Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
T he rejection email stared back at me from my laptop screen, the words blurring as I blinked back tears. Two months of this—endless applications, tedious interviews, nothing but dead ends. Just when I thought I was close to landing something, another door slammed in my face.
I closed the laptop and slid off the edge of my bed, needing to move, needing to do something with my hands to stave off negative thoughts.
Cleaning always helped soothe my anxiety. I looked around my tidy studio apartment—not a speck of dust in sight, the beige curtains perfectly aligned, every surface gleaming. My sight landed on the vacuum cleaner propped up in the corner. There was no such thing as too clean, right?
Without a second thought, I grabbed the vacuum by the handle and began running it over the floor, the rhythmic hum drowning out the chatter in my mind. Up and down the length of the floor, around the perimeter, back and forth across the centre. The repetitive motion lulled me into a familiar trance. When I finished, I moved on to the kitchen, scrubbing the countertops and appliances until they shone.
As I worked, an idea began to form. Cleaning—that was something I knew how to do, and do well. During my teenage years, I had a part-time job cleaning at a local motel, and after my last stint of unemployment, I cleaned at a mall until I had regular work as an office temp.
Even though the prospect of returning to manual labour stung my pride, I couldn't deny that it was reliable work. Something I could do in the meantime while I continued searching for my next proper job.
The thought filled me with a glimmer of hope. Abandoning the sponge, I hurried back to my laptop and began researching.
I ended up making a profile on a cleaning app as a vetted independent contractor. A few days later, I scored my first cleaning client—someone who went by the username “Cat Dad.” The fact he was a proud cat owner was enough to make me like him without knowing anything else about him.
On cleaning day, I lugged a backpack full of supplies onto the train, then off at Britomart station. Cat Dad lived in an apartment in the Viaduct—an area quite close to my old office. As I strode along the waterfront, I hoped to avoid awkward run-ins with former colleagues.
The Viaduct was made up of trendy restaurants, fancy office premises, and five-star hotels, but the side streets were leafy and quiet, with residential buildings rising from the commercial street front.
So, this is where Cat Dad lives.
I looked up at the building in front of me. Glass-encased balconies jutted from the medium-rise structure in a zigzag configuration, looking like something from the pages of an architecture magazine. I reached out and tugged the entrance door handle, but it didn’t budge. A suited-up doorman unlocked it for me and let me in.
The vaulted ceiling and chandelier lighting cemented my impression that this was a high-end apartment building. Cat Dad had to be wealthy to live in a place like this.
“Good afternoon, madam. Are you a visitor?” the doorman asked.
“I’m the new cleaner for apartment 8C.”
“Your name, please?”
“Jean.”
It was my middle name, and the name I was going by on the cleaning app. I didn’t want to use my real identity since I was still job hunting and prospective employers might see my profile.
“Right this way, please.”
He led me to the lifts and swiped a card to grant me access to level eight—the top floor. Up I went. When the doors opened, I stepped into a wide corridor, then continued around a bend to a door marked 8C.
Cat Dad wasn’t meeting me here, so I had to let myself in. I punched in the door code he had sent me, pushed open the door, then stared wide-eyed into the most luxurious apartment I’d ever seen in my life.
Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, showing off a spacious open-plan room with a kitchen, dining room, and two lounge areas. A staircase promised more rooms on the floor above, and a sliding door led to a rooftop patio and garden with a view of the Viaduct harbour beyond.
After a minute frozen in awe, I closed my gaping mouth and set my mind to the first order of business—locating the cats. He had two, according to his profile. I wanted to introduce myself to them.
After scouring the lower level to no avail, I ascended the stairs to a landing with two doors. Through the door on the left, I entered a home office furnished with a large desk and a bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks. No cats. I checked the other room—the bedroom, with a king-sized bed as the centrepiece and an armchair in the corner with a few pieces of clothing slung over it.
Bullseye.
Two cats lay cuddled up on top of the chair. Two tabbies. One dark brown, one grey. I advanced with my hand out to welcome sniffs of curiosity. The grey cat stretched and blinked at me, tail swishing. The other one was asleep, its fluffy white tummy rising and falling, whiskers twitching.
Sooo cute!
Neither of them seemed to mind my presence. After a couple of gentle strokes, I had to tear myself away not to lose any more time. Following the instructions Cat Dad had set out for me, I located the supplies in the entranceway cupboard and got to work, dusting and polishing every surface, then vacuuming the floors.
It took me longer than I expected because I kept stopping to look around, picking up on more details about the man who lived here. He had a walk-in closet full of suits, but also plenty of casual, comfy-looking clothing like hoodies, sweatpants, and sneakers. The bathtub in the ensuite was spotless, apart from a thin layer of dust, so I assumed he only used the shower. I could tell he didn’t live with a woman because there was nothing feminine anywhere, just men’s cologne, bars of soap, and shaving supplies. At a glance, there was no women’s clothing in the closets either.
