Monday to Friday Man (6 page)

‘I’m staying put.’

‘Thank the fucking lord,’ Ariel says. ‘Pugsy would have missed you,’ he adds, gesturing to an oblivious Pugsy sniffing something ominous in the grass.

‘Oh good, we didn’t want you to go,’ says Sam, who has vibrant red hair, an infectious laugh and a figure that inspires me to go to the gym more. She’s on a diet of looking after her family and working part-time as a secretary in an architect’s firm. Sam owns Hardy, the miniature schnauzer whom Spike the Airedale has taken a fancy to.

‘I’d have missed your pretty face,’ says Walter. He has never been married but loves to flirt and since giving up window cleaning (the ladder got too heavy for him) he’s now the resident dog walker in Hammersmith. At the moment he’s not only looking after Spike but also a rescue dog called Gusto. He’s rarely seen without his khaki rucksack on his back filled with every kind of dog accessory.

‘I always thought it a dreadful idea to leave,’ Brigitte adds with a heavy French accent.

Mari, hating to be left out, says, ‘Me too. You can’t live off a view.’ I don’t remind her that previously she’d thought it was a great idea, just as long as I didn’t leave her until she’d found a replacement.

‘So what’s this about thirteen enquiries?’ Sam asks. ‘Who are they all from?’

I tell them about my interview with Roy Haddock that night and they laugh.

‘I once knew a Mr Trout,’ muses Walter.

‘Roy,’ Mari repeats. ‘I’m not sure about the name. He sounds like a big fat man . . .’

‘With a beer belly,’ Sam finishes.

‘Don’t be such snobs,’ someone says.

We turn to see before us a man wearing combats, T-shirt and a navy hat, dragging a Scottie dog on its lead. There’s something familiar about him. I know! He’s the man I saw the other day. He’s tall, scruffy, hasn’t shaved properly and looks about my age. In fact he looks as if he’s just crawled out of bed, but his blue eyes are bright with curiosity. ‘Sorry, have I interrupted something?’ He surveys our group. ‘Is this the official doggy hour?’ He smiles and there is something appealing about his confidence. I can also tell Ariel is checking him out. ‘Cute,’ he whispers to me. ‘Ask him if he’s single, Gilly – go on, you need a bit of action.’

I stand on his foot. He yelps.

Guy glances at both of us. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks Ariel, who is still hopping up and down in pretend agony.

‘Yes, yes, he’s fine,’ I say, ignoring Ariel’s scowl.

Anyway, I tell Guy briefly about my plan to find a lodger, apologizing to Mari, who’s heard it all before.

‘The trouble with lodgers is you end up going out every night of the week just to avoid them,’ he says.

‘Well, the good thing is he’s a Monday to Friday man,’ I inform him.

‘Monday to Friday? So what does he get up to at the weekend?’

‘He buggers off,’ Mari states, lighting up a menthol cigarette.

We don’t introduce ourselves, but instead point out our dogs. That’s Brigitte’s dog Mousse, Hardy is Sam’s, there’s Basil named after Mari’s favourite herb that she grows on her terrace. She adds that her tomatoes have been fabulous this year. That’s Ruskin. And Pugsy’s over there.

As I watch us all sussing out this man in his hat, I liken our circle to the school playground. We’re never quite sure how we feel about newcomers. We become cosy, then all of a sudden along comes someone we haven’t met before who unsettles the balance.

I tell this man that I’ve had thirteen enquiries and am interviewing my first one tonight.

‘Thirteen?’

I wait for him to sound impressed. ‘Unlucky for some,’ he says.

After our walk, Mari, the dogs and I set off to work. On the Underground, heading to Sloane Square, Mari nudges me hard in the ribs. ‘Look at them,’ she gestures to the people sitting opposite us, with things stuffed in their ears.

‘Shh,’ I urge.

‘They look half-dead!’ Mari doesn’t suffer fools gladly but she does suffer from a loud voice. ‘No stimulation,’ she tuts.

One of them stares at her.

Thankfully Mari shuts up and takes out her book. As the train rattles on, it occurs to me I’ll need to give the house a good clean before Mr Haddock arrives tonight. I hope he’s nice. Then my mind wanders back to the man in the hat again. I don’t know why, but I have one of my strange premonitions that he is going to become an important person in my life. The next time I see him I’ll ask if he wants to have a cup of coffee. I hope he joins our group again.

