The Naked Cleaner Read online

  “And look? I’m wearing clothes. So, give me a little slack here.” He says, looking almost offended at me laughing.

  “That is not… clothes.” I say, sarcastically, snarling out the word clothes.

  “It covers all the essential parts.” He replies, like he is mocking me.

  “I can see your butt.” I say. Like I am a toddler.

  “I’ve got a great butt.” He sasses back. Of course. “And anyway, who are you to talk? Mr I am such a prude I pass out when faced with a little skin? Look at yourself, you are just wearing pyjama bottoms. I am kind of wearing much more fabric than you are.”

  He’s actually got a point. I’m not sure how I got into bed. Or why. Or what happened to my shirt and tie. I’m sure I was wearing a shirt and tie.

  I must look really confused and a bit scared, because he comes and sits down on his haunches next to the chair and takes my hand.

  Which is so weird that I jerk my hand back in fear, yet he doesn’t even flinch.

  “Look Pontus. Nothing happened. Jonas undressed you and put you to bed, and you have slept for a good couple of hours, which is great. Your vitals are good, but you need to eat, and Jonas is concerned about you being dehydrated which I agree with. You are going to drink another litre of water before you go to bed later, and I will wake you in the night to get some more liquid into you. I would have preferred to get you on a drip, just to top you up and give us something to work with, but unless you let me take you to the emergency room and sort you out, we haven’t got that option. I am assuming you are not nauseous? Visual disturbance? Headache? Confused? Talk to me.”

  “Fuck you, Louis.”

  Yeah. Charming. I know. But at this point he is already driving me crazy, and I kind of want to eat and go back to bed and forget about the shitload of work that I have missed out on, and the missed meeting I had, and the grovelling I will have to do. I am behind with everything and then I was going to get started on this month’s invoicing, and…

  “Pontus. It’s okay. It is. You can hurl abuse at me all you want, but I am not leaving until Jonas comes by in the morning, and I can see your brain working. Your whole body is twitching with unease and it’s fine. Honestly. Just eat your food and drink the water and then go back to bed and sleep. Everything else can wait.”

  “I have work to do.”

  I don’t know where that comes from. Like I am having a conversation with this guy.

  “You don’t have to do anything. Not until we have you up and running, and back to full health again.”

  “Haven’t you got anywhere to be? Like a date or some shit?

  I am a child. Because I stuff a mouthful of pasta in my mouth and chew, sauce dripping down my chin, and I am embarrassed to accept the napkin Louis offers me across the table. He would probably wipe my chin if I let him. Sitting there all bright eyed with an amused smile on his face, his hair all perfectly swept back and his perfect nose and plush lips, and the annoying little giggle he does… again.

  “Good, eh?” He says and shoves a mouthful in his own mouth. Chews. Swallows.

  I would swallow for him. Anytime.

  “Nah, and anyway, look.” Louis continues, in between shoving mouthfuls of pasta in his mouth like he’s never seen food before. “We have dinner. Company. Everything you could want for a Valentine’s date. Well, apart from the snogging and sexual favours. Those are not included or negotiable.”

  He giggles like he thinks he’s funny. He’s not. Yeah, my mind is back in the gutter. I need to get laid. I need to stop. I need to get back to work, and clear some of the backlog so I can get some of this stress off my shoulders.

  And anyway, he’s right. The pasta is wonderful, just the right amount of chilli and spices and a little bit of saltiness tingling on my tongue. And there are green bits in it, that I am guessing is spinach, which I grimace at and try to push to the side of my plate.

  “Eat the goddamn spinach, Pontus.”

  God, he rubs me up the wrong way. One minute ago, I wanted to blow him, and now I honestly want to punch him in the face.

  “You are not my dad.”

  “I could be your Daddy if you want me to?” He laughs and winks.

  I just roll my eyes.

  “So, let’s just get to know each other. I mean, come on. I have to hang with you for a bit, and I know you haven’t got the best impression of me. So, let’s start again. Hi. I’m Louis.”

