It’s the first Friday of the month again which is pretty much my favourite day of the month. Why? Because today I see Richard. If you read Richard 1 you might recall that I have a bit of a crush on him. Well, when I say crush, I mean that I like him, as in actually like him… a lot. Okay, okay… it’s a crush. I can’t say I’m in love with him because I really don’t feel I know him well enough. Not only that, it’s enough to just admit I have a crush on him.
My feelings for Richard have caught me a little by surprise, mostly because I don’t let myself fall for men. I love men, and think they’re great fun.
But I don’t get close.
I’ve seen what getting too close can do and I’m not having any of that.
Anyway, you don’t want to hear me prattle on… It’s the first Friday of the month and I’m feeling good. In fact it’s fair to say this whole day has been good. I cleaned Steve’s first and once again he was lovely. He made me a coffee, sat me down and asked how my Mum was doing. After Steve’s I cleaned Saff & Lilly’s. They’ve been great too and have also been very supportive regarding recent events with my Mum. It’s good to get a female perspective on things. There’s no wonder I’m feeling good with all the wonderful support around me. However, I do sometimes feel a bit weird about receiving support from my customers. I am there to provide a service for them, not the other way round. I don’t know, maybe that’s just me.
Anyway – Richard’s…
I let myself in savouring the musky, sandalwoody aroma that assaults my sense of smell as I open the door – it gives me a warm feeling inside. I hang my jacket on the coat hooks in the hallway. I’m wearing a short black skirt and tight-ish, white t-shirt. When I come here I always try to wear something accessible, easy to remove. The t-shirt isn’t the kind that would win a wet t-shirt competition, but it does a terrible job of hiding the pretty, blue, lacy bra I’m wearing underneath.
I make a start, as I always do, with his washing and bedding and so on. I get the washing machine loaded and running before making a start on the cleaning.
I don’t know if he does this every Friday, or if it’s just on the Friday’s when I’m there, but he often arrives home about four o’clock, which seems early to me given that he’s got a seemingly high-flying post as some sort of financial advisor. Given his new-build apartment and its location, his expensive taste in furnishings, and his Armani suits, I guess he must be good at what he does and appearances suggest he’s good with money himself. Maybe he can afford to finish early. Sometimes though, he doesn’t get home until later – I’m hoping today isn’t one of those days.
When I’m cleaning his kitchen I can’t help but admire his coffee machine. It’s a smaller version of the kind you see in Starbucks or Costa. I love fresh ground coffee and I have a bean grinder myself, but I tend to use a cafetiere or a stove top percolator. But Richard’s machine is beautiful with lots of shiny chrome that I can’t help polishing until it gleams. He’s always said I can make myself a cup when I’m here and he’s shown me how to use it, however I tend not to drink coffee later in the day because I read somewhere that it can affect your sleep pattern. I figure I need all the beauty sleep I can get, hence my decision to avoid late coffees.
Being in the kitchen brings back memories of one of our fun times. I was just finishing up cleaning when Richard had walked in. We began our usual flirty banter and within a few minutes I was naked, sat on the cold, marble work top with my legs wrapped round his waist as he pounded into me. I’d panted in his ear that I wanted to swallow his spunk, so he’d pulled out just before ejaculating, but in his excitement some escaped and he shot a dollop onto his beautiful coffee machine. We’d had a few laughs afterwards making jokes about coffee with a shot of cream, and whether or not Starbucks offered such delights.
By the time I finish in the kitchen it’s just past four o’clock and there’s no sign of Richard.
In the utility room the washing machine is nearing the end of the spin cycle, so I wait for it to finish then load his clothes into the tumble drier.
Somewhat unbelievably Richard’s apartment has 2 bathrooms. There’s an ensuite, which he uses the most, and a separate bathroom for guests. The main bathroom is closer to the lounge and kitchen and Richard tends to use the WC in there rather than go to the ensuite, so I know that will need cleaning but, given the ensuite will need more attention I head there first. It’s always surprised me that the ensuite is relatively small compared to the rest of the features and rooms in the apartment. There’s square based shower unit, toilet and sink. The water in the area is quite hard so the shower unit always needs a good clean in order to remove the limescale water marks from the screen.
Whenever I clean Richard’s ensuite, I can’t help myself from taking a whiff of his shower gel bottles. Today is no different. He uses Issey Miyaki and it smells divine. Often, when we’re being intimate together, I can still smell lingering traces of it mixed with his natural body odour. I’ve always considered natural body odour to be important when it comes to attraction. There are some people whose odour is a real turn off, but not Richard’s.