Mari and I step off the train. I pick up Ruskin, zap my Oyster card against the barrier and push us both through. ‘What’s your dog called?’ I had asked him, when he didn’t volunteer the name. Though he was friendly, there was something reserved in his manner too, which I found attractive.

‘Trouble,’ he’d said in that quietly spoken voice.

8

Roy is twenty minutes late. I mustn’t drink any more, I say as I pour myself another glass of wine. I scan the sitting room, shoving Ruskin’s dog comb and chewed-up toy rabbit into one of the cupboards. I hang up my summer coat, kicking the dog lead and bootjack out of the way. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing my dark denim jeans with a black top and a leopard-print scarf holds back my hair.

I jolt when there is a knock at the door. Keep calm. Heart thumping, I put on my best smile.

I open the front door. ‘Oh, Gloria.’

She skirts the sitting room, whispering, ‘He’s not here is he?’

‘No!’

‘Why don’t I hide in the loo?’

I press a hand against her back and direct her out of the door.

‘We need a code,’ she says halfway across the road. ‘If Mr Fish is weird open and close your shutters a few times.’

As I wait another ten minutes, the phone rings. It’s Jonnie, this guy I met at my old job, asking if I want to meet up tonight. ‘I can’t,’ I tell him, but suggest meeting up next week. ‘Sure,’ he says enthusiastically. I know he has a soft spot for me, I only wish I felt the same.

Soon my phone becomes a hotline. Dad calls, then Anna, asking if I want to grab a pizza and go to the movies.

‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I’m about to meet Roy Haddock, my Monday to Friday man.’

‘Roy Haddock,’ she says thoughtfully. I can hear laughter in her voice.

‘You never know Gilly, maybe Mr Roy Haddock is the man of your dreams,’ she suggests.

‘Oh, Anna!’ I protest, but then think again . . .

‘We met on the Monday to Friday site,’ I say during the wedding speeches, clutching the microphone proudly.

I am standing next to Roy, who looks as handsome as James Bond. The marquee is set in the grounds of an English manor house, the ceiling lined with stars, the tables decorated with candles. I am wearing a simple but elegant ivory dress. ‘After Edward,’ I begin, ‘I was convinced I’d never meet that special person again . . . not until Roy came along.’

Sighs. Admiration. Wonderment.

‘If I’m completely honest,’ I say, placing a hand on my heart. ‘I was slightly put off by his name . . .’

Roy nudges me playfully.

‘And his lateness.’

Friends and family laugh and clap as they cheer me on.

‘But when I opened the door . . .’

‘Hello!’ A tall man stands by his metallic bicycle sporting a purple crash helmet and shorts that show off his muscled legs. He has hair the colour of a carrot. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says.

Wipe that disappointed look off your face and welcome him in, Gilly.

‘All right if I leave the bike in the garden?’

‘Sure,’ I shrill.

‘Good stuff.’ He pushes it through the sitting room and Ruskin barks at this rude invasion. ‘Hey, buster,’ he says. ‘What’s this little cheeky chap called?’

Frantically I look up to Gloria’s bedroom window but she’s not there. Roy parks his bike against the crumbling wall in my garden.

‘Bikes are a nightmare ’cos you can’t leave them outside any more. No place is safe.’

‘Don’t you have a lock?’ I suggest, thinking there was a perfectly good lamp post that he could have tied the bike up to.

‘Yeah, but thieves just cut through the chains now, don’t they.’ At this point I panic about how long Roy is planning to stay. It would be very unlucky indeed if during the brief viewing of No. 21 a thief were lurking, ready to saw through his bicycle chain. Roy returns to the kitchen and picks up an apple from my wire fruit basket. He polishes it against his sweaty T-shirt as though it were a cricket ball.

I offer him a drink. He asks for a glass of water.

‘Cheers. Nice place,’ he remarks with a few nods. ‘You lived here long then?’

‘Four years, on and off.’

‘Why do you want a lodger?’ He winks at me.

I need to pay my council tax. ‘I just thought it’d be a nice change,’ I say brightly.

