Page 4 of The Life-Changing Magic of Falling in Love

Now all I’m going to get is?—

‘For real? Joe – Joe?’ my ma calls out to my pa like he’s on the other side of the world. ‘Ashleigh’s dating.’ And then to me, she says, ‘Where did you meet? What’s he like? Oh, wear that dress I’ve always liked you in – you know the one with the thing… And it won’t kill you to wear your hair down once in a while…’

I focus on the room before me so that I don’t have to focus on my mother’s excited instructions. Colour me surprised – the bedroom is decorated in more Pristine.

I try to be positive. You know those people who have to clean before the cleaner comes round? Well, in my experience that only lasts a couple of weeks before they relax at the thought you might think them disgusting scuzz-buckets, aka normal human beings.

In fact, it’s my experience they relax so much that it’s usually only another week after that before they’re completely comfortable forgetting to tidy away their sex toys. I have knowledge of this because aged six and tagging along with my mother to one of her cleaning jobs, I picked up a vibrator I found in one of the bedrooms and thinking it was the best torch ever, paraded it around the fancy house like I was Nancy Drew before she spied me with it and started talking at a pitch only me and dolphins could hear, about how she was never, ever bringing me to work with her again.

‘So, what’s this guy you’re dating do for work?’ my mother asks now, her voice at normal pitch but with a healthy dollop of interrogation thrown in.

I stare at the navy-blue silk comforter on the king-size bed in front of me. I have to give her something. My gaze moves from the bed to the navy curtains and the white walls. Aiming for some sort of information low-down, I say, ‘He’s something in…?’ I draw a blank, unable to compute all the angles needed to suggest the perfect job that will lead to no more questions aka no more worry. I mumble something unintelligible and continue with, ‘so I’m looking forward to finding out more tonight.’

I stare at the piece of art that hangs over George Northcote’s bed. Its straight edges and blocks of colour match the piece hanging over the couch in the living area.

Where the hell is the clutter? The mess? The dirt? All things I need to smooth out those jangly antsy feelings that have returned.

My gaze zooms in on the one personalised item in the bedroom. A photo frame beside the bed.

The couple staring out of it are posed on a balcony, an inky sky over lit-up hills of honey-coloured houses with umber-tiled roofs as their backdrop.

The crowd seems to have parted for the photographer, or perhaps to showcase the perfect couple. Everyone’s dressed up, like they’re at a wedding in a trattoria in Sicily.

I hear the romantic sigh leave my lungs and combat its presence with the uncharitable thought that the photo is probably only in here because it matches the décor.

Photo Couple are smiling for the camera, perfectly posed with their arms wrapped around each other and free hands holding glasses of champagne.

I lean closer, not sure I’ve ever seen a woman so put-together before. Sleek blonde bob. Cheekbones to die for and all with no obvious contouring in sight. Cornflower-blue eyes that probably aren’t contacts. A perfect symmetrical smile that is neither forced nor one of those mid-laughs that screw up your eyes and produce a double chin. She’s wearing a perfectly tailored navy-blue dress that shows off her tanned body … perfectly.

I blow out a soft whistle.

The man is GQ cover model material in his perfectly matching blue suit.

This time the soft whistle comes out louder and longer like it’s sighing in a sort of swooning way.

‘Ashleigh?’

I suck in a breath. ‘Ma, I’m going to have to call you back tonight, okay?’

‘Tonight? I thought you had a date tonight?’

Oh, for – my eyes roll upwards once more as it occurs to me that my mother should have been in the CIA. Heck, maybe she is and the cleaning business is a cover.

‘Tomorrow then,’ I amend. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’ I hang up the phone, push it into my back pocket and pick up the photo from beside the bed.

The guy’s hair is the same shade of brown as mine but it’s styled in one of those I-can-run-my-hands-through-it-in-sixty-three-different-ways-and-each-of-them-will-make-me-look-hotter ways.

His eyes are green and laughing.

His mouth has a sensual tilt and he’s looking at the woman his arm is wrapped around like no man has ever looked at me.

It doesn’t state a couple live here on the New Client File.

Just a George Northcote.

‘Well, just George from Apartment 33C,’ I say into the purified air. ‘I’d better figure out how to make this place look extra sparkly for you as it seems, on first impressions, that you are a complete neat freak.’

A super sexy-looking neat freak, I amend with one last look at the photo.

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