Read by Louisa Gummer
War commenced on a Thursday – at least, in Zoe’s head it did. Thursday was Zita’s day to clean, and this particular Thursday, Zoe forgot. She left work a little early, troubled as she often was by baffling headaches and a sense of uneasiness. Treated herself to a trip to Liberty’s and a sleeveless black Prada dress that cost not far shy of a grand.
Zoe saw herself as having two sides: a light side and a dark side. From the light came her easy way with strangers, her covering up for the errors of underlings, a generous monthly donation to Amnesty (tax-deductible, of course). And from the dark, ambition, determination – a quest for status that demanded to be fulfilled. She feared her dark side, but she needed it. Light without dark, she believed, and she’d be an overweight boneless wreck marooned on a sofa in suburbia. Dark without light, and she wouldn’t see fifty. A little of both was best.
And something about the annoyance of Zita’s presence, and the way Zita barely graced her with a greeting, had triggered a primal response buried deep in Zoe’s dark side. She’d placed her bags on the floor, and poured herself some Evian. As Zita busied herself with ordering the cupboard where the cleaning materials were held, Zoe gave a swipe of her hand, and sent the tall tumbler cascading to the floor, where it smashed in a glitter of glass that reached right up to Zita’s sensible shoes.
Zoe realised then that she was jealous of Zita, though wasn't so far gone that she didn't feel a shudder of guilt at this. For though Zoe had things Zita would never have – wealth, degrees, social position – still Zita had things that Zoe craved. Simplicity, the meaninglessness of her work, a lack of worry about what it was all for. Of course, these were Zoe’s suppositions, as she thrilled at the glass turning its slow-motion descent and spilling drops of water in a perfect arc. Naturally, she’d never asked Zita about her life philosophy. Indeed, she still thought Zita was Polish, though Zita had told her she was from the outskirts of Riga.
After the glass broke, Zoe detected a brief tightening of the cheek muscles in Zita’s face that disappeared in an instant. “Ah no no, I will clean it,” said Zita, as if Zoe had shown any willingness to help out. Zita busied herself with a dustpan and brush, then a mop, then arranged the magazines on the coffee table, and finally headed out the door with three crisp tenners in her purse.
Something about the exchange left Zoe discontent. Her headache still pattered a vague tattoo on her temples. She felt, though if pressed would have struggled to present evidence, that there was something about Zita’s attitude in cleaning up the broken glass that was unsatisfactory. A sense of truculence, perhaps – that though Zita knew the destruction had been deliberate, she would not give Zoe the pleasure of getting a rise from her. And though Zoe still felt the excitement of the wanton destruction, Zita’s tiny, almost undetectable note of defiance itched Zoe like a scab. She briefly thought of firing Zita just for the hell of it, but that would have been too easy.
So instead, next Thursday morning, as she was preparing to leave her flat, she smoked a menthol Marlboro Light and ashed on the carpet. Then she broke an egg on the kitchen floor and smeared it around with her bare feet to a yellow, snotty mess. Finally, in a fit of malice so amusing that she laughed out loud, she took a shit in the toilet and left it floating there – a declaration of war as unambiguous as a televised ministerial address.
All through the workday – the demanding Continental clients, the emails laced with poison, the paranoid sense of constantly being observed – Zoe could not focus. She was juddery, on edge. She even cracked a joke at her brittle, blokey boss’s expense during a meeting, and the whole room gaped with hilarity and astonishment at her bravado. The guilt she felt at the childish antics of the morning only made her anticipation of the evening sweeter. At close of play, her boss held her up for twenty minutes in a pointless discussion about a project that would never happen; revenge, she supposed, for her earlier insubordination. But as soon as she could, she raced out the door and dashed for home.
And – triumph! Zita was there, her sturdy arms plugged into Marigolds and cleaning the countertops.
“Good evening, Zita! The place looks great!” Zoe beamed. Surely Zita suspected Zoe of deliberate vandalism? At least, if the glare of malevolence that she gave Zoe was any indication, she did. And when thirty pounds changed hands again, there was not the usual cursory thanks, just a rough snatching at the money with pruney hands.
As soon as Zita was gone Zoe cackled with delight and rolled around on the freshly made bed. This was the best fun she’d had in ages – and cheap at the price. Zoe wanted more.
Next Thursday, Zoe’s morning preparations involved upending a vase of yellow roses on the bedroom floor, leaving a bowl of porridge to crisp in the microwave for ten minutes and trod peanut butter into the carpet . Again, the flat was immaculate when she returned. She had more planned for the week after, but when she woke up her Blackberry reminded her that she had a breakfast meeting, so she only had time to empty the rubbish onto the kitchen floor before heading to work.
But this didn’t give her quite the same thrill, so that when the fourth Thursday rolled around, Zoe got up an hour early to prepare. She threw rolls of toilet paper about the flat with abandon. Put a pan of hot water on to boil and let it spill over the side and burn onto the hob. Emptied her wardrobe out on the bed. Left a film of shampoo on the bathroom floor. Smeared the kitchenette with hummus, clogged the sink with tea bags and slimy vegetables. Signed her name in squirty cream on the wall. By the time Zoe left the flat, an expensive new-build in a Marylebone mews, it looked like a Berlin squat. Zoe took last one look, eyes wide with pleasure, then closed the door.
