The Naked Cleaner Read online

  He’s pale, but nicely shaped. Far too skinny for his length, but has nice arms. Lovely chest. Hairless and cute little nipples. And that mass of blond curly hair that is sticking out at all angles despite that he has tried to get it into a messy topknot. I would say he’s handsome, if not for that angry scowl on his face.

  “Jonas won’t kill you for not staying until the morning. Just get your fucking clothes on and leave.”

  “Jonas will kill me if you end up dead with an undiagnosed aneurism. “

  Pontus won’t die from an undiagnosed aneurism. Pontus is perfectly fine, but he is pissing me off and I am not backing down. Because I am bloody evil when I am angry, and he has offended me, in what way I can’t really explain right now because I am too busy trying to figure out what the hell is going on, and he is too busy stomping down the hallway and slamming his bedroom door shut.

  And he hasn’t drunk his bloody glass of water.

  Which only means one thing. I will have to go and force him to drink it. Threaten to call Jonas. Threaten to bundle him into my van and take him to hospital and sweet talk the nurses into giving him a drip. Which they would, because dehydration is not something you mess around with and his bloods were shite. Jonas texted me an hour ago, when he got the results back. This Pontus is a mess, and someone has to sort him out.

  What a fucking Valentine’s night this is turning out to be.

  It’s not my job. He’s not my responsibility. This is not my place, but I like a challenge. That’s what I tell myself as I grab the glass and let my angry footfall echo down the hallway towards his bedroom.

  Chapter Five

  Pontus

  I don’t even hear him coming down the hallway before the bedroom door shoots open and slams back against the wardrobe with an alarming bang.

  Yeah, because there he is and my heart jolts out of my chest as I kind of fly out of bed as he slams a glass of water down on my bedside table, then walks around the bed and lets the damn apron fly onto the floor, and then...

  Yes.

  He lifts my duvet up and gets into my bed. Actually, into my bed. Naked.

  His naked arse is against my sheets in my bed. My Bed.

  Which apparently makes me shriek like a banshee and stomp my feet. Totally rational. Sane.

  “Get the fuck out of my bed.” I shout.

  “Pontus. Calm down. I am not going anywhere until you have drunk that glass of water. I will be watching. And anyway, your bed is nice and warm, and I can quite happily wait here. Like forever.”

  “You are such a fucking dick.”

  “Sue me.”

  “Oh, believe me, I will. Your skinny arse is trespassing, squatting, sexual harassment…”

  “Oh, get real, twatface. I just need you to drink that glass of water, and me and my skinny arse will be out of here in a second. Just drink the damn water and I can text Jonas and you will never see me again once he gets here tomorrow morning. Promise. Because, believe me, I dislike being here as much as you hate that I’m here. I’m not made of stone, you know, and I am not doing this for you, I am doing this because Jonas asked me to, so for once, get over yourself and drink.”

  Well, that seems to have shut me up, because I suddenly can’t think of a single thing to say.

  Not that I am drinking his pathetic water. I don’t know why, exactly, but give me a minute to get my head in gear and I am sure I can come up with some snarky remark.

  I can’t, apparently.

  So, I sit down on the edge of the bed and think about admitting defeat, as he turns over and tugs the duvet over his shoulder.

  I sit there like a fool, staring at his naked neck, the dark hair curling around the back of his ear. I sit there and wonder when my life has become this absurd. How Jonas has somehow tricked me into this, and I haven’t seen it coming. Perhaps I should pay attention. Perhaps I should text Jonas and find out what he meant about my bloods being shit. I feel fine. I’m fine. I always feel like this, because I work hard and I am bloody good at what I do, and my clients expect perfection and I goddamn deliver it.

  I sigh loudly, hoping to get a reaction out of him. Wriggle on the bed.

  Nothing.

  “Drink your water, Pontus.”

  So, He’s still being a dick.

  Well, I can be a dick too. And it’s stupid, because it’s just water. I don’t like water. I can stomach soft drinks and juice at a push, and a beer now and then, but water is like... Bleurgh. I could have drunk a glass of milk? Not that I have any in the fridge, because my shopping comes tomorrow. I think. I’m not sure whether I’ve remembered to put the order in, to be honest.

