Free Lovestruck by Julia Llewellyn Page A

girlfriend. The door of our hotel room had been kicked in and wouldn’t lock. All that was on offer in the hotel restaurant was salami with noodles. Horrible.
    What do you avoid on holiday?
    I don’t really avoid anything. I take the holiday as it comes. Years ago I was in Barcelona, watching a show with my then girlfriend and this guy called me up on stage and said, ‘Walk across the stage with a ten-cent piece between your butt cheeks and then drop it in that glass over there.’ The reward was a free cab back to the hotel. I’ll never forget my girlfriend’s horrified expression when I dropped my trousers. We got the free cab ride, though.
    What do you hate about holidays?
    I’m always working, so when I do get a holiday I surrender to it. However, after two weeks I’m ready to get back to the coalface
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6
    Sandrine returned to Hebden after two blissful days of wandering round the Village together and long laughter-filled dinners. The next morning, Rosie was reimmersed in her new life: the cleaner, who used to work for Samantha, was starting.
    ‘She’s only nineteen, but an absolute treasure,’ Samantha had said during their cup of tea after their offer had been accepted. ‘She lives just down the road, so the job’s convenient for her.’ But for the past three weeks, the treasure had been on holiday, with an agreement – conducted over text – to start the day after her return.
    Rosie imagined a rude girl from the estate, headphones round her neck, orange tan, probably the daughter of a single mother. She’d treat her very kindly, mentor her, encourage her to return to education.
    Nanna had done a lot of cleaning over the years and Rosie had heard so many stories about bad clients. There were the ones who never had any cash on them and said they’d pay her next week. The nutters who wouldn’t let her use ‘unnatural’ cleaning products, insisting she scrubbed the toilet with bicarbonate of soda and an old toothbrush. The ones who’d expected her to
take care of children at the same time as de-linescaling the shower. There was one woman who used to hold out a bin bag to her without meeting her eye. There was another whose Filofax Nanna had once sneaked through to see if she was listed under ‘M’ for Marjorie or ‘P’ for Prest. She was under ‘C’ for Cleaner.
    On her return from nursery Rosie dashed around, tidying up and wiping surfaces. She’d always been super-tidy herself, the result of living in that tiny flat with no room for mess, but Jake was the opposite – he was a hoarder, who kept everything in old shoeboxes that had all been faithfully removed from Neasden and transplanted here. There were old school play programmes, ticket stubs, birthday cards. Rosie had tried to chuck some out during the move but he kept rescuing old film magazines from the recycling, asking what she thought she was doing and didn’t she understand the sentimental value? She’d have another crack at it soon.
    The doorbell rang. Rosie ran to answer it. ‘Dizzy, hello,’ she said, smiling. Then she stopped short.
    Dizzy was indeed about nineteen years old. She was also six foot tall with shiny bobbed auburn hair that spoke of a lifetime of nutritious meals and bi-annual trips to Verbier. She had a make-up free face and was dressed in a Barbour, jeans, a yellow gilet and riding boots.
    ‘Hello,’ she said in pure Cheltenham Ladies College tones, holding out a gracious hand. ‘Dizzy. You must be Rosie. So pleased to meet you.’
    ‘Er, likewise. Come in.’
    Dizzy marched in, pulled off her Barbour and looked around her. ‘Where’s the coat rack gawn? Oh, God, of course, Samantha’s taken it?’ She pulled off her riding boots and picked up a piece of Lego from the floor. ‘I
love
Lego.’
    ‘I’m getting around to furnishing the house properly,’ Rosie said. ‘We were in quite a small flat before; it’s a bit of a leap.’
    ‘Yes, it must have been.’ Dizzy looked at her with pity. ‘Well,