Ladies Who Launch (4 page)

Still Della tried to reason with him. ‘Jimmy …’

‘You shouldn’t have let that Ivanka go home.’ He wagged his finger at her, intimating that this situation was of her own doing. He always referred to the office junior as
that Ivanka
as if she still wasn’t part of the Diamond Shine crew despite working there for six months.

‘I couldn’t exactly chain her to the desk, could I?’ replied Della. ‘Besides which, she wouldn’t have been much good in her state.’

‘I’ve worked through worse.’

‘Well good for you, but the lass wasn’t putting it on. Any idiot could have seen that. Bed was the best place for her.’

‘Aye, I suppose you’re right. She should spend the day in bed.’ He grinned. ‘Send your old inferior boss a present instead with apologies for your absence.’

‘It might not arrive in time.’

‘Send him a bottle of champagne. On me. Overnight delivery.’

If Della’s eyes had opened any further they would have burst out of their orbits and dropped onto the desk. Jimmy Diamond was as tight as a duck’s stitched-up arse. He would sooner
have cut his own balls off than paid next day delivery on anything, never mind champagne for a bloke he didn’t even know. He must be desperate for her to cover the office if he was offering
to go to those lengths.

‘I can tell what you’re thinking,’ said Jimmy, guessing correctly. ‘I’m not exactly famous for charging champagne to the company account for people I don’t
know, but I
really
need you here, we’re too busy for you to be off at the moment. Come on, Dells, don’t be mad with me.’

He gave her his best round puppy-dog eyes.

‘Okay, Della, what do I have to do for us not to fall out about this? Do you want me to beg? Look, I’m begging,’ and Jimmy got down on his knees and clenched his hands together
as if praying to her.

‘Oh get up, you fool,’ said Della, trying her best to remain annoyed.

‘I love you, Della. You know I do.’

Oh, if only
, thought Della.

‘And you love me, which is why you’re going to send that bloke some champagne instead of going to his crap party.’

He was right.

‘Please please please, Dells. Be my friend and tell me that you agree with me,’ Jimmy insisted until her face broke into a resigned smile and she knew that he had won her over.
Again. He always could because with the tiniest bit of flirting, a little bodily contact, the mere hint of appeal in his voice, she was putty in his hands and had been for fifteen years.

‘Don’t go mad though. No frigging Dom Perignon. Bubbles is bubbles.’

That sounded more like him. He hasn’t gone totally mad after all, thought Della.

‘Oh, and order some chocs for the missus will you, love. Top notch, big box.’

Della sighed. ‘Okay. If I must.’

She had really wanted to go to Whitby, but Jimmy needed her. And Jimmy was the number one man in her life, as she was his number one woman. Despite what Connie, his Lady Muck of a wife, might
have thought.

In one single hour, Cheryl Parker’s whole existence had tipped upside down and her insides had been scooped out. At least that’s what it felt like as she stood in
her tiny kitchen, hand shaking as she gripped the page of paper which had ended her life as she knew it.

She wished life were like TV. She wished she could press the rewind button back to just before she had opened the letter. She wished she had put it on one side until she returned from work so
that Gary could have found it first and had time to think up an excuse which she might have swallowed and life would have carried on as normal. But she
had
opened it and what she had found
could not be unread. An hour ago she had been making breakfast toast and tea for two whilst Gary was taking a shower and it was just a normal Thursday morning; two more days at work to get out of
the way and then the familiar joy of the weekend to look forward to: fish and chips from Cod’s Gift with Gary for Saturday lunch as usual, a bottle of wine and some beers in front of
Ant
and Dec
on the TV. Now she was alone – single – and couldn’t think past the moment. And her heart had been ripped out and stamped all over.

The postman hardly ever came first thing in the morning, but today he had. And he had delivered three envelopes: one containing a catalogue full of rubbishy gadgets, a dental reminder for Cheryl
and
that
envelope from the building society. A quarterly statement. And Cheryl had opened it and found that the account which should have had four thousand seven hundred and twenty pounds
in it, had a nil balance.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, unable to move, listening to Gary mooching about upstairs. She imagined him towel-drying his thick light-brown hair, spraying a cloud of Lynx over
himself, getting dressed, blissfully unaware of what trauma his long-term girlfriend was going through. Cheryl heard his feet on the stairs, watched the door into the kitchen open. She saw his eyes
lock on to the paper she was holding, then flick up to her face and from the expression she was wearing, he knew instantly what she had discovered.