  God, what’s happening to me? I am so organised and switched on, but today something just went to shit and my whole life tumbled into some sort of instant chaos.

  “Please.” He says quietly.

  I suppose he is just as pissed off as I am. Dick.

  Arsehole.

  I drink the damn water, the whole glass in one go, making sure I slam the glass back down on the bedside table loud enough for him to notice.

  He doesn’t move a muscle. And I feel a little nauseous. Like my stomach is rebelling against the sheer volume of water pouring into it like a cold shower.

  “Louis?” I say. I probably sound angrier than I should.

  Nothing.

  I get up and tiptoe round the bed, waiting for the inevitable jerk and abuse he is about to throw at me.

  Nothing.

  He’s asleep. That is absolutely obvious, his face all relaxed against my pillow, and little snores escaping from between his half-open lips.

  And it’s like all the air has escaped from my body. Like I am collapsing like a slowly deflating balloon. I just stand there like a fool. Breathing.

  Like foolish people do.

  I’ve drunk the damn water, and he’s still in my bed, and like the fool I am I just leave him there, tiptoeing out into the dark living room where my trusty sofa welcomes me with its musty smell and lumpy pillows, and the threadbare blanket that has comforted me since I was a little boy.

  I curl into it like a kid hoping for protection, and my mind swirls with unease.

  I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t. He shouldn’t be here. Jonas. It’s bloody Jonas’ fault. Overbearing, overprotecting, always right Jonas. He wasn’t right about this. Not at all. All right, he can take my bloods and do tests and give me all the pills in the world, but I am fine. I am absolutely fine.

  I don’t know how, but I somehow fall asleep.

  And in the morning, I wake up to find Jonas sitting on the edge of the sofa, handing me a takeaway cup full of coffee and with a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “He likes you.” He says and shoves a piece of what I can see is blueberry muffin in his gob. Chewing with his mouth open whilst winking. Idiot.

  “Where’s mine?” I snarl, taking a greedy sip of the coffee.

  “Bathroom first. Give me a urine sample and I will feed you.” He says, looking awfully smug with himself as I roll my eyes. Bastard.

  “Whatever.” I’m not an adult. I never will be.

  “Good boy.” He laughs. “Small plastic pot on the toilet lid. Fill it up and then come tell me why my cousin says he hates your guts, but can’t stop smiling.”

  My life goes back to normal after that. For a whole week. And yes, Jonas was probably right, because apparently, I have some kind of infection, and I’m now munching antibiotics in a dosage fit for a horse and feeling more nauseous than I am comfortable with. At least I haven’t had any video meetings as my forehead is mottled in every colour under the sun, and I am sporting something that looks like a black eye. Not quite the look a respected freelance IT programmer should present if he is trying to grab a contract.

  So, I have been lying low and manage to catch up with some of the tasks that have been lagging behind in my never-ending inbox of tasks. And I have been eating. Well, I tell Jonas that I am eating, and maybe ploughing through two packs of Rice Krispies isn’t
quite classed as fine dining, but I poured raisins and milk on it so that is at least three food groups covered for the day.

  I’m not stupid. I know my diet is shocking, but... Yeah, I have run out of excuses.

  I realise that Jonas is right, and that I am diving head first into all kinds of health problems, and that I will burn myself out into an early grave if I don’t get my stress levels under control. And he is bloody annoying, because I know he is right. I just don’t know how to stop it. How to start living. How to.

  I hate the word. He keeps telling me I need to be happy. I don’t know what the hell that means, to be honest. I am fine. I suppose I am successful and that should make me happy? I have friends? I think...

  So, now I am back in my unicorn slippers and my dad’s old bathrobe that somehow ended up in my flat when he stayed over on a business trip years ago, chewing a stray pencil and tapping absentmindedly on my messy notes that are spread in front of me. I know what I am supposed to be creating, and I know how to do it. I just can’t get my head to cooperate with my fingers today. Like I am distracted, and my brain is all foggy with crap I shouldn’t have to worry about.

