Page 43 of The Naked Cleaner

Well, anyway. It’s okay. Pontus is okay. I can hear him laughing with Mum. Despite her being pretty-much naked wearing a see-through excuse for a kaftan. Despite my dear father now pacing the room arguing with Pontus over the need for online-payment options. Despite the purple bruises on my hips that I perhaps shouldn’t let my parents see.

Perhaps.

I smile. Perhaps this can work. Perhaps even become something really good. Perhaps this will last for a few more weeks, and then he will break my heart into splinters. Perhaps not.

My grandpa always says that I shouldn’t worry so much about tomorrow. I should enjoy today instead, drink a glass of wine and let the sunshine soothe my skin. He says we can’t control the world, and that we should just try to be the best people we can be. Love. Live. Enjoy the gifts that life throws at us.

I trace the small bruise on my leg with my finger. Find another one on my arm. A small smile forming on my lips.

Perhaps. Perhaps we will make it. Perhaps this will be good. And anyway, he’s mine today. He’ll hopefully still be mine tomorrow, the man out there laughing on the sofa. The one who carries my marks on his own skin.

Perhaps. Perhaps I love him. Perhaps life is treating me well right now.

He loves me too, I think. And that’s all that matters.

Chapter Sixteen

Louis

A year later

I live here. The realisation still hits me like a sledgehammer at the most random moments, like right now, when I am standing here in the kitchen decanting large steaming ladles of chilli into bowls ready for our guests. I am wearing an apron. Because yes, cooking is a dangerous sport, and hello? Burns? Not cool. But wait for this? I am wearingunderpants. Nice dressy ones, with pink flamingos all over my arse. They are just H&M ones, but are the only ones out of all the pairs Pontus has bought me, that I can actually stand wearing.

Not that I wear them much, but there are certain occasions where Pontus will drag that drawer open and choose me a pair to wear. Like when his parents come over for dinner. Or when we have dinner parties. Yes, I know. How very grown up andadult. Pontus will roll his eyes, like he did when I suggested this little Valentine’s Day gathering.

It had been a weekend a while back, Jonas had been here, and his wife had just had their first baby, and they were moaning about being skint and he was apologising for the lack of some kind of stupid gift for Valentine’s Day. Pontus had gone all weird and defensive, and I had almost spat out my coffee.

“No bloody gifts” I had boomed. “Last time you pulled that one, bro, you almost had my boyfriend here concussed.” I had shaken my head and stared at poor Jonas, who had just laughed.

“But we need to do something. I mean P here may have got himself a nice boyfriend, and even got your sorry arse to move in with him, but he’s still a loser and nobody is going to buy him roses on Valentine’s Day.” Jonas had winked while I had stood up and pointed at the nice Cacti arrangement I had purchased for my prickly boyfriends’ birthday a few months back.

“I can be romantic, don’t be a dick.” I had laughed.

“But it’s tradition!” Jonas had insisted, leaning over the table, waving his hands about. “We always buy him something weird. It’s just that I have maxed out my credit card buying my Mamacita here a pram. And to be honest I don’t know what to get. It’s like my head is mush.”

“Welcome to sleep deprivation.” Pontus had yawned from the armchair where he was sat cradling our new Godson. Yeah. Because Jonas thought that was a good idea too. Us. Pontus and me. Godparents? We can barely function on our own, but together? We do all right these days.

“Don’t trust a word he says.” Jonas lovely wife, Marta, had said and smacked him over the head. “He snores like a trucker all through the night, and has still to do a single night feed on his own accord. Bloody useless he is.”

“She just moans! I make her herbal tea and rub her feet!” Jonas had protested as his wife had laughed.

We’re not having babies. Nope. Not us.

Despite my Pontus beaming like a beacon every time Jonas and Marta turn up with that baby. He loves it, coos and talks baby talk and carries the thing around like it’s precious. He’s more dramatic than me, and I am supposed to be the Latino drama queen in this house.

My house. Well, it’s still officially Pontus’ flat, although he keeps threatening to write me into the lease. At least from next month I will be contributing with a full-time wage.

He pushes me. Pulls me. Carries me when I start to doubt myself. He makes me angrier than anyone I have ever met before. He’s a twat, but at the end of the day, he’s my twat. My partner in crime, my lover and my best friend. The guy I can’t stop staring at, and the guy who crawls into bed with me at night. After I make him drink a full glass of water. I can push too.

He’s looking good these days, with a bit of colour in his cheeks. His firm is doing well, and he shuts the computer off at six o’clock sharp. Every night. We have his health under control. He eats. Drinks. Loves. He loves me. Whatever weird things I get up to.

My cleaning firm went tits up a while back, and it was kind of my fault. I just liked spending time with Pontus here rather than dragging my steam cleaner around Copenhagen all day long. Then I didn’t pay my public liability insurance on time, and I had to take time off to renew my nursing degree.

I told you I was a mess. I still am, but thanks to Pontus, I am now an organised, and employed mess.

I have a job, a new certificate on the fridge, and I am going to be naked most of the time. Meet the new Naked Yogi at Copenhagen’s finest Spa Retreat. A gleaming newbuild, with visions and environmental goals and steam baths and twenty-four-hour classes, and yes, Yoga, in all its forms.

I already have most of the Yoga instruction training done, having once had plans to work with my mum. Just a few more things to sort out, and an exam to sit. Well, surprise, surprise, guess who will be running Women’s Only Naked Yoga? Mum of course. I scratch her back, she scratches mine. And anyway, the owner of the Spa Retreat is a friend of my dad’s and a part-time naturist, and yeah. Things just happened, and before I knew it, I had a contract on the table and replacement cleaners to find.

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