Chapter 10
Feeling almost drunk with jet lag, tiredness and nothing other than a cup of tea via an old teabag from a caddy in a cupboard in the kitchen, Tilly had started to cry, and it wasn't pretty.
Years of backed-up emotion made themselves known through tears, sobs, and wails.
Old wounds Tilly hadn't even known had been lurking somewhere in the depths of her mind decided they might like to come out and have a little play-play.
The control from her ex-husband, Andy, arrived on the scene.
How he'd checked the mileometer on her car every day when she'd come home from the office.
How she'd hidden an exit plan on her computer on her desk at work.
Not telling her mum how he'd controlled her every single movement.
Secrets, lies, being controlled. The Australian women in the room.
Condom in the bin. Long, thick, heavy, ugly, snorting, gulping sobs.
The pity party and the world's biggest violin had not, however, lasted very long for our Tils. Nup, stuff that for a lark. Tilly Bloomwood would not be beaten by anything at all. Not by a controlling partner, a failed musician or an old shed covered in dust. Oh no, Tilly Bloomwood had been taught by her dad and, well, very well, that whatever one landed in, one had the option to fight one’s way out and come up smelling of roses or shrivel up and die.
Sometimes easier said than done, but always an option.
Standing in an old shed surrounded by water, with a boat wedged into a room beside her and a whole lot of work to do, Tilly took the roses option and hoped for the best. There wasn’t really anything else for it.
About half an hour or so after stepping into the boat shed, Tilly had ceased the wailing, shoved her hair up on top of her head, secured it with the hotel’s regulation hibiscus clip, and consumed by jet lag, had rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
Starting with the bedroom and bathroom, she worked backwards.
Head down, bum up, elbow grease in situ.
Finding an old Hoover in the airing cupboard, she'd plugged it in, hoped for the best and gone like the clappers.
Vacuuming as if her life depended on it, the dust had no chance.
Off came the mattress, down came the curtains, windows were flung open and fresh air did its thing.
Floorboards were hoovered, cobwebs removed from corners, the old iron headboard was stripped of its complimentary layer of dust and the skirting boards saw the light of day.
The bedside table got a proper seeing-to with Tilly yanking out the drawer and tipping its contents straight into a bin bag from a roll she'd found under the kitchen sink.
In went a load of old dog-eared magazines, hairgrips, a desiccated tube of hand cream, a packet of old mints, and so many discarded supplement containers it was untrue.
Having no idea what Margery might think, Tilly didn't give a hoot about Margery or her things.
This was not a time for mercy, her dad had always said at this time in a takeover, it was golden hour.
Make-or-break time in the commandeering of a failing business.
As the clock began to tick, you either got on with it PDQ or you made acquaintance with the reason the business had failed in the first place.
Tilly had been taught well to grasp the golden hour by the balls.
She was on a mission, and nothing was going to stop her.
Wiping down the insides of the bedside table with a damp cloth, she then held a large lamp outside the window, gave it a thwack against the windowsill and watched a small grey cloud puff out and float off on the breeze.
The wardrobe doors were flung open, wire hangers jangled in a cheap tinny tune, and a minging forgotten sock crumpled in the corner went quickly in the bag.
No stone was left unturned, as Tilly, on her hands and knees, went for her life.
Skirting boards, windowsills, architraves, ledges, all zapped with the nozzle attachment, stood no chance by a jet-lagged woman possessed.
The bathroom gave the old hotel staff bathroom in Fiji a run for its money, but Tilly was not to be messed with.
A spider the size of a fifty-pence piece had made itself comfortable in the tub, the taps were furred with limescale, the mirror flecked with God-knows-what, and the shower curtain had taken on a life of its own.
Off came the shower curtain into the bag, out went the spider and under the sink, long-forgotten cleaning sprays and bleach were a welcome sight.
With Tilly Bloomwood scrubbing and scrubbing until her knuckles went pink, she was a woman not to be messed with.
One thing wasn’t in question, and that was that at least she would be able to have a bath.
Finally, straightening up, hands on her hips, Tilly surveyed the small damp bathroom and looked through to the bedroom.
At any rate, she no longer needed a tetanus injection to have a wee.
Catching sight of herself in the newly cleaned mirror, she let out a strange, shriek-like grumbling chuckle.
Wild dusty hair with the hibiscus clip shoved in the centre, a smudge of something on her cheek, eyes red from jet lag, a strange grey tinge.
Not her best look. What did she give a hoot about her appearance, though? No one was going to see her, anyway.
Straightening up, she vowed to soldier on. She’d get the kitchen liveable, then start to get a new exit plan in place. Looking around, she nodded. There was no way on earth she was going to stay.