Page 8 of The Naked Cleaner

I can’t believe he is talking this much to me, and that he is actually amused by all my crap stories.

“So, this is weird? You are wearing pyjama-pants, and I am wearing an apron and we just had a very nice Valentine’s dinner party, just the two of us. Nothing weird about this.” I say, and throw my hands in the air. Because there isn’t. I like that he’s kind of half-naked. All the time.

“This is still very,veryweird, Louis.” He laughs, and that irrationally makes me happy. That bit’s weird. I can agree with that.

“I thought you were a naturist too, otherwise I would never have agreed to take you on as a client. Jonas said you were new to the full-time lifestyle and wanted to be able to work textile-free in peace while I cleaned. And you did open the door half dressed, which I took for you wanting to be polite and wear some appropriate clothing the first time we met. I didn’t know you… you know… were a cotton-tail.”

“What the hell is a cotton-tail?” He looks a little bemused again, and yeah. Maybe I shouldn’t call him that.

“It’s what we call people who wear clothes. Like people who are not naturists.”

I should venture back to a safe topic. Like the weather. Vegan meatballs. Recipes for lentil stew.

“Youare weird. “

“Thanks, I kind of know that. “

“Why don’t you work, with that fancy arse nursing degree?”

Fuck, he’s blunt.

“Because, as you said yourself, I’m weird. I never fit in. And then I get self-conscious, and uncomfortable and I think everyone is talking behind my back and I start to get nervous and I worry I will mess up, and then I end up leaving. I just can’t. It’s just hard.”

He nods, and we both sit there quietly.

"I could never work in an office with other people. I don't work well with other people."He says, scratching his neck and shuffling in his seat.

I understand that, and he kind of shakes his head, like he is trying to clear his headspace.

“But your company is going well?” he continues.

So, we are talking shop again.Fine.

“I enjoy it, but it doesn’t all add up. I’m crap at money, and most of my clients pay cash, and then I spend it before I know what I had, and I end up with nothing in the bank. Some of my clients don’t remember to pay me, and I am not very good with confronting people and following up on stuff. So yeah. I’m kind of dreading having to do my tax return, because my dad does it for me, and he will see that I have fucked it all up. “

Truths? When did I start blurting out all my secret truths to some rude stranger? What the hell is wrong with me?

“Do you want me to have a look? Maybe I can set up the EZ invoicing system for you that your clients can sign up to and all the money goes straight in the bank? If the council are paying part of their care, we can easily sign you into their invoicing system too, and you could apply for some financial aid for a first-time start-up business. Have you looked into that?”

“I don’t know what half of that means, but anyway, I can’t afford to pay you.”

He sits there and kind of chews a fingernail, absentmindedly tapping his fingers on the tabletop.

“We…” He stops and glances at me, then looks away. Like what he is about to say will hurt. Or is so out of his comfort zone that it’s actually painful to even suggest. And I kind of dread whatever it is he is about to say, because his breath is a little fast and he stutters. “We could make a… deal.” His voice is a little low. Like he is almost embarrassed to ask.

“What kind of deal?” I ask, keeping my voice soft. I could do a deal. I don’t want a deal. Maybe I do. I suck at all this. Whatever it is.

“You could cook me a big pan of that pasta thing, enough to last me a week. In return, I could look over your company files and see what I can suggest. I might have some basic procedures we can put into a simple admin system for you, and anyway, your website is too simplistic, it needs basic legalities at the bottom with contact us, and pricing and links to your society for naked people or whatever.”

“You looked at my website?” I squeal in embarrassment, because I’ve made it myself and thought it was pretty cool. I didn’t realise it is shit. He clearly thinks it’s shit from the painful look on his face.

“Home made on the Wix platform. I hate the Wix platform. I mean, this is my job. I know this stuff, and if you are using an online platform to attract business you need to present a business, not a hobby venture.”

How he sounds like my dad and all my defences are up and he’s not only offended my pretty epic website-building skills—I have zero skills, but he doesn’t know that, and anyway, it was a simplistic approach to exactly what I provide. Clean and simple services. I think it is brilliant.

“It’s perfect.” I say. Because I am kind of proud of it. “I like my website.”

“It’s shite, Louis. Not following industry standards and the alignment is off, and anyway, it will put potential clients off rather than attract them.”

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