‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’ll look forward to the party.’
After Sophia left, I sat down in my immaculate room and pulled out my phone and plunged straight into Mrs Clean’s Instagram account. How I longed to have a kitchen like hers, with so much symmetry and surfaces that gleamed. I knew that my life could never again be filled with the joyous rapture of children’s laughter, so I would need to fill the void somehow. Here, in this shared accommodation, would be a good place to practise. I had the summerhouse I could work on, and the kitchen was the hub of the house; I could make that into something using all these ideas that Mrs Clean was handing out for free.
I noticed Mrs Clean had posted a new photo of the inside of her fridge. The image showed clear glass containers with lids, labelled with whatever was inside. She had boxed up ingredients for a fish pie: potatoes mashed in one container, the raw fish in another and the sauce in another. We had a large enough fridge, where we each commandeered a shelf, so I imagined I would be able to replicate this system pretty easily. She had added a name of the website so I could navigate my way straight to the place that sold the containers. I bought six. I wouldn’t be able to plan for the whole week with only one shelf to myself, but I could organise a couple of days in advance.
The very thought brought a bubble of excitement to my gut, and I was thankful when it wasn’t replaced with the fear that had shrouded my body for so many years now. This was what I needed all along: a bigger focus, an actual purpose. I could hear voices from my past reminding me I was allowed to feel joy in certain things. I didn’t need to remain a prisoner in my mind forever.
I found myself back on the Instagram home page and along the top was a small round circle with Mrs Clean’s profile picture on it. I remembered these were the stories that Mini was telling me about, so I clicked on one and found myself watching a fifteen-second video of Mrs Clean mopping her floor. There was an ad hashtag and something which read, Swipe up to buy. When the video had ended, I went back and watched it again. The camera was obviously on some sort of tripod as it captured the whole of the kitchen and Mrs Clean mopping. She had her back to the camera. There was a song accompanying the video: Dolly Parton’s ‘9 to 5’. Mrs Clean was swaying to the beat as she mopped. It was fun and I found myself smiling as I watched. So far, I had not seen any images of her face, although I knew she used a filter occasionally to hide her identity. She had been crafty and arty with her shots. An arm holding a spray gun, a leg up on a footstool. In this video, she had on a pink bandana, which covered most of her hair except for a swish of blonde which crept through the bottom. She was wearing pink Marigolds, black leggings and blue slippers, and a pink apron was tied around her waist. And having looked through most of her Instagram posts by now, I was beginning to realise this woman wished to keep her face away from the camera and that air of anonymity made her even more appealing to me.
I went downstairs and thought about preparing my dinner. The kitchen was empty. I looked around and saw the potential again, how this kitchen had such a similar layout to Mrs Clean’s kitchen and how I would like to replicate the exact same fittings. If the house were mine, of course. But for now, I was sure I could find great comfort in testing out a few of Mrs Clean’s ideas. I walked to the fridge and opened it. It really was a mess and having seen the cleanliness of Mrs Clean’s fridge, I felt an overwhelming urge to get stuck in right away. I pulled out a tray of half-eaten lasagne with the foil all scrunched up. I placed it on the counter and as I turned back to the fridge, I physically jumped. The fridge door had closed and in its place was Steve.
He looked at me and blinked.
‘Jeez, Steve,’ I said and opened the fridge again. He turned and walked around the door, so he was half behind me, half to my other side.
‘You’re making dinner?’ he asked tediously.
I continued to remove items from the fridge and lay them on the side.
‘I was, but now I’m cleaning.’ I spoke into the fridge.
‘Good. Therapeutic,’ he said, extenuating the word.
Karen walked in, sneezing into a tissue. She paused by the fridge.
‘Hey, babe,’ she said to Steve and I was reminded that I hadn’t had a word with her yet about her boyfriend letting himself in without anyone’s consent.
‘You ready?’
‘Sure am,’ he said.
‘Have fun,’ Karen said with what could only have been sarcasm in her voice. I guessed if I was a young girl sharing digs in my early twenties, I would have been offended. But Karen didn’t know the joy that could be gained from a clean and organised fridge space.
Karen walked out of the door, but Steve stood still for a second longer. ‘Bye, Regi.’ He sounded very restrained. I looked over my shoulder at him as I crouched back down in the fridge. He was looking directly at me, as though he might say something more. And even though his expression was neutral, I felt all the joy within me wash away. It felt difficult to swallow and there was a pain in my chest. I turned my attention back to the fridge as a ripple of uncertainty flared up within me, a flash of a memory, a face from the past and the