The words came out in a croak. ‘Where’s it gone, Gary? Where’s the money?’ It was a rhetorical question because she knew. She would have bet her life savings –
oh, the irony
– that the money was in the till of William Hill.

Gary’s eyes began to flicker, which they did when he was anxious. She knew that his brain would be scrabbling around for something viable to tell her.

‘You won’t believe me …’ he began eventually. No, she wouldn’t. Because she had wanted to believe him every single time and every single time he had let her
down.

‘Try me,’ she said. Deep down she wished he would say those words which would make it all right. But also, deeper down, she knew he wouldn’t.

‘You weren’t supposed to know. I was hoping to have it back in the account before you noticed,’ he said. His hands were in his hair. ‘Oh God, Chez, I am so sorry. I
thought I could do it. One last time. For us. For the ba—’

‘No!’ The loudness in her own voice surprised her. ‘Don’t you dare say it. Don’t you DARE.’

He had used those same words eighteen months ago. He had taken the money she had scrimped and squirrelled away for IVF treatment in the hope of doubling it, trebling it even, he said. He’d
been given a tip – a sure thing from someone in the know. She would never forget the name of the horse as long as she lived –
Babyface
. He had put every penny on its nose and
it had come in second. And he had cried and she had comforted him and told him that she forgave him but this was the last chance – no more gambling. And he had given her his word that he
would never bet on another horse or dog ever. And she had started saving all over again and had been stupid enough to give him the benefit of the doubt and keep their joint account going as a sign
of her trust in his ability to change.

But he would never change, she knew that now. They’d reached the end of the road. Actually they’d done that eighteen months ago and now they were well off the beaten track, stumbling
over increasingly rough terrain until they had arrived at this point and could go no further. For ten years she had listened to his Del-boy Trotter promises that ‘this time next year they
would be millionaires’ and yet they were still living in the same tiny two-up, two-down rented house with no garden and damp patches on the walls because Gary had been convinced he could win
his fortune. For ten years she had been trapped in a vicious circle of her saving a bit of money in a teapot, him gambling his wage away, her having to borrow back from the teapot, him promising to
alter his ways and doing it for a couple of months, him gambling his wage away … This time her heart would not be penetrated by the sight of the tears slipping down his face.

When she looked back later, she couldn’t remember in detail what words had been said that day. She told him it was over and he knew somehow that she meant it this time. He asked her if he
should leave and she said yes. He packed a few things in a suitcase and wiped his eyes, telling her that he was sorry and he loved her and he’d put the money back whatever happened. He
promised. She hadn’t believed him. She hadn’t attached any faith to his words, she’d seen them for the bullshit they were. Then he had walked out with his head bent low to the
same battered car they’d had for the past eight years. And it hadn’t been new when they’d bought it.

Cheryl listened to the car starting, heard the engine chugging: the hole in the exhaust was getting worse. Her ear followed the rattle until it was no longer discernible and she hiccupped a
single sob, as she felt whatever it was that had held them together finally stretch to its limit and then snap.

Don’t you dare,
she said to herself.
Don’t you dare cry one more tear over that man. Haven’t you shed enough?

Enough to fill five mop buckets over the years. And she had enough tears inside her now to fill another. She daren’t let a single one slip out because it would be quickly joined by
thousands more. Something inside her groaned, probably her stomach, but it sounded as if her heart had cracked. And she felt as if it had, too.

She threw the building society statement down on the work surface and picked up her bag full of cleaning stuff. She was doing her monthly blitz on Mr Ackworth’s house this morning, which
she hated because he barked orders at her as if she were a dog, then a four-hander at her favourite client’s with lazy Ruth Fallis, then a one-off clean in an office. It was going to be a
long, hard day.

She needed to get to work, keep busy and not think about anything but the jobs in hand.
If only life could be spruced up and made perfect with a J-cloth and a spray of Mr Sheen
, she
thought as she realised that if today wasn’t bad enough already, she’d have to get the bus to work from now on.