I love the way he smells.
The scent from the bottle acts like a trigger. My head feels light and I get a tingle, a warm feeling low down. I can feel myself becoming aroused… wet…. ready to see Richard. I consider this to be a good thing given that since my Mum had her strokes I’ve not really been feeling it. It must be because he really does something for me.
I hope he turns up soon.
After I’ve cleaned the ensuite I make for the other bathroom. A couple of months ago he came home while I was cleaning it. He gave me a wonderful seeing to from behind and I’d had to hold onto the sink to stop my legs from giving way.
But not today.
In fact I finish the bathrooms and the lounge and I’m doing his ironing when I hear his key in the door.
My heart leaps and feels like it’s going to pop right out of my chest.
Calm down Carla. Be cool.
‘Oh, hey,’ I say as he walks into the lounge.
He looks at me and I can’t read his expression. ‘You’re still here! I thought I’d have missed you.’
‘Just finishing the ironing.’
What does he mean, ‘I thought I’d have missed you’? Does he mean he wishes he had missed me or that he didn’t want to miss me?
I still can’t read his expression, although he does look… intense. I try to be casual.
‘How are you? How’s your day been?’
Jesus, I sound like his fucking wife or something.
‘Fucking shit!’ He says, making for the cabinet where he keeps the hard stuff.
‘Oh… really… why? What’s happened?’ I can feel my love bubble deflating.
He pours himself a malt whisky. He only drinks the good stuff and I recognise the shape of the bottle as being one of the Isle of Jura single malts. ‘I fucked up a portfolio and a client lost fifty grand.’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he says. ‘It’s stock market stuff.’
I feel affronted. Whilst I’m no stock market whiz I do have a basic understanding of how it works.
But maybe it’s a complex situation, and maybe he’s right.
He necks his drink and pours himself another, this time taking the bottle and glass he drops down in one of the armchairs. He sits, staring into the distance, swigging mouthfuls of scotch from the glass. He looks so forlorn. I’ve never seen him like this. Normally he’s so confident and full of life.
‘What’s going to happen?’ I ask.
‘Oh, it’s already happened, but I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Okay,’ I say putting the ironing to one side and turning to face him. I decide my only option is to try and make him feel better. ‘Maybe I could help take your mind of things…’
He looks up at me and sees my cheeky smile. He smiles back but his eyes don’t smile with his mouth. He nods to the sofa. ‘Come and sit down.’
Here we go.
The sofa is at right angles and almost arm to arm with his chair. I opt to sit as close to him as I can, crossing my legs so the skirt rides up revealing more of my thighs.
‘What’s going on with you?’ He asks, pouring himself another whisky.
‘With me? Well…’ I feel a bit thrown. I wasn’t really expecting that. I was expecting the flirty foreplay to start, but it’s not looking like that’s going to happen today.
‘Well… actually, my mum hasn’t been well, ‘I say. ‘She’s had a couple of small strokes.’
He nods. ‘Go on.’
So I tell him what I’ve been going through with all the worrying about my mum and trying to put on a brave face. I tell him how distracted I’ve been and that I nearly ‘accidentally’ hurt one of my customers. As I relate my recent events he says nothing. He simply nods me to carry on, taking occasional gulps from his glass.
As I’m telling Richard all of this I it strikes me that I don’t feel as emotional about it as I have been. Something feels different and I can’t put my finger on what. I finish by telling him I’ve been helping mum and Alex keep their house clean, to take a bit of the pressure off them.
‘At least you’ve got some skills that are useful then,’ he says.
I know I look confused. I can feel my brow furrowing. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ he says. ‘So, you were feeling crap when you came here today and you thought, I know, a bit of fun with Richard will cheer me up!’
‘You were feeling shit and you thought a fumble and a fuck would sort you out… take your mind of your problems. Right?’
‘Have you gone deaf. For fuck’s sake Carla, the world doesn’t revolve around you you know!’
My eyes start to fill up.
‘Oh here come the waterworks,’ he says, continuing his vitriolic attack. ‘Typical. Fucking. Woman.’
I’m not sure what hurts more. The fact that I’ve just spilled my guts to him about my mum, or the fact that in some respects he’s right- I did think that being with him would make me feel better. I’m such a fucking idiot.
‘Jesus fucking wept,’ he says. ‘Carla, I’ve lost fifty grand of someone else’s money today, and you don’t see me looking for a pity fuck.’
