‘Miss Majestic Cleaning! Open this door!’ Sophia screamed.
Hayley shoved the newspaper back into the rack. ‘Put it in the gap between the bookshelves and the fire; it will fit well there.’
She waited until Angel had set the magazine holder down before shifting the nest of tables away from the door.
‘Ready, Charlotte?’ she asked her daughter.
Angel nodded. ‘Ready, Agatha.’
Hayley whisked open the door, preparing for the housekeeper to fall into the room with urgency, only to see her across the hallway with Cynthia. Hayley watched the housekeeper buzzing around the homeowner like an anxious bee whose hive had been invaded. Cynthia slipped off her black, woollen coat and hung it on the stand.
‘I want to say, Mrs Cynthia, that I had no idea what they were doing and it was not at all like usual,’ Sophia spoke as Cynthia strode towards the lounge.
‘I hope your meeting went well,’ Angel said, stepping into the hallway and closing up the door again as Cynthia approached the doorjamb.
‘Very well thank you.’ She smiled at Angel. ‘So what have you been doing that’s got my housekeeper so flustered?’
‘We’ve gone through the house from top to bottom, primping and preening and—’ Hayley started.
‘Close your eyes,’ Angel whispered, looking directly at the older woman.
Hayley held her breath. The tone coating the simple request was heavy with meaning. Angel had enjoyed transforming this room today. It meant something to her. Family. Warmth. The heart of the home. Hayley knew she had done her best to be Angel’s family, but she also knew there had always been something missing. A father-shaped hole. She was going to make sure she found the father; the fitting into it was going to be up to him.
Without answering, Cynthia simply shut her eyes and let Angel take her hand. Hayley swallowed and hoped this was going to go down well or the hours they had spent here might not be profitable. There was a chance it could get her sacked. Within twenty-four hours.
Angel swung the door open, leading Cynthia into the lounge.Sophia let out a blood-curdling scream and Cynthia instinctively opened her eyes before she had travelled more than half a dozen steps.
‘Why do you do this? You have no right to do this! I am going to call Ms Rogers-Smythe right away,’ Sophia exclaimed, her accent strengthening as her voice quickened.
What had they done? The housekeeper was behaving like they had dressed the room with sacrificed animals. It was only a few decorations and Hayley had called a halt to Angel using the snow spray.
Hayley looked at Cynthia. She was trembling, a hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes glistening with tears. This wasn’t the reaction she had hoped for. This was a disaster. She looked to Angel. Her mouth was hanging open as she stared at Cynthia.
‘We can fix this,’ Hayley said, stepping further into the room. ‘I will fix this straight away and I won’t leave until it’s back to the way it was. No, scratch that, until it’s better than the way it was.’ She headed for the mantelpiece.
‘No,’ Cynthia said, her voice gravelly with emotion.
Hayley stopped moving, stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do next. A simple cleaning job in a house that wasn’t even dirty and she couldn’t even get that right. She was a big, fat failure.
‘Just go,’ Cynthia said, the tears finally escaping.
Hayley motioned to Angel to come towards her but the girl was looking like she’d been petrified. Her eyes were like round saucers, her skin pale, her mouth still agape. Hayley leant forward and grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her towards the door.
‘Can I just say—?’ Hayley started. She needed to say something. Apologise.
‘No,’ Cynthia responded. ‘You may not.’
Hayley swallowed. That was clear enough. Sophia was lookingat them both as if they were devil worshippers who had decked the room with essence of voodoo. She didn’t dare say another thing.
She shunted a dazed Angel towards the front door. ‘Come on, this is not a tragedy, Angel. It’s just something that didn’t quite work out. A tragedy is the war in Syria or a tsunami. This is just a blip. And it isn’t our fault.’
Angel shook her head. ‘No, it isn’tourfault.’ She sniffed. ‘It’s all mine.’
25
DEAN WALKER’S APARTMENT, DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN
‘Ta da! Here it is!’