  He reaches his hand across the table to me. I stupidly grip it. Shake his hand like an uptight loser, mumbling, “Pontus.”

  “Good. Great start. So, I’m Louis Ramsdahl-Soto, twenty-eight, single, born here in Copenhagen. My grandparents are from Chile, which explains my lovely all-year-round tan and exotic name, then I moved to Aarhus in my twenties, following a girlfriend who, well, it didn’t work out. Degree in nursing from Uni there, and I moved back here to hang with my parents a few months back. Run my own cleaning business and the rest of the time I chill. I’m really into books and films, and cooking, and I do a lot of yoga. I’m a naturist, and so are my parents, which is not weird. We just spend most of our time without the restrictions of textiles, and when we venture outside in public, we wear the appropriate clothing. It’s got nothing to do with sex. Nothing. So that’s me. Tell me about yourself.”

  He looks expectantly at me, like I am supposed to talk.

  “Girlfriend?“ My mouth spurts out. “Jonas says you’re gay.”

  “Jonas needs to get his facts straight. I identify as pansexual. I tend to fall in love with people without the prejudice of gender.” He replies, looking very twatty. Like he is proud of himself.

  “You’re a twat.” I say. Because I am rude as fuck and need to get a gag. Where the hell did that come from?

  “Your blood sugar is low, and you are being unnecessarily defensive, and a little bit aggressive, Pontus. Please eat, and your moods will stabilise, and not only that, but you will feel better. You are still very pale.”

  “Will you stop psychoanalysing me? You are not my doctor, and I look this pale, all the time. I feel like shit, all the time. It’s just who I am. I have a headache and you can take your fucking pasta and shove it.”

  Nice, Pontus. Mature.

  And yes, that is me stomping down the hallway and throwing myself face down on the bed. Breathing like I am running a marathon as my chest feels like it’s planning some kind of life-reducing heart attack. That was stupid. That was rude. But then, this guy is basically squatting in my home against my will, and fuck Jonas and his stupid health advice and pretend doctor crap. He’s a paramedic. Basically, a glorified nurse.

  Not that I should say shit like that, because Jonas is a goddamn hero. He and Clara save hundreds of lives every week, working in crazy conditions and dealing with the scum of humanity. They also deliver babies in stairwells, and rescue kittens, and drink tea with lunatics who ring 112 for company. And to be honest, they also stop by and see me, almost every shift. They bring me coffee, and rhubarb muffins from Lagkagehuset’s bakery. I kind of like it. Despite it being bloody annoying every time the doorbell goes.

  And I kind of wanted to finish that pasta. Instead, I am throwing a tantrum in my bed feeling sorry for myself.

  At least I am alone. At least if I breathe slowly, the headache calms a little.

  “I brought your pasta.” His voice sends shivers up my spine... of annoyance, naturally.

  “Not hungry.” I quip. I’m starving.

  “I will feed you if you don’t stop behaving like a spoilt kid. For god’s sake, sit up, turn around and eat your food. I’ll be in the kitchen. Alone. Eating my dinner.”

  He stomps out, leaving my plate on the side, and my gaze pinned to the sight of his naked arse disappearing out the door.

  He’s hurt. I may not be the most perceptive human being, and I may have the social skills of a gnat, Jonas’ words, not mine, but I can tell.

  And yeah. He’s trying, and I am just being me. Stupid. He’s got that right.

  So
, I grab my plate and let my feet walk a little too loudly back to the kitchen where I slam my plate down on the table and take a seat opposite him.

  “I’m Pontus. I’m twenty-six, and run my own IT solutions company. I mostly create Human Resource software, payroll, records, tax management, things like that, but I also develop tailor-made software solutions for online presence and interaction with the consumer.” I sound like a twat too. Which makes me giggle.

  And I think I blush, because he is looking at me, right at me, and he is smiling. Like he is enjoying the fact that I am sitting here forcing myself to talk, wearing nothing but pyjama pants, in my far-too-skinny pale body and he is wearing nothing but the damn apron, in his sun-kissed golden skin and perfect soft shapes, and there is a little muscle definition in his arms. Which makes me cringe. Because he is so not my type. Not at all.