When she returned, however, the flat was exactly as she had left it. There no sign that Zita had been there at all. Perhaps she’d taken it too far. And now her place was a disaster zone. She waited for ten minutes, reaching for another of the menthols, before she gave in and started to sort out the mess.
Half an hour into her cleaning, with the place only vaguely tidier, the door behind her clicked open, and Zita strode in. Zoe’s black Prada dress clung to her stocky silhouette. Ruddy, muscular arms bulged from the shoulders. A pair of glittering gold stilettos wrapped themselves around her feet, and a good half metre of varicose veins crept up her legs. Zita slammed the door behind her.
They were of an age, Zoe realised, though previously she would have not been able to place Zita between a shop-worn thirty and a well-preserved fifty. And they were a similar height, though Zita was undeniably broader.
“What on earth –” Zoe began, before a solid palm slapped her hard across the face, then again. She moved to go past Zita to the door, but the cleaner grabbed her, and shoved her on the sofa.
“Dirty bitch.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Zoe whined.
“Shut your mouth.” Zita stood over Zoe and glared at her with grey eyes. An icicle of fear slid down Zoe’s spine.
“It was just a game. I’m – I’m sorry. ” The apology was out of Zoe’s mouth before she could swallow it, and she loathed herself for her weakness.
“Yes,” said Zita. She plucked a cigarette from Zoe’s pack on the coffee table, and sparked it up. She flicked a tiny cylinder of ash onto the floor. She smirked.
“I’ll call the police,” said Zoe, though her voice trembled. Zita slapped her again, then held the lit cigarette up to Zoe’s eyeball, so close she could feel the heat of the orange tip.
“No police.” A brief vision of grappling with Zita crossed Zoe’s mind, but she knew that she was outmatched.
“Bring me mascara,” ordered Zita, pointing at the bedroom door. Zoe was puzzled. Was this a chance to get a weapon – a pair of scissors, a heavy lamp? But that would risk escalating the situation. The woman was clearly disturbed. Best to wait until an opportunity to escape arose – try to pacify her, perhaps.
When Zoe returned to the front room with her makeup bag, Zita had her feet on the coffee table, the cigarette extinguished. She was looking at her face in a cheap hand-mirror. She pointed at her face then beckoned Zoe over. Zita rooted through the make-up bag, pulled out a Chanel mascara and thrust it at Zoe.
“You. Make up. Me.”
“You – you want me to do your makeup?”
“Yes,” said Zita, then added a desultory “Bitch.”
Perhaps this would calm her, reasoned Zoe, and she pulled off the lid and leaned in close to apply the dark unguent to Zita’s pale lashes. One flick of my hand and I could have this in her eye, Zoe thought. But, as if by telepathy, Zita’s eyes met Zoe’s, and the challenge in her gaze stilled any thoughts of rebellion.
Once the mascara was applied, Zita selected a ruby lipstick, a charcoal eyeliner, a faint rouge, and arranged them on the coffee table. She commanded Zoe to continue. Zita inspected herself as Zoe worked. Any error, any slip earned a harsh jab of the finger, and soon enough Zoe steadied her hand.
She traced the contours of Zita’s lips, cheekbones, eyebrows. Zita’s face became the whole of her perception. The concentration was total. A brief thought crossed her mind, that she was never this involved in her workaday tasks, never this absorbed. When she was done, Zita looked different: darker, more vital.
“Not bad,” said the Latvian. Zoe tried and failed to suppress a grateful smile.
Zita stood up, smoothed down the Prada dress. She glanced at her bare wrist, frowned, and then reached over and took Zoe’s arm. Gently, tenderly, she removed Zoe’s little golden watch and fixed it to her own wrist. Zoe did not resist.
“Well?” Zita held out her hand. Zoe wrinkled her forehead in confusion. Zita rubbed her fingers together.
“Money? Yes, money, of course.” Zoe grabbed her clutch from the side, handed it over to Zita.
Carefully, Zita went through Zoe’s bag, pulled out a twenty pound note and two fives, though Zoe knew there was over a hundred quid in there. Then Zita replaced the bag on the side, and without a backward glance, left the apartment.
Zoe looked around. And, despite the filth, the mess, and the humiliation, she felt clean for the first time in years.
(c) Michael Button, 2016
Michael Button was born in Glasgow and lives in Hackney. He is studying for the Creative Writing MA at Birkbeck, and was recently shortlisted for the Stephen King short story competition in the Guardian, with Steve himself describing Michael’s entry as ‘satisfyingly macabre’. Michael is working on his first novel.
Louisa Gummer is a Liars' League regular. Her recent voiceover work includes the "Vine in 1914" strand on BBC Radio 2, seducing Harry Enfield on a radio ad, guiding visitors around Stockholm's Moderna Museet, and giving instructions inside an MRI scanner.
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