Page 10 of Good Bad Girl

Clio

Clio hurries back down the stairs wishing she hadn’t come at all. Her mother has always excelled at knowing how to push all of her buttons. Clio is a size twelve, same as always, and doesnotlook bloated. She pauses to check her reflection in her compact mirror just to be sure, not that she gives a damn what her mother thinks. At least the exchange helped to make the decision, now Clio just needs to find the care home manager. She avoids the lounge. It’s filled to its chintzy brim with residents and their relatives making the obligatory Mother’s Day visit, and watching other people playing happy families tends to make her feel sad. She wants to get this over and done with and get back home—where nobody can hurt her—as soon as possible.

Clio prefers not to leave her house too often since the pandemic. Aside from popping to the health food store or her yoga class three times a week there is rarely any need. She rather enjoyed lockdown and finds being in close proximity to other people unpleasant and unnecessary these days. She preferred it when staying athome was what everyone did, so that when she went out she could still be alone.

The care home manager’s office door is closed, as always. Clio knocks but doesn’t wait for a response before walking in, and finds Joy sitting behind her desk eating chocolate chip cookies. The office is small and smells of supermarket tea and cheap perfume. There are some meaningless framed certificates on the wall—qualifications as pointless as the woman claiming to have them—along with a filing cabinet and a large safe. On Joy’s desk is an open magazine, a plate of cookies, and an exotic-looking plant which appears half dead. If the woman can’t keep a cactus alive it does not bode well for the people in her care.

Clio guesses that Joy Bonetta is probably in her early fifties, just like her. Unlike her, Joy looks her age and then some. She dresses like the stereotype of a middle-aged woman, wearing a knitted twinset that is at least one size too small, a long floral skirt—with an elasticized waistband, no doubt—and a pearl necklace which rests in a lackluster fashion on her ample bosom. Her short hair is styled in a series of tight ringlets in a halo of ugly around her head.

Clio finds the woman repugnant, but forces her face to smile.

“Can I help you?” Joy asks with her mouth still full of cookie. A few crumbs escape and land on her chins.

Clio struggles to hold her smile in place, then takes the seat opposite without being invited. “I do hope so. I’m Edith Elliot’s daughter.” Joy stares at her blankly. “We spoke on the phone earlier this week.” The woman’s vacant expression still doesn’t change. “About my mother, in room thirteen?” This time Clio’s words hit the target.

“Ahh,” says Joy. “I do remember. And I’m afraid my answer is still the same.”

Clio’s smile falters. “There must be some kind of arrangement we can—”

“I’m sorry. Truly, I am. But this is a business and I’m afraid thatif residents—or their relatives—can no longer afford the fees, alternative accommodation needs to be found. I said the same thing to your—”

“Surely you could wait a couple of weeks?”

“Contrary to popular belief, good things rarely come to those who wait. I have a waiting list longer than a monkey’s arms. Places in residential care homes are few and far between in the city, and I’m afraid the demand for good ones far outweighs the supply.”

“I wouldn’t call this a good one.”

Joy raises an overplucked eyebrow. “As I mentioned on the phone, if you want to remove your mother before the end of her tenancy agreement, there is an additional charge of eight thousand pounds plus tax to facilitate an early departure.”

“That’s more than the monthly fees. If I had that kind of money I’d just pay. I mean, if shediedyou wouldn’t charge me extra for an ‘early departure’ would you?”

Joy leans across the desk, so close that Clio has to resist the urge to offer the woman a breath mint. “That would be a tragedy, of course, but if room thirteen were to become vacant because the current occupantdied, the only additional expense—all of which are clearly listed and explained in our terms and conditions—would be for a deep clean of the room. We care very much about our residents and their loved ones, and I understand the financial burden can be impossible. I am here to help inanyway that I can.”

Clio stares at the woman. “Anyway?”

There is a knock on the door before Joy gets the chance to answer. “Come in!” she shrills.

The door opens and an elderly man with a walking stick stands glowering. He’s wearing a shirt and tie beneath his cardigan, and has a full head of curly white hair.

“Yes? What is it?” Joy barks in his direction.

“I want to make a complaint,” he says.

“You’ve already made three today, Mr. Henderson. As discussed, that’s your daily limit.”

“If there weren’t so many things to complain about I wouldn’t have to. That woman is here, the one asking questions, wanting to know the names of residents and what rooms they are in. She’s up to no good, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t. I never do.”

“And afternoon tea is late. And the elevator is broken,again. And you said you’d stop people stealing my things—”

Joy holds up a hand, as though stopping traffic. It certainly stops the old man complaining, for now. She heaves herself up from the desk and waddles toward him. “Afternoon tea will be served shortly, Mr. Henderson. Nobody has stolen anything. Last time you lost your wallet it was in your pocket, remember? Everyone who works at the Windsor Care Home is carefully vetted. I promise you that you and your things are perfectly safe.”

“What about the elevator? I can’t climb the stairs with my hip.”

“The repair man is on his way again, and the elevator will be fixed by the end of the day.” She ushers him out of the room and closes the door before turning back to Clio.

“Maybe think about it,” Joy says.

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