  I shuffle out to the kitchen and find a stray banana in the bottom of the fridge, which I peel as I lean back against the kitchen worktop, watching the world pass by outside the small window next to me. I can see human beings walking along down on the street, and the traffic lights over by Blegdamsvej. I can see kids skipping along, bikes moving around. Cars reversing carefully out of the ridiculously small parking spaces along the street, and a white van that does a perfect three point turn before sliding into the recently vacated space right outside the entrance to my building.

  And I freeze up. Because. Oh fuck.

  I know that van.

  No no, I’ve never actually seen it before, but the logo on the side is kind of obvious and the dude now unloading a load of stuff onto the pavement looks annoyingly familiar.

  Yeah. I freeze up, shuffling on my feet and trying to think. Think, THINK PONTUS!

  I could pretend I am not home. He will never in a million years buy that. I know Jonas and Louis speak every day. I know they talk about me, because yeah, Jonas couldn’t keep a secret even if he was standing in front of a firing squad. He will just blurt it all out in my face and smile like it’s nothing. Like I am just discussing all your shortcomings with my cousin and you should be grateful.

  Just for the record. I am not grateful. This is starting to piss me off.

  “What?” I state as I throw the door open, almost knocking him out.

  “Hi, Pontus! Lovely to see you too!” He grins back, his voice is dripping with sarcasm.

  “You repaid Jonas his money, he told me. So, just fuck off.”

  I don’t know why I am being such a jerk, because. Well. Just because.

  Louis just barges past me with a massive cardboard box in his arms, leaving a black bucket thingy and the goddamn steam cleaner sitting outside my door. Which is kind of.

  Weird.

  And he doesn’t come back, and then I end up moving all his shite into my hallway, because like, fire hazard and neighbours are a thing and I can’t just leave my front door open and it’s like, a lot of stuff.

  He’s in my kitchen. My kitchen. And my nice tidy bare fridge is now full of annoyingly colourful plastic boxes labelled with cheery words like Breakfast Friday and Lunch Sunday. Some are labelled snack.

  I’ll give him snack. What the hell?

  “We made a deal.” He says, and pins his eyes on me to the point that I am frozen in place. We haven’t made any deals. None that I remember.

  “You’re wearing clothes.” It’s weird, because he is like wearing a lot of clothes, joggers and two hoodies on top of each other and a big scarf and a beanie tucked over his head. It’s super weird.

  “It’s freezing out there if you hadn’t noticed. Maybe you should venture outside one of these days and discover that there’s a whole world out there. Things like other people and life and weather and happiness.” He snarls back.

  Yeah. I would too. I’m being a dick.

  “What’s this?” I gesture lamely at the open fridge door.

  “We made a deal. “ He says. Again. "I have made you meals for a week, all balanced and nutritious in small portions that you can just blast in the microwave for a minute. Just throw the containers in the box here and I will pick it up next week. Easy. “

  “Was that included in the cleaning?” I ask, because I haven’t got a clue what he is on about. Honestly.

  “You asked for food. I made it. You know, for our deal? I cook for you, and you sort my tax return. I brought the cleaning stuff just in case your flat was a mess and needed tidying, but I can see you are right on top of things. “

  Louis is a funny fucker, I think to myself, totally sarcastically of course, as I glance over towards the sink. I’m sure the sink is still there somewhere buried under the crap I have chucked on the worktop since last week. A few half-eaten boxes of ready meals, endless coffee cups and crap, and about ten banana skins. Charming. I kind of cringe, because he is right. I am not on top of anything. Least of all my game as I sink down on a chair in defeat.

  “Here’s my paperwork,” he says, and hands me a fabric eco-reusable shopping-bag. Very him. Of course.

  It’s bulging with dogeared pieces of paper and envelopes. Oh, deep joy. Another paper filer who can’t deal with a simple accounting program. And I kind of remember.

  “Tax return.” I sigh.

