As I grew older, things changed. I got a Saturday job in a hardware store and I started to organise things in threes. I would also do my best to ensure every customer bought a number of items that was divisible by three. That is where my obsession with numbers divisible by three started. I told myself it would make me seem more normal. That I can’t make everything three so I should instead focus on the three times table.That was good enough to keep at bay all the worst-case scenarios that filled my mind without invitation.
If I didn’t click the pen on, off and on again before I used it, I wouldn’t pass the exam I was sitting. If I didn’t pat Josh three times on the shoulder when we said goodbye after school, something bad would happen to him. If I didn’t check all three mirrors every time I did a manoeuvre in my driving lessons, I wouldn’t pass my test.
The cleaning wasn’t a problem until the counting was a problem. My father was a clean man, and he made a big deal of us both tidying and cleaning the house every Sunday morning, before I could then go to rugby training. He did the kitchen and living room. I did the bathroom and stripped both our beds. After training, I made the beds again while Dad finished the laundry. I liked the routine and the results. And I always slept really well on Sunday nights.
After my dad died, it got worse. I was convinced he died because I had left him. If I hadn’t gone to university, he would still be alive. If I’d been at home, I would have found him and I could have taken him to the hospital in time. If I’d still been home in our same routine, he would still be alive.
By then, I was already doing things in threes when it came to cleaning. Three wipes of the cloth to clean a surface, three sprays of antibacterial spray, three folds in a cloth I used to clean the kitchen table. But I wasn’tobsessedwith cleaning. I definitely was cleaner than the average university student but I wasn’t as invested, as involved with cleaning as I was until after my dad died.
That was an immediate change. The day he died, while I waited for my train to take me home, I cleaned my room in halls from top to bottom. Counting up to three with each effort so that whenever I stopped, it was a number divisible by three. When I still had an hour to kill, I moved to the communal bathroom and kitchen. That was the first time I mopped a floor three consecutive times. I’ve never mopped a floor just once since that day.
Now when I clean in threes, I do it for many different reasons. Lots of catastrophes run through my mind as I clean – my business will fail, something will happen to Radia, I imagine fires and explosions and other disasters – but the most pressing one is that I am the third part of my triangle with my parents. If I don’t do things in threes, then I will be the third. I will complete the triangle. Or rather, my death will.
I know it’s a problem. I know what it’s called. But I don’t want to name it. I don’t want a label. I live alone. I don’t have a partner. I don’t have many good friends and those I am still in contact with aren’t in London. I have it under control at work. It isn’t stopping me from living a full life.
But it is going to make me late for meeting Marcello if I’m not careful.
I rush to the bathroom with the bucket and pour the dirty water down the toilet. I then run back to the kitchen and tip toe my way to the sink. I fill the bucket with hot water and add in the detergent. The water splashes on the already wet floor but I don’t stop, I pick up the mop and get straight to work.
I’m thorough but I’m panicked with it. I know it’s not a perfect job and I tell myself that I can do it properly later tonight when I’m home again. I don’t have any other plans besides ironing my shirts for the working week. Not that I usually have plans on Sundays other than gym and exactly what I’m doing, cleaning my flat.
I glance at my wristwatch again, the scuffed face and faded silver catching my attention. Not for the first time I think about how I need to get it restored, give it a little TLC, but I don’t want to take it off my wrist. I haven’t been without this watch for over twenty-five years.
But now is not the time to worry about that. I have to empty this bucket, grab my phone, wallet and keys and get on my way. I do it all as quickly as I can, turning the lock in my door the three times it needs to be fully locked. It took me a while to find a lock that had to be turned threetimes but every time I turn the key and count to three in my head, I feel a little bit of peace settle over me. Or maybe I just feel the tension that’s normally there ease off a little, just for a second. It’s hard to tell what’s the reality.
I hurry down the corridor and take the stairs two at a time until I’m on the ground floor and finally pushing through my building’s front door. Just as I start to walk quickly towards Belsize Park Tube station, I pull my phone out of my jeans’ back pocket and shoot Marcello a quick message.
His reply is instant.
I smile at his message. I’m still smiling as I quickly check our previous messages for the exact address I’m going to and I memorise it by saying it to myself three times.
And then I put my phone away and with it any silly smiles I may have for Marcello.
*****
“Congratulations!” I pat Marcello on the back as he pushes the bike down the pavement.
“Huh?”
“On buying your first race bike! Possibly the first of many?”
“Ha, I doubt it. I’ll be lucky if this doesn’t break on my first ride.”
“Why would it break?”
“I’m clumsy,” he shrugs, “I don’t normally let myself have nice things.”
What he’s saying doesn’t surprise me. I’d watched how he was when we were shopping for gym gear for him. He couldn’t quite believe suchclothes existed, ones that were comfortable, stylish and functional. He’d been so surprised that I’d felt compelled to ask him if he was comfortable spending the money they cost, but he reassured me money wasn’t the problem. I believe Marcello has money; I just don’t believe he often invests it in himself. If there’s one thing he learns from our time training and sharing each other’s company, I hope it’s that he’s worth investing in; his money, his time, his effort and also, his love.
“You deserve nice things,” I say firmly.
“Hmm.
His eyes stay fixed ahead at the pavement we’re walking along. It’s now I realise that he’s been uncharacteristically quiet since we met up earlier. At first I thought it was because he was intimidated by the man selling him the race bike. His garage had been full of racing bikes, gym equipment and a not small display of medals, trophies and photos from successful triathlons over the years.
I’d watched Marcello’s eyes widen as he’d taken it all in and I’d felt the strong need to over-compensate for his one-word answers and lack of questions once a stilted conversation had ensued. It had evolved into me and this Mick fellow having more of a discussion about the bike he was trying to sell, than Marcello and him. But when I’d looked over at Marcello questioningly as Mick had gone inside to see if he could find the original warranty paperwork, I’d asked him if he was okay and he’d released a long breath and thanked me for asking all the right questions.