Shelving units throughout the apartment heaved with books, and video game cases and controllers cluttered the space around the television. Reading and gaming seemed like major hobbies for him. Meanwhile, the kitchen appliances looked brand-new, showing that he wasn’t much of a cook.
Something on the kitchen bench caught my eye. A plain white envelope with Jean written on it.
I picked it up, ran a finger through the seal, and peeked inside. Two crisp twenty-dollar notes. I gasped. Didn’t this guy realise payments were supposed to be made through the app, not in cash? Or was this a tip? The amount was wrong, which supported the tip theory, but it was very high for a tip. Not to mention that tipping wasn’t the norm in New Zealand. But it had my name on it, and Cat Dad was obviously rich, so…
I slipped the envelope into my bag, and that was the end of that.
I had one thing left to do in the house—feed the cats. I opened the pantry to retrieve the cat food. The state of the pantry confirmed my earlier suspicion. The cupboard was bare apart from a packet of penne pasta, two tins of tomatoes, a container of muesli, two bottles of wine, and a small bottle of whiskey—all unopened. Two large sacks of cat biscuits took up the most space. I grabbed the one that was already open and poured two scoops into separate bowls. The grey cat padded over at the tinkling sound of the biscuits hitting the china bowl.
I watched the small cat crunch through the contents. After the kitty had had its fill, I reached out a hand to offer a pat. “Good kitty.”
The cat shied away at first, but with a little more coaxing, I gave a couple of long strokes down its silky back. The cat rubbed its damp nose on my hand, purring. I played with it for a while before it got bored and slunk out the cat flap leading onto the patio.
Thinking of the other cat now, I shook the bag of biscuits, trying to get its attention. No response.
Probably still asleep somewhere.
The apartment was clean, the plants watered, and the cats fed—well, one cat, at least. Time to pack up and go home.
Later that evening, as I cooked a pot of tomato soup on the stove, I received a notification on the cleaning app. Cat Dad wanted to book me for every second Tuesday on an ongoing basis.
I accepted the booking without a second thought.
Cat Dad…
His username alone brought a smile to my face. Before I knew what I was doing, I thumbed through the app, trying to catch any more details about him I might have missed at first glance. His real name, for example. But there was nothing. I supposed he had his reasons for preferring anonymity—much like I did.
The app had a built-in chat function. I thought I might query him about the money he had left me, but I decided against it. Cash payments were against the terms and conditions of the app, and the chat might be monitored. I didn’t want to risk getting either of us banned. I typed a different message.
Your cats are so cute! What are their names?
I hit send and kept my eyes glued to my phone in one hand while I stirred the pot with my other hand. A few seconds later, a reply popped up inside a white speech bubble.
Chichi (grey) and Bowey (brown).
I cracked a wide smile.
Love those names.
I named Bowey after the bowtie-shaped patch in his fur.
Adorable. What about Chichi? Where did that name come from?
It’s a character from Dragon Ball. Suits her personality, don’t you think? Chichi is the headstrong princess, and Bowey is slightly dim-witted but loveable.
I could see that from meeting them today.
I chuckled. This guy was funny. And cute. And quite possibly single, judging by the state of his apartment…
Ha! What am I thinking?
I was about to slip my phone into my pocket when it pinged again. Our conversation wasn’t over.
Feel free to play with the cats. They don’t bite or scratch, and they love the attention.
Then I will shower them with affection. I love cats.
Do you have cats of your own?
No, unfortunately not. One day, maybe.
I’m sure Bowey and Chichi will love playing with you.
I grinned at my screen like a madwoman as the soup bubbled away. Who knew having a chat with an anonymous cleaning client could be so enjoyable? Way better than the quality of conversations on dating apps.
A little while later, my phone started to vibrate. I scrambled to grab it as I ate my dinner and nearly dropped it in my bowl of soup. But it wasn’t another message from Cat Dad. It was a call from an unknown number. Another job interview request? But it was late in the day for that…
I cleared my throat, summoned a professional demeanour, then answered the call. “Amelia Cross speaking.”
A moment passed before the caller said anything.
“Hi. Do you have a minute to talk?”
That voice.
Smooth, deep, luxurious. Its seductive qualities seemed amplified over the phone compared to real life.
No. It can’t be him! What the hell?
“Neil?”
Why on Earth is he calling me?
“How are you placed tomorrow? Can you meet with me?”
I tried to reply, but I was tongue-tied.
“Are you there, Amelia?”
“Yes.”
“Can you come to my office? When are you free?”
“Why do you want to see me?”
“I have a proposal to discuss with you.”