His T-shirt reveals him to be a Manchester United fan, and for a terrifying moment I imagine him switching channels from
How to Look Good Naked
to
Match of the Day
.

‘Shall I show you round?’

‘Great.’ He leaps out of his seat. ‘Show me the way.’ When I walk on ahead of him I have this sneaking suspicion that he could be checking out my arse.

‘It won’t take long,’ I joke. ‘So, as you can see, this is the sitting room.’

‘Nice,’ he acknowledges.

Ruskin follows us as I show Roy the small loo on the ground floor followed by the bathroom on the upstairs landing. I stop dead. My washing is still hanging on the drying rail over the bath, rows of knickers on display. ‘Sorry.’ I blush. ‘On we go,’ I say, scuttling out of the room.

‘Don’t worry,’ he winks. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve seen a pair of smalls.’

Oh God. ‘What do you do, Roy?’

‘I’m a teacher, maths and science. For my sins,’ he adds.

Immediate alarm bells ring. Their hours aren’t long enough. I don’t want someone pitching up at five in the afternoon. Maybe all I want each month is a cheque through the front door – but no Roy attached to the payment.

‘I got posted to this school in Ealing,’ he continues, ‘but my missus wasn’t keen on moving and it’s too far to commute from Devon.’

‘Oh, I see.’ But all I can see is Roy sitting on my sofa marking textbooks.

I take him up upstairs into the spare bedroom. It’s a small room with a painting of a Spanish olive grove on the wall, shutters and a double bed with a spotty blue duvet cover.

He sits down on the bed. ‘Comfy.’ He smiles suggestively. I look away.

What am I going to do? I’m not going to show him my bedroom. He’s a bit of a creep, isn’t he? How can I say no? I might have to tell him that on the odd occasion he will have to share the bed with my father, and that my father suffers from bowel problems. Incontinence. My father will need the side closest to the bathroom. That ought to do it.

He jumps up, rubs his hands eagerly. ‘So how’s about tomorrow then?’

‘Tomorrow!’ I shriek.

‘Yep. Whenever suits the lady of the house.’

‘Oh, Roy, I’m not sure. You see the thing is . . .’

‘I’m a really easy person to live with,’ he interrupts, ‘you’d hardly know I was here. All I want to do when I get back from work is put my trackie bums on and chill out, you know what it’s like,’ he says as he winks at me again. One wink breeds another. It’s a disease.

At this critical emergency point my mobile vibrates in my pocket, alerting me that I have a new text message. I ask him if he’ll excuse me for just one minute, quickly dashing out of the bedroom and downstairs. I have a message from Anna. ‘How’s Mr MTFM going? X’ Will call her later. Right now I have to sort this out, I think, hearing Roy coming down the stairs.

‘Come over NOW,’ I text Gloria. ‘Pretend u r interested in No. 21’. SEND.

Roy rejoins me and settles himself comfortably on my sofa when someone knocks at the door.

‘Sorry, Roy, I was going to say, I have this other person interested in the room too, so . . .’

‘Oh.’ He springs up and chucks the magazine onto the floor. ‘Sure. I’ll get my bike.’

I feel guilty as I watch him wheel his chariot across my carpet but then again, could
you
live with someone who said trackie bums? No, I didn’t think so. Ruskin doesn’t want to either.

I open the front door and Gloria bursts in, dressed in her shapeless T-shirt, black leggings, flip-flops and silver hair tied back in an Alice band. She couldn’t look less like a Monday to Fridayer if she tried.

I shake her hand. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ I say, mouthing, ‘thank you.’

‘What a charming house,’ she enthuses, bustling in. ‘I’ll take it!’

Roy pushes his bike past us. ‘Can you let me know as soon as you can?’ he asks, giving Gloria a curt nod on his way out.

‘Of course. Thanks so much for coming over.’

‘No problem.’ He mounts his bike and pedals off into the hinterlands of Hammersmith.

I turn to Gloria, relieved.

‘Choosing a lodger and living with someone is like a marriage,’ she insists. ‘You rarely marry the first man you go on a date with, do you?’

Good point.

‘Don’t worry, Gilly. Only twelve more Roys to go.’

And on that note, we polish off the rest of the bottle of wine, order some Thai and watch
How to Look Good Naked
.