  “Please.” He sighs back. “I am so fucked.”

  “You look fine to me.” I wink. I have no idea why. Fuck, I am such a basket case.

  “I’m serious. Can you look over it quickly while I clear this mess up? Just to give me an idea of how deep in crap I will be with my dad?”

  I don’t understand why, but I nod, and stumble out into the living room, where I kneel on the floor and tip all the paperwork out in a pile in front of me.

  In a way it’s therapeutic, and I have done stuff like this before. Sorted out hobby venture companies who have gone in over their heads and are suddenly dealing with massive contracts and overwhelming overheads when all they have is an account book and a bloody pen. Louis doesn’t have that, his paperwork a myriad of bills and contracts and invoices that he has scribbled paid on. Paid. Paid followed by question marks.

  I don’t even notice him moving around my flat, I do register the hoover at one point and there is a pile of sheets by the door, next to the damn steam cleaner with it’s annoying hiss. Not that it matters, because I am kind of done. Everything neatly logged on my standard spreadsheet, with notes on quirks and phrases to incorporate in the invoicing program and ideas for an automated booking system on the new website I can already picture in my head, and he needs a few select, tastefully done, black-and-white photographs that I can already see in my head.

  “Is it really bad?” He says and places a plate of something that looks mouth-wateringly gorgeous on the floor next to me. So, we are eating on the floor.

  I look up at him and my breath hitches.

  “You look weird wearing clothes.” I say. I’m so fucking stupid.

  “I didn’t want to annoy you further by prancing around naked when it makes you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. I know I can be a dick, but I really need your help. I can manage to wear clothes for a few hours. It’s not an issue. “

  “It’s okay.” I say softly. It is. I mean, I have kind of grown used to him naked, and all these, jersey pieces of clothing all over him is kind of… wrong. “I don’t mind if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

  I sound strained, like I am struggling to be polite and he shrugs his shoulders, pushing the plate on the floor towards me. “Vegan chickpea and spinach meatballs in Thai curry sauce. You would never even know it’s healthy, just try it. Please. It’s really good, I promise, and tastes like the real thing.”

  I don’t need convincing, and even though I am sceptical to the stuff he is saying is on that pl
ate, I am too tempted, and my stomach growls as I reluctantly take the fork from his outstretched hand and shove a mouthful in my gob. Then I swoon. And die of embarrassment as he bloody smiles like he’s won the lottery or something.

  “You like it?”

  “Gorgeous.” I mumble with my mouth full of whatever. But it tastes nice. Spicy and tingly, and there is something soft and creamy in there, and I can’t taste the spinach. “Hate spinach.” I blurt out, then immediately regret it. He’s trying really hard. I am trying too. “But I can’t actually taste it. It’s good. Really good.”

  Louis nods, even though he doesn’t look convinced.

  “Is it bad? The accounts?” He almost whispers, and I shake my head.

  “I have no idea where to start with the income, because honestly, Louis, you need to start sticking the cash in the bank. But, if it all adds up, you are not breaking even, BUT, that’s not a bad thing. It’s a new start-up, and we can make it work. Leave it with me for a few days and I will work on some ideas and see what improvements we can make to attract business and make a feasible invoicing system. “

  He looks a bit confused again, biting his lip and staring at me like he hasn’t understood a single thing I just said.

  “It’s not bad.” I repeat. It’s not. I’ve seen worse, and he is still a small business with manageable overheads. Not that this seems to calm him down.

  “Thank you.” He whispers.

  “Thank you.” I say back, nodding to the now almost-empty plate in my hand. “I didn’t think, I mean, you cooked all that food? For me? I need to pay you, because this will have cost hundreds of…”

  “I told you I can’t pay you, so you get this instead. Mum helps, and I cook for some of my clients so it’s not that much. As long as you enjoy it.”

  He drags me back into the kitchen, and gets all enthusiastic talking about overnight oats and bloody vegan-sausage stew and there is coconut yoghurt with pomegranate seeds and home-made granola which makes me all cross-eyed with confusion.