A dog walker normally arrived around midday, a girl in her twenties named Marie. She’d take Noddy off for a long walk before bringing him home where he’d promptly situate himself on the sofa for a nap.
“Maggie? Are you up there?” Mr Cole called when I’d just finished scrubbing out the en suite.
“Yes, I’m here,” I called back.
“Care for a coffee break, love?”
“Sure, I’ll be down now.”
There was a fresh cup of coffee on the counter waiting for me when I arrived downstairs, the fancy frothy kind that came from a machine. Mr Cole’s shoulder length grey hair was tied back in a ponytail, his shirt stained with blue and black paint, as were his fingers.
“Thank you, Mr Cole,” I said as I sat down on a stool. “How’s the painting been going this morning?”
He gave a huff. “The muse hasn’t been kind enough to visit me this week, I’m afraid. I still paint, even when she’s being a frosty bitch, but it’s all crap. And how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Alan.”
I smiled shyly. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
He came and sat across from me, lifting his coffee and bringing it to his lips as he studied me. There was a prolonged moment as his eyes traced my features, and I grew somewhat self-conscious while he surveyed me.
“You are a rather stunning creature, aren’t you,” he said, and I blinked, the compliment unexpected.
“Um … thank you,” I said, though I didn’t believe him. Mr Cole was an artist. Calling people stunning creatures was just the way he spoke.
“That gorgeous Julia Roberts hair and those cerulean eyes. And don’t even get me started on your cheekbones. You’d make a fascinating subject. I think I’d like to paint you one day, if you’ll allow it.”
Was that truly how he saw me? I flushed in both pleasure and self-consciousness. “Oh, no. I couldn’t sit for a painting,” I declined shyly.
Mr Cole frowned. “Why not?”
I glanced down at my hands. “I just wouldn’t be comfortable. I barely like being in photographs.”
At that, he fell silent, still studying me. Finally, he said, “There are ghosts in your eyes. I think that’s what makes you so captivating.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said and lifted my coffee for a sip.
He smiled softly. “It’s good you don’t believe me. People who believe that sort of thing about themselves can be quite insufferable.”
At that, I gave a soft laugh. “Very true.”
“And why don’t you like having your picture taken?” he queried further.
I shrugged. “I just don’t. Not sure why.” It was a lie, of course. I didn’t enjoy looking at myself, mainly because I looked so much like her. The auburn hair, the blue eyes, the smattering of freckles across the cheeks. My mother seemed so normal, harmless, but on the inside lay a monster.
“You’re shy. Self-conscious. Is that why you chose to clean houses? It’s quite a solitary job. Well,” he allowed with a self-deprecating chuckle, “When your sad old employer isn’t forcing you to have coffee and chats with him, that is.”
“You don’t force me. I like having coffee with you. You’re by far the nicest person I work for. And to answer your question, yes, I enjoy working alone, but that’s not why I do this job. I didn’t get a very good education, so my choices were limited.”
“But you’re so smart. What happened? Didn’t you like school? I wasn’t a fan myself.”
He seemed genuinely curious about me, and I realised we were in serious danger of becoming friends. I needed to pull back; otherwise, he’d learn too much, and then I was certain he’d no longer see me as a stunning creature. Far from it.
“I’m smart when it comes to the practical stuff, but I was never book smart,” I paused, a sharp pain striking my chest. The fact I never truly grappled with my dyslexia was a shame I dealt with privately. “My mother and I moved a lot, too.” I drank the last of my coffee and stood from the counter. “Anyway, I’d better get back to work. You don’t pay me to sit around chatting.”
Something clouded in Mr Cole’s eyes like he sensed my discomfort at the topic. “No, of course. I should get back out to the studio. Perhaps the muse will take pity on me and pay a visit.”
I mustered a smile. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
The rest of the day passed quietly. I cleaned the house until it was spotless. Mr Cole didn’t emerge from his studio again, and I said a quick goodbye to Noddy before heading for the bus.
On the walk, I checked the food saving app I’d installed on my phone. It allowed me to purchase bags of produce from shops and restaurants that were about to go out of date. I used it because it was a cheap way of buying a treat for myself, but it also meant food wasn’t just being thrown out at the end of the day.
I grinned when I saw my favourite Greek takeaway had a few bags left to be claimed, and I quickly snagged one, a spring in my step. Tonight, I’d cosy up on my couch and watch my favourite TV shows with some gyros and perhaps a slice of baklava if I were lucky.
Again, he was waiting when I arrived at the bus stop. I was struck by the sight of him, the headlamps of cars driving past illuminating his tall frame and handsome profile. His dark hair was short, so it always looked neat, his olive skin highlighting his unusual grey-green eyes. Most evenings, there were a few others who waited at this bus stop also, but today, it was just the two of us. I couldn’t recall if there was ever a time when it was just us before, and my tummy did a somersault. I was alone with him. Our gazes met for a fraction of a second before I glanced away.
Several minutes passed, and I checked my watch. I was certain the bus should’ve arrived by now.
Must’ve been delayed, I thought, blowing out a tired breath.
Turning to glance his way, I found him checking the time on his phone. I wasn’t sure what possessed me when I said to him, “I think it’s been delayed by a few minutes.”
He glanced at me briefly, frowned strangely, then turned away and remained silent.
Just like that, my heart felt like it plopped right out of my chest and splattered onto the damp path.
He acted like I hadn’t even spoken. Embarrassment settled in. Clearly, whatever thing I’d imagined was between us was all in my head. He pretended not to hear me because he wasn’t interested in knowing me.
A brick settled in the pit of my stomach.
The minutes ticked by, and feeling hurt by him ignoring me, I chanced a peek and found him staring into the middle distance as he normally did, his eyes resting on the building across the street. He must’ve sensed my attention because he lifted his head. His eyes ran over me, and I was acutely aware of every place he looked before he turned to stare straight ahead again. Okay, that was weird. I didn’t understand why he’d ignore me, then look at me in such an intense way. It didn’t make sense.
A moment later, I spotted the bus approaching, and I was relieved the embarrassing moment was finally over. I wasn’t going to try to talk to him again; that was for sure. The lights of the bus blinded me for a second as it pulled to a stop in front of us. The doors slid open, and we boarded. He kept a few feet behind me, not getting close as he had yesterday. I felt upset by that, too, worried I’d broken some unspoken rule by talking to him.
Then he went to the seat two rows behind me, just as he always did, and sat.