Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

All Washed Up

"What did you do before you came to Fleckney?"

Anya didn't stop her washing up and answered quietly, "I worked in a deli."

He was silent behind her, and she fought the urge to look at him over her shoulder. She lost. He was studying her, the spoon in his hand. He didn't seem to have touched his food.

"You should eat," she muttered and went back to scouring one of his plates with something revolting fossilised on it.

"Somehow it doesn't seem to suit you," he said.

"I needed to provide for my daughter," she answered, feeling a bit irritated and suppressing the feeling. There was no point in being defensive. "And it was an honest job, until–"

She bit her tongue, but of course it was too late.

"Until what?" he asked.

"Until the son of the owner took a fancy to me." Her voice was bitter.

"Was he that bad?" the man asked nonchalantly.

"He was married and already shagging one of the girls who worked in the deli." Anya jerked her shoulder, the familiar disgusted shudder running through her body. "And I considered it, don't get me wrong. Beggars can't be choosers. But I just couldn't bring myself to–" She bit her bottom lip and doubled her efforts on a pot that had some sort of manky goo burnt into its bottom.

His spoon clanked on the side of his mug. She assumed he started eating. After a few minutes her body was moving on autopilot. At this stage any sort of cleaning didn't require any decision-making. The tools were already familiar. A bit of washing up liquid went a long way, especially with addition of baking soda, which was cheap and versatile. And since she didn't shy away from bleach, unlike most people these days, and her arms were no strangers to many hours of manual work, soon even the most stubborn stains were coming off.

"Is there a washing machine?" she asked and had to turn to him again because he wasn't answering.

"No," he grumbled and pushed the mug away from him. She could see it was half-full. "You'll have to scrub my soiled sheets by hand. Are you still willing to do it?" His lips twisted venomously.

She nodded and dried her hands with half a piece of kitchen roll. If one folded it in half after it, and patted their hands again, one could get away with using just that much.

She stretched her hand to his mug, and he winced away and pressed his forearm over his nose.

"It stinks of bleach," he rasps. "Don't touch me with– And use something else next time." He jerkily shook his head, and she thought that he muttered a swearing into the dirty sleeve of his jumper. "Don't they have some of that eco friendly shite that smells like oranges or something?"

Anya pressed her head down into her shoulders. Of course, she'd prefer to use some 'eco friendly shite.' On one of her cleaning jobs she had once been called into a flat where the permanent maid had been ill, and Anya had gotten a chance to use the owner's sprays and liquids. They had been pink or pleasantly yellow, and they smelled like fruit and flowers. And they'd cleaned just as well! She was embarrassed to recall how she'd gotten all fired up about those products - until she'd checked the prices in the shop. Forget it, Anya. Yuzu and vanilla scented all-purpose cleaners just aren't for the likes of you.

"I apologise," she said and took a step back from him.

She could feel him scrutinise her.

"And throw out all the food that you've brought here. It probably reeks of bleach too," he ordered.

Anya jolted. "Can I take it–"

"No!" he barked, interrupting her. "It was for me, and I decide what to do with it. Throw it to the bin!"