Page 26 of The Life-Changing Magic of Falling in Love

The Who Attends.

The Whys.

The questions are so reminiscent of the old me that my voice has dried up.

‘Good,’ announces Mrs. Lundy. ‘It’s always better when a person can simply accept a compliment.’

I start loading up a tower of teacups to carry back to the kitchen but when I notice Mrs. Lundy traipsing behind me with a stack of matching saucers, I draw the line. ‘Oh, Mrs. Lundy, no. This is my job. I’m really very happy to clean these all for you by hand.’

‘Nonsense. Helping keeps me active.’

Mrs. Lundy doesn’t look a day over eighty, yet I suspect that she is and I guess cleaning helps keep me sane, so, who am I to argue? Besides, the client is always right, so I simply nod my head, but seriously? I don’t think I’ve ever had a client help me clean their own place before. And what a place it is. It turns out that Hildegard Lundy used to be a set designer in Hollywood, hence the fabulous interior starting with about a mile of black and white framed photos of Hollywood’s acting alumni. The rest of the place is magazine-shoot ready as well. A coming together of styles and although every surface contains a keepsake, every wall a photograph and every corner a memory, it all screams lived in.

Loved.

It’s a joy to clean and I have every faith it will provide me with opportunity after opportunity to forget about my little world and wonder about this one.

It’s also about as far away as possible in design and homeliness as Apartment 33C.

To stop myself mulling over the fact that there was another crossword with one last clue left on George’s desk this morning and the tussle I had with whether to answer it (I couldn’t resist), I ask, ‘So is keeping active the secret to your youthful looks and sharp mind, Mrs. Lundy?’

‘Well, it doesn’t beat a bout of sweaty sex, but it helps.’

The tower of teacups rattles as I put them on the counter next to the sink.

‘Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable, dear?’

‘Yes?’

‘Interesting.’

‘I mean, as in, talking about it with a lady I just met who pays my wages, not as in “I have issues” uncomfortable.’

‘I see.’ Hardly a beat passes before she asks, ‘And what’s the secret that cleaning saves you from?’

I feel my jaw drop open. ‘I—’ and my voice has dried up again.

‘When you get to my age, you’ll discover there aren’t really any inappropriate questions.’

‘Promise?’ I think about all the times I should have asked questions but didn’t like to push – think about all the people I should have pushed for answers but didn’t and plunge the teapot into the hot and soft, soothing, sudsy water.

‘You’ve accomplished nearly double the workload this morning compared with last week. I’m curious to know if there’s a reason for the pent-up energy?’

She remains quietly at my side. Not filling the conversational space, so that I feel no other option than to answer. ‘I have something to do after this that I am not looking forward to.’

‘Ah. Don’t do it, then.’

Revelation! To hear a grownup giving me permission not to do something I absolutely do not want to do. ‘I have to,’ I say, lifting the teapot out to gently place it on the drainer before taking the stack of saucers into the water.

‘What will happen if you don’t?’

I systematically wipe the cloth over a saucer, concentrating on the soothing movement. ‘I guess I might not be able to respect myself if I don’t?’ I sigh at the admission. I would never be admitting all this to Carlos or Oz. Mrs. Lundy must be getting me at a weak moment. Relaxed after a sweaty bout of cleaning.

‘And why is that?’ Mrs. Lundy asks.

I put the saucer on the drainer. Pick up another one, unaware my wiping action is slower as I admit, ‘I made a promise to someone that I would do this one, small, easy, thing.’

Not small, I think.

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