‘… And I don’t touch bleach; brings me out in blisters, even through gloves. I don’t climb ladders to do windows and I don’t scrub floors by
hand. It’s mop, hoover or nowt. And I can’t bend to do skirting boards because I’ve got a problem with a disc. And I’ve got a bad knee so I don’t do kneeling
either.’ Lesley Clamp dictated the last of her non-negotiable working terms and sat back in the chair.

Della clung on to her patience as well as a strained rictus smile after hearing the long list of ‘won’t dos’. This was all she needed today. How Lesley Clamp had managed to
clock up twenty years as a self-professed highly praised cleaner when she was either allergic to or refused to touch most of the contents of a house was beyond her. The good news was that Lesley
could work quite happily with lemon juice, vinegar, salt and newspaper. Della was tempted to tell her that she’d be better off getting a job in a chip shop, then. Della had a thick rejection
file in her drawer of people that she wouldn’t employ in a million years. Lesley Clamp’s name would be joining it shortly.

‘If we take you on, we will supply you with your cleaning equipment,’ began Della. Not that Lesley Clamp would need to know that, because Diamond Shine would not be taking her on.
The woman smelt of trouble. She was the type who’d complain about everyone and everything and Jimmy wouldn’t fork out for fripperies like non-latex specialist gloves and branded goods
like Cillit Bang. Although Des’s Discount Warehouse did an import version called ‘Fillit Bong,’ which once burst into flame and burnt off Ruth Fallis’s eyebrow when she
squirted it on a work surface whilst smoking a fag.

‘We pay the minimum wage per hour …’

‘Is that all?’ humphed Lesley. ‘You must be creaming the profits, then?’

Della so wanted this miserable sow out of her office. She should be at a jolly gathering in Whitby, not staring at the hairy mole on Lesley Clamp’s sneering top lip.

‘We supply a guaranteed wage, insurance, cleaning supplies and back-up service when clients are difficult. Those are the things you get in return for paying administration costs, Mrs
Clamp.’

Lesley huffed again. ‘I had a pound an hour above minimum wage at Dreamclean.’

And Dreamclean were unorganised and chucked money away and went down the pan, which is why you’re here asking me for a job
, thought Della to herself.
And no way did they offer
a pound above minimum wage either, but nice try, Lesley
. No, she decided. Desperate as they were for more cleaners, there was no way she could employ this awful woman.

‘I’m afraid that’s the standard rate for everyone. I’m so sorry that we aren’t suitable for your requireme—’

‘I didn’t say that,’ replied Lesley with an impatient snap in her voice. ‘It’s just less than I’m used to.’

Della had had enough for this afternoon. She’d ordered chocolates for Jimmy’s fat wife and had interviewed three badly needed potential cleaners so far today and not one was up to
the standard she expected. Her reject file was as full as her potential file was empty. She stood up to indicate this meeting was at a close.

‘I’ll be contacting the successful applicants by the end of next week,’ she said. ‘I have your number, Mrs Clamp, and I’ll be in touch.’ God help Mr
Clamp.

Lesley Clamp rose to her fat little feet. She looked so much older than the forty-five years she purported to be in her Miss Marple shoes and her thick tweed coat straining across her swollen
bosom and stomach.

‘Oh and I can’t do Wednesdays or after three on Fridays,’ she said at the door, turning to deliver a parting shot.

Della dropped onto the chair and blew out two relieved cheekfuls of air. She should have known that the chances were anyone with ‘Clamp’ as a surname would be a no-go, but she
didn’t think it fair to tar everyone with the same brush, since Josie Clamp had been one of their star workers until her death two years ago. The Clamps were one of the town’s most
notorious families, along with the Crookes, the Bellfields and the O’Gowans; but the Clamps were by far the biggest. For decades past, there hadn’t been a month when the Clamp name
wasn’t mentioned in either the
Barnsley
Chronicle
or the
Daily Trumpet
for some misdemeanour or other, from the old days of that notorious old confidence trickster
‘Velvet’ Vernon Clamp, right down to the present generation. Only last week, one of the younger lot – the inaptly named ‘Chiffon’ Clamp, had been given two hundred
hours community service for shoplifting booze from Morrisons. And the papers had reported – God forbid – her cousin Mandy’s marriage to one of the Crooke boys. They’d
already started to push out a brood of hybrid villains into the world with twins Sinitta-Paris and Brooklyn-Jaiden