  He is exactly my type. I force my brain to abort those thoughts. Tuck them away. Permanently.

  “I am single. Gay. Have been out since school. Not interested in a relationship. Ever. I am happy just working and living here. “

  That’s a lie. I am not happy, and I am not living. I am existing in a never-ending loop of stress and work and trying to wake up in the morning and struggling to fall asleep at night and remembering to eat and being pestered by Jonas and forgetting to ring my parents every week and just...

  I’m tired. I’m so goddamn tired.

  “Nice to meet you, Pontus.” He says softly, smiling at me like he means it.

  Chapter Four

  Louis

  “My mum’s really vain.” I giggle.

  I am a little high on all this, because it’s been a long time since I have sat down and just talked nonsense to someone. Someone my own age. Someone who still thinks I am super weird, but, hey... I can cope with that.

  “She has a home gym and this tanning bed, and however much Dad tells her that she shouldn’t be using it, she still does, because she likes to look her best and she’s pretty fit for a mum.

  “She works out naked?” Pontus asks, and gosh, there is a little colour in his cheeks, which is kind of cute. And good. So, he has blood behind that pale skin of his. He’s obviously not a vampire then.

  “Of course, although, you will probably find this weird. She puts on a sports bra for the running machine, because she says she hates having her boobs flap around.”

  Yeah, that makes him cringe, as he buries his face in his hands. And I think he is mumbling something about too much information and banging his head against the surface of his crappy kitchen table. IKEA no doubt, and the surface is all polished and shiny, which tells me he probably never uses it.

  I wish we had a couple of bottles of wine, because I kind of fancy just getting rat arsed and passing out on his sofa and just being stupid and irresponsible for once. Perhaps smoking some grass, potent enough to just make us both switch off. Maybe in a parallel universe we would have been friends, I think to myself as he looks up and snorts.

  “Your family are nuts.” He says.

  “No, actually, I think we are pretty normal and boring. My sister’s not a naturist and wears clothes all the time. She full on rebelled in her teens and refused to be naked. I kind of understand her, because when you are a spotty ultra-horny teenager in a room full of other naked teenagers, things get awkward. Because you look, and you fantasise and just because there are rules that you don’t touch other people without their permission, and personal space and boundaries are a thing…”

  “You get a boner? “

  He finishes my sentence with a swallowed giggle, and yeah. Being a naturist teenager is awkward as fuck.

  “There was this boy, his parents were good friends of mine, and I was crushing on him badly. He would just sit there and lean back on the sofa talking about all his arty farty interests and I would have to run and lock myself in my room, because just putting a sofa cushion on my lap would have been totally obvious. It’s like everyone would have known. And that would have been bloody awkward.”

  “Fuck, I would have died. I mean. Really? You have naked parties?”

  “We socialise, we are totally normal people, Pontus. We have dinner parties, date, dance. It’s not weird.”

  “Louis, it is totally weird. Mega weird. Awkward as fuck. Weird on a whole new level.“

  I can’t believe he is talking this much to me, and that he is actually amused by all my crap stories.

  “So, this is weird? You are wearing pyjama-pants, and I am wearing an apron and we just had a very nice Valentine’s dinner party, just the two of us. Nothing weird about this.” I say, and throw my hands in the air. Because there isn’t. I like that he’s kind of half-naked. All the time.

  “This is still very, very weird, Louis.” He laughs, and that irrationally makes me happy. That bit’s weird. I can agree with that.

  “I thought you were a naturist too, otherwise I would never have agreed to take you on as a client. Jonas said you were new to the full-time lifestyle and wanted to be able to work textile-free in peace while I cleaned. And you did open the door half dressed, which I took for you wanting to be polite and wear some appropriate clothing the first time we met. I didn’t know you… you know… were a cotton-tail.”

  “What the hell is a cotton-tail?” He looks a little bemused again, and yeah. Maybe I shouldn’t call him that.

  “It’s what we call people who wear clothes. Like people who are not naturists.”

