Better Than You Found It by Hazel Orriss
Image by Cottonbro Studio for Pexels
He buzzed her into the lobby, a swish space with the kind of expensive marble floor that demanded a stiletto heel, shoes that would emit a sharp clip as she strode towards the lift. Today was not the day for vertiginous court shoes; slip-ons with socks were just fine, so much easier when visiting the homes of her clients. A quick nod to the concierge then into the lift, all very shiny, dazzling with design-conscious light fittings and mirrors at angles to reflect all the exquisite beauty back at you, infinitely repeated. She tried to avoid meeting her own gaze, failing until she realised the only way was to dip her chin and study the floor until the lift reached her destination. His door was ajar. She tapped lightly and stepped inside, slipping out of her shoes and leaving them on the doormat.
“Hi, I’m in here.” She followed the voice to then kitchen. He gestured to the worktops, his mobile phone an extension of his arm.
“The girlfriend’s always coming over, she’s into cooking, spicy food mostly. The place is a shithole, I’m afraid.”
It wasn’t too bad, she had seen worse, much worse. Besides, dirt and disorder were a challenge, she felt that there was nothing on earth that couldn’t be enhanced or improved by her actions. It was a noble sentiment and one she tried very hard to live by, so much so, that maintaining any job other than a zero hours contract at Capital Cleaners had proven difficult. Office work had involved a miserable process of selling her skills to further the greedy ambitions of craven, grey-suited middle-managers, themselves in hock to ghostly senior management figures seldom seen outside of their private offices. Cleaning delivered very little in terms of salary or cachet, but she could sleep well every night knowing that she had done something honest and good.
“Oh, it’s okay, I’ll have this done in no time.” She smiled back at him, but he had already switched his focus to the mobile phone and was walking towards the bedroom. Some kitchens needed a good and thorough clean, and she had restored order to some amazing spaces, all German craftsmanship, marble worktops and integrated wine coolers. People in the city could spend an inordinate amount of money on their living spaces, and it gave her pleasure to deliver cleanliness and tidiness to such luxury. This kitchen needed very little work, it was either seldom used, or the girlfriend was a fastidious and careful cook. She replaced condiments and straightened the labels of tins in the food cupboard, she wiped the neck of a ketchup bottle and returned it to the fridge. Grey Goose Vodka, Laurent-Perrier Champagne… the fridge contained the very best of everything. She looked at the other items noting clearly labelled Tupperware containers, Beef Madras, darling xxx and Pears Belle Helene (microwave 2 mins only, just enough to melt the chocolate), Sophie xxx
“I’ll need the vacuum, is it convenient to start in the lounge, now?” She stood in the hallway and spoke clearly, unsure where to direct her voice. He emerged from the bedroom, buttoning a clean shirt, and smiled.
“Yeah, sure, don’t mind me, I’ll be heading out in a mo.” He pointed towards a small cloakroom where the vacuum lived.
“Thank you I’ll make a start –” but he had already turned his back and was making a call.
Each household appliance has its own sound, a note somewhere around a G usually, the one above middle C. It didn’t take long to allow a song to flow in her head matching the pitch of the vacuum. “I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair, and send him on his way…” Not that the song would ever leave her head, to sing out loud would turn the act of cleaning into a performance. Cleaning well was a skill, but certainly not a performance. She enjoyed the attention to detail, the small extras like adding a drop of essential oil to the water, adding a spritz of l’eau lavande to the laundry closet. She imagined the homeowners returning after a long day at work and enjoying the beautiful fragrances released as the heating came on, a kind of olfactory calling card. This was not something the agency asked her to do, she simply enjoyed the feeling of giving a little extra.
She took the vacuum through to the bedroom, making sure he was elsewhere, and being careful to navigate past the discarded shoes and a rucked-up woollen rug. Switching the vacuum nozzle to one that could reach into the sliding door tracks of the wardrobe and right up close to the skirting board, she knelt and worked quickly to remove the dust. She stretched the nozzle to reach under the bed and recoiled quickly as the vacuum attempted to consume something solid. She released the suction and caught a small silver powder compact, hallmarked and clearly very high quality. Unclasped, the lid sprung open and displaced a plush powder puff, stained slightly with a flattering shade of peach. She held the compact to her nose and inhaled the delicate scent of Parma Violets, catching a glimpse of herself, flushed from the exertion of housework. She snapped the compact closed and placed it on the bedside table where she hoped the owner would no doubt be delighted and relieved to find it.
“Okay mate, I’m on my way. Got a cab waiting outside, should be there by 8 latest. Gonna be a good night, heard good things about this place.” He laughed and ended the call but immediately began scrolling across the screen until he found another number.
“Hi babe, sorry, it’s been a hectic week at work, I’m gonna head over to mum and dad’s for the weekend. Aw, Sophie, no, you wouldn’t want to come, it’ll be a lazy one, just me an’ dad watching the rugby. Yeah, you’ll have more fun with your mates – staying local, are you? Good girl, the city is way too hectic…”
She began coiling up the vacuum flex and made eye contact. He pressed his finger to his lips and winked at her.
“Okay Soph, love ya, see you soon, bye.” He ended the call still maintaining eye contact. The vacuum flex hung loose in her hand.
“I’ve paid the agency, but this is a little something for you.” He placed a twenty-pound note on the hall table. “And if you could just lock up and leave the key with the security guy downstairs that would be sweet.”
She resumed coiling the flex until only the plug remained, held in a grip that left three deep indentations in her palm. The door slammed shut and she listened to the lift whirr as it descended to the lobby. She took a final look around. Neat, clean, fragrant. Better than she found it. The final thing on her list was to gather up the bin bag and take it out when she left. She pulled the drawstrings together and noticed, Beef Madras, darling xx and Pears Belle Helene (microwave 2 mins only, just enough to melt the chocolate), Sophie xxx, still in their plastic pots. The chocolate had begun to melt, and the pears had slipped into the corner of the tub, pale curves cast aside with little dignity. Keys, handbag, bin bag, she took a final look around and noticed the distinctive rich colour of Madras sauce had leaked from the bin bag, leaving a trail of stains across the cream wool carpet.
“Fuck it! Fucking fuck it!” She looked up at the ceiling, allowing her shoulders to drop, and groaned. The bin bag at her feet continued to ooze sauce from a small tear in the plastic. She walked into the bedroom and picked up the silver compact, sat on the bed, and flipped open the lid. She gazed at herself for a moment then reached into her handbag and retrieved a green, shimmery eyeliner. Carefully, she wrote around the outer edge of the mirror the words, “You deserve so much better.” Holding up the compact she read the words back and smiled at her reflection before snapping the compact shut and giving it a gentle kick back under the bed.
Hazel Orriss (she/her) is a graduate of the University of Southampton MA in Creative Writing. Her writing reflects her own lived experience with themes of womanhood, working class lives, and social anxiety threaded throughout her stories. When not writing she can be found by the sea, in the forest, or on Instagram.