Page 12 of The Naked Cleaner

“What’s this?” I gesture lamely at the open fridge door.

“We made a deal. “ He says. Again. "I have made you meals for a week, all balanced and nutritious in small portions that you can just blast in the microwave for a minute. Just throw the containers in the box here and I will pick it up next week. Easy. “

“Was that included in the cleaning?” I ask, because I haven’t got a clue what he is on about. Honestly.

“You asked for food. I made it. You know, for our deal? I cook for you, and you sort my tax return. I brought the cleaning stuff just in case your flat was a mess and needed tidying, but I can see you are right on top of things. “

Louis is a funny fucker, I think to myself, totally sarcastically of course, as I glance over towards the sink. I’m sure the sink is still there somewhere buried under the crap I have chucked on the worktop since last week. A few half-eaten boxes of ready meals, endless coffee cups and crap, and about ten banana skins. Charming. I kind of cringe, because he is right. I am not on top of anything. Least of all my game as I sink down on a chair in defeat.

“Here’s my paperwork,” he says, and hands me a fabric eco-reusable shopping-bag. Very him. Of course.

It’s bulging with dogeared pieces of paper and envelopes. Oh, deep joy. Another paper filer who can’t deal with a simple accounting program. And I kind of remember.

“Tax return.” I sigh.

“Please.” He sighs back. “I am so fucked.”

“You look fine to me.” I wink. I have no idea why. Fuck, I am such a basket case.

“I’m serious. Can you look over it quickly while I clear this mess up? Just to give me an idea of how deep in crap I will be with my dad?”

I don’t understand why, but I nod, and stumble out into the living room, where I kneel on the floor and tip all the paperwork out in a pile in front of me.

In a way it’s therapeutic, and I have done stuff like this before. Sorted out hobby venture companies who have gone in over their heads and are suddenly dealing with massive contracts and overwhelming overheads when all they have is an account book and a bloody pen. Louis doesn’t have that, his paperwork a myriad of bills and contracts and invoices that he has scribbledpaidon.Paid.Paidfollowed by question marks.

I don’t even notice him moving around my flat, I do register the hoover at one point and there is a pile of sheets by the door, next to the damn steam cleaner with it’s annoying hiss. Not that it matters, because I am kind of done. Everything neatly logged on my standard spreadsheet, with notes on quirks and phrases to incorporate in the invoicing program and ideas for an automated booking system on the new website I can already picture in my head, and he needs a few select, tastefully done, black-and-white photographs that I can already see in my head.

“Is it really bad?” He says and places a plate of something that looks mouth-wateringly gorgeous on the floor next to me. So, we are eating on the floor.

I look up at him and my breath hitches.

“You look weird wearing clothes.” I say. I’m so fucking stupid.

“I didn’t want to annoy you further by prancing around naked when it makes you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. I know I can be a dick, but I really need your help. I can manage to wear clothes for a few hours. It’s not an issue. “

“It’s okay.” I say softly. It is. I mean, I have kind of grown used to him naked, and all these, jersey pieces of clothing all over him is kind of… wrong. “I don’t mind if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

I sound strained, like I am struggling to be polite and he shrugs his shoulders, pushing the plate on the floor towards me. “Vegan chickpea and spinach meatballs in Thai curry sauce. You would never even know it’s healthy, just try it. Please. It’s really good, I promise, and tastes like the real thing.”

I don’t need convincing, and even though I am sceptical to the stuff he is saying is on that plate, I am too tempted, and my stomach growls as I reluctantly take the fork from his outstretched hand and shove a mouthful in my gob. Then I swoon. And die of embarrassment as he bloody smiles like he’s won the lottery or something.

“You like it?”

“Gorgeous.” I mumble with my mouth full of whatever. But it tastes nice. Spicy and tingly, and there is something soft and creamy in there, and I can’t taste the spinach. “Hate spinach.” I blurt out, then immediately regret it. He’s trying really hard. I am trying too. “But I can’t actually taste it. It’s good. Really good.”

Louis nods, even though he doesn’t look convinced.

“Is it bad? The accounts?” He almost whispers, and I shake my head.

“I have no idea where to start with the income, because honestly, Louis, you need to start sticking the cash in the bank. But, if it all adds up, you are not breaking even,BUT, that’s not a bad thing. It’s a new start-up, and we can make it work. Leave it with me for a few days and I will work on some ideas and see what improvements we can make to attract business and make a feasible invoicing system. “

He looks a bit confused again, biting his lip and staring at me like he hasn’t understood a single thing I just said.

“It’s not bad.” I repeat. It’s not. I’ve seen worse, and he is still a small business with manageable overheads. Not that this seems to calm him down.

“Thank you.” He whispers.

“Thankyou.” I say back, nodding to the now almost-empty plate in my hand. “I didn’t think, I mean, you cooked all that food? For me? I need to pay you, because this will have cost hundreds of…”

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