  I should venture back to a safe topic. Like the weather. Vegan meatballs. Recipes for lentil stew.

  “You are weird. “

  “Thanks, I kind of know that. “

  “Why don’t you work, with that fancy arse nursing degree?”

  Fuck, he’s blunt.

  “Because, as you said yourself, I’m weird. I never fit in. And then I get self-conscious, and uncomfortable and I think everyone is talking behind my back and I start to get nervous and I worry I will mess up, and then I end up leaving. I just can’t. It’s just hard.”

  He nods, and we both sit there quietly.

  "I could never work in an office with other people. I don't work well with other people." He says, scratching his neck and shuffling in his seat.

  I understand that, and he kind of shakes his head, like he is trying to clear his headspace.

  “But your company is going well?” he continues.

  So, we are talking shop again. Fine.

  “I enjoy it, but it doesn’t all add up. I’m crap at money, and most of my clients pay cash, and then I spend it before I know what I had, and I end up with nothing in the bank. Some of my clients don’t remember to pay me, and I am not very good with confronting people and following up on stuff. So yeah. I’m kind of dreading having to do my tax return, because my dad does it for me, and he will see that I have fucked it all up. “

  Truths? When did I start blurting out all my secret truths to some rude stranger? What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Do you want me to have a look? Maybe I can set up the EZ invoicing system for you that your clients can sign up to and all the money goes straight in the bank? If the council are paying part of their care, we can easily sign you into their invoicing system too, and you could apply for some financial aid for a first-time start-up business. Have you looked into that?”

  “I don’t know what half of that means, but anyway, I can’t afford to pay you.”

  He sits there and kind of chews a fingernail, absentmindedly tapping his fingers on the tabletop.

  “We…” He stops and glances at me, then looks away. Like what he is about to say will hurt. Or is so out of his comfort zone that it’s actually painful to even suggest. And I kind of dread whatever it is he is about to say, because his breath is a little fast and he stutters. “We could make a… deal.” His voice is a little low. Like he is almost embarrassed to ask.

  “What kind of deal?” I ask, keeping my voice soft. I could do a deal. I don’t want a deal. Maybe I do. I suck at all this. Whatever it is.


  “You could cook me a big pan of that pasta thing, enough to last me a week. In return, I could look over your company files and see what I can suggest. I might have some basic procedures we can put into a simple admin system for you, and anyway, your website is too simplistic, it needs basic legalities at the bottom with contact us, and pricing and links to your society for naked people or whatever.”

  “You looked at my website?” I squeal in embarrassment, because I’ve made it myself and thought it was pretty cool. I didn’t realise it is shit. He clearly thinks it’s shit from the painful look on his face.

  “Home made on the Wix platform. I hate the Wix platform. I mean, this is my job. I know this stuff, and if you are using an online platform to attract business you need to present a business, not a hobby venture.”

  How he sounds like my dad and all my defences are up and he’s not only offended my pretty epic website-building skills—I have zero skills, but he doesn’t know that, and anyway, it was a simplistic approach to exactly what I provide. Clean and simple services. I think it is brilliant.

  “It’s perfect.” I say. Because I am kind of proud of it. “I like my website.”

  “It’s shite, Louis. Not following industry standards and the alignment is off, and anyway, it will put potential clients off rather than attract them.”

  “You are so fucking rude.” I say, because now I am losing my patience.

  “Amen.” He says and gets up from the chair. “And on that point, I am going to bed.”

  “Drink your bleeding water.” I snarl out. He hasn’t even touched the glass.

  “Fuck you.” He hisses.

  “What the hell did I say now?” I shout, because it’s getting like that. Uncomfortable and I am now pissed off and hurt and annoyed. Because for a while there we have actually been having a nice conversation.

  “Just go home, Louis.” He sighs.

  “Not leaving.” I reply back, which makes him turn around and sigh loudly. Again. He sighs a lot, it seems.

  He’s quite impressive standing there, in a pair of plain skin-tight y-fronted boxers. Nice package. I look. Of course, I fucking look.