Page 2 of The Life-Changing Magic of Falling in Love

Across the top of the file that I designed for Sparkle, the cleaning service I work for, it says: Apartment 33C, Client Name: George Northcote

I skip to the salient field, ‘Type of Cleaning Service Required’, where it is clearly printed: Weekly 5Star Sparkle service.

Our 5Star Sparkle service is a deep clean usually reserved for between occupancies which is why I thought I was being promised gross-out level dirt and why I’d brought my gloves with me.

I have to confess, non-plussed doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I mean, here I am, revved.

Eager to get stuck in and make a difference.

Help someone.

And instead, the work I was promised is nowhere to be seen.

‘Weekly 5Star Sparkle service required, my butt, because, wow, are you a liar, George Northcote!’

Saying the words aloud makes me feel a little better until I’m startled by the sound of my phone. What if it’s Karma calling on behalf of this George Northcote guy?

Without glancing at my phone screen, I answer with, ‘Ms. Rivera speaking.’ The need to be unruffled and professional is a given with me … as is the need to mitigate sounding like I’ve just called my newest client a liar.

‘Ashleigh?’

‘Ma?’ Turns out it’s someone way more powerful than Karma. I fumble the phone, managing to catch it before it cracks against the beautiful flooring because even with taking every shift offered and always hustling for more, this is New York City and there’s no way I can afford to replace it. ‘I’m at work, Ma.’

‘And, what, you can’t take five minutes out of your day to speak with your mother who’s been trying to get hold of you for a week?’

The struggle to not feel guilty is real. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

‘That’s what I want to know. What’s happening in my daughter’s life? You tell me nothing. No-thing! Your brother and sister phone every week, regular.’

Well, of course they do. At twenty-seven and twenty-three, they’ve both got it together enough to know what’s good for them.

Somehow, at twenty-five, I’m still learning what’s good for me.

‘…And don’t be trying to explain it away as middle-child syndrome because I’ve been reading the middle child is the one who tries pleasing everyone…’

My ma loves to read.

Unfortunately for me, she mostly loves to read Psychology Today.

I switch off.

Not the phone, because, jeez, she’d find a way to teleport here out of sheer worry.

And I don’t want her worrying.

There’s nothing for her to worry about.

But this is the sort of call I’m going to get until I give her full access to all my feelings and all my thoughts.

Or I attempt to get my old job back, which I do not want, ever.

I think of the typo I spotted in the latest edition of Best Home that I promised myself I wouldn’t buy yet did and toy with telling her about my deep satisfaction yet equal frustration at seeing the error. Better not. She’ll take my words and run with them … right round to every member of the family and before I know it the new minion sitting at my old desk at Best Home will be receiving a confusing Welcome to Your Old Job basket.

Biting my tongue and with only half an ear on my mother’s chatter, I walk through the living space of Apartment 33C.

An immaculate L-shaped midnight-blue velvet couch with gleaming chrome legs screams form and function. A telescope faces the wall of glass. Creepy and Rear Window-y or a romantic way of exploring the city skyline?

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