Story: The Cleaner Returns. Chapters 19-20.

by BigBird74

19.

Dahlia slept peacefully through the night. After she had been helped from the car to her room and readied for bed, she had slept almost ten hours straight. When she did finally awake it was into unfamiliar surroundings. The plush decor of her home could not have been more different to the Spartan interior she now found herself in.

As she gazed slowly around her, she could tell that she was in some kind of medical facility. Definite clues to that surrounded her everywhere: the pale, wipe-clean décor, the patient’s chart hanging on the wall, and the functional bed linen. While some effort had been made to make the room feel less functional and more like a hotel room, it was still obvious that Dahlia was in a clinic of some sort.

She pulled back the covers, stretching her lithe body, clothed only in a patient’s gown, as she arose from her deep slumber. Spotting a mirror on the side wall, she took a few slow steps towards it and peered at herself. She looked tired. Very tired. Her face had taken on a heavy look overnight. Slowly the memory of just what had happened hit her. An all-consuming sense of shame took hold as her mind pieced together the broken fragments of the evening’s events.

Oh god! What had happened? She felt she must ring Tommy! She looked for her phone and realised it was nowhere to be found. She hunted through the few cupboards that lined the room, searching up and down, opening and closing every drawer in a rising panic.

Just at that moment, a middle-aged woman entered the room. By the way she was dressed, Dahlia could see she was a nurse or some kind of attendant.

“Please Miss Western, you should not be standing up,” she observed shepherding a confused Dahlia back to bed. “We have to make sure your blood is clear of everything first.” With that, she collected a glass vial and pricked the supermodel’s fingertip with a needle to collect a sample. Dahlia had so many questions, but felt groggy and unsocial, so by the time she had mustered the energy to speak, the nurse had left the room, admonishing her one more time to stay in bed.

As Dahlia sat and waited, more memories returned. She remembered taking too many pills, the look Tommy had given her when she came to in the hospital and, then, her knight in shining armor, Dr Mark. Feeling the heat from her own embarrassment, her reverie was broken as the nurse came back into the room, followed closely behind by Dr Mark.

“Dahlia. How are you feeling?”

Dahlia averred from using the adjectives that most readily came to mind – confused, ashamed, curious – instead batting his question away with a light-hearted rejoinder.

“I’ve been better,” she smiled a little.

The next hour passed rapidly. Dahlia felt less lousy as the effects of the drug slowly dissipated within her. But after a brief series of little tests, she was declared as fit and well as could be expected. The conversation then turned more serious.

“You have been registered here at the clinic for a reason Dahlia. I felt it best that you spend some time recovering here. It is a quiet secluded spot. Private. A place where you can feel safe and at peace. No-one except the nurse and myself knows that you are here.”

“The hospital… what did you say to them? To Tommy?” Dahlia wanted to know.

“Do not worry. I signed you into my care, they know nothing more.” He paused and then spoke in a slow whisper. “Dahlia, you know what this means, you can take finally some time to relax and find yourself. Forget about the stresses of modelling. You can let go for a while.”

Dahlia was having serious doubts. She had not chosen this clinic and, as far as she was concerned, she had already given up too much control. She did not even know where she was and, yet, here she was being asked to ‘let go’ even more. She already felt out of control and this only added to her prevailing sense of unease.

Naturally the doctor had expected this and knew he had to sing a particularly soothing song to Dahlia at that crucial moment. He told her how the clinic was situated in the middle of a private forest. No paparazzi. No unwanted eyes. Dahlia was in a private wing of the clinic. The only people that would see her were the nurse and the clinician. If she wanted to venture outside, the grounds were extensive and privacy could be ensured so that she did not bump into anyone unwanted. Sure it was expensive, but Dahlia had the funds and he knew deep down she craved this anonymity. Just give it a week and then leave for home after a short recovery.

The doctor got up and stepped to the cupboard. Inside was a small bag Dahlia had not seen when rummaging around earlier. Lifting it up onto a side table, he pulled out a clean looking grey coloured uniform. Inside the bag were some flat, functional white shoes, some large cotton panties, a large plain bra, opaque thick tights and a name badge. There was also a dark brown, bob-styled wig and some black heavy looking glasses. He placed it all on the bed and smiled as Dahlia read the name on the badge: Petra.

20.

Dahlia reached down to pick up the badge. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, it glistened brightly in the light