‘I, I…’ I still can’t get any words out. Part of me is exploding with anger inside and another part of me is trapped in the dilemma of him being right.
And then the valve opens.
‘You utter, fucking bastard! How the fuck dare you compare losing fifty grand with what my mum is going through. Yes, so I thought we might have some fun. It’s the first time I’ve felt like it since all this shit happened. You complete, and utter bastard. You fucking well asked me what was going on, you let me tell you everything, you could have fucking stopped me, but no. You let me prattle on revealing my pain only to shoot me down for doing so. So fucking what if I wanted to you to fuck me. I fucking don’t now. PISS OFF.’
Richard just sat there, visibly pinned to his seat, his mouth agape.
I leapt up, running to the corridor to get my jacket and I hear him behind me, following me.
‘Carla. Carla! I’m so sorry.’
‘Fuck, off, dick!’ I say, spitting the abbreviation of his name at him as an insult.
‘Carla, don’t go. I don’t know what got into me. Please…’
He grabs my shoulders as I hurriedly try to get my arms in my jacket sleeves. I turn and glare at him through tear sodden eyes and I hear a voice, my voice snarling like a rabid dog.
‘Get the fuck off me Richard.’
He lets me go and positions himself in front of the door, blocking my way. ‘Carla, I’m sorry.’
‘If you don’t get out of my way I’ll kick you in the balls so hard you’ll look like you’ve swallowed two gobstoppers.’
He stops still, staring at me, the corners of his mouth starting to lift, his eyes lighting up. He doubles over into a fit of uncontrolled laughter.
‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’
He looks up at me and bursts out laughing again.
‘Gobstoppers,’ he splutters in between laughter bursts. ‘Gob-fucking-stoppers!’
There’s something about his laughter that affects me and before I realise it, a giggle rises up and escapes. I’m still livid, but the feeling is changing.
Richard is literally creased up. ‘I’ll look like I’ve swallowed two gobstoppers…’ and he’s off laughing again. ‘Oh god, my stomach.’ He’s holding his belly.
By now I’m laughing like an idiot too.
‘Where the hell did that come from?’ He says. ‘Gobstoppers. They don’t even make them anymore do they?’
‘Hell I don’t know,’ I say, answering both his questions with one answer.
Slowly, the laughter subsides and we both regain our composure, Richard propped against the front door, me against the wall. I can still feel residual traces of the anger burning in my heart, but now it’s mixed with belly muscle pain from laughing.
‘Carla, I’m so fucking sorry,’ he says, giving me sad puppy eyes. ‘You were right; I was a bastard…worse in fact. I was a cunt to you and I really didn’t mean to be. You didn’t deserve that.’
‘Yes, you were, and no I didn’t.’
‘No you didn’t. Can you forgive me?’
I stare at him right in the eyes. I want to know if he means it or if he’s just jerking me around. He looks like he means it.
‘What was that all about?’ I ask.
‘Me being a selfish prick.’
‘No arguments here,’ I say.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Come and have a drink, and let’s talk.’
I keep my jacket on and follow him back through to the lounge. He grabs a glass from the cabinet.
‘Do you like whisky?’ He asks.
I nod, sitting back where I was sat just a few minutes before.
‘Do you want ice, or water with it?’
I give him a look that says ‘as if,’ and he pours me a healthy glass of scotch. I take a deep breath in, neck the whisky, and hand the glass back for a refill.
‘I guess you needed that,’ he says, refilling mine and topping up his own.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, both of us warming our glasses up in our hands.
Richard spoke first. ‘I thought I’d lost you there for a minute.’
‘You nearly did,’ I said. ‘And you’re not off the hook yet.’
We talked for about an hour or so after our ruck, pausing only because we both realised we hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and we were both famished. Richard popped a couple of pizzas in the oven which we ate and then talked some more. I feel it’s needless to say that nothing happened between us that evening, other than talking.
I’ve never seen him like that before, angry, aggressive and on the attack. We both talked about why we were so upset, me about my mum and him about the ramifications of his mistake on his career and livelihood. But for me, I think what hurt the most was that part of what he said was right – I had been hoping to have some fun with him and I had been hoping it would make me feel better. But, after it was apparent he’d had a bad day, I was prepared to listen and try and help. At least I think I was. It could be that my memory playing tricks on me and adding convenient bits like it sometimes does.
Nevertheless, I feel the best thing to come out of this, is that he said he didn’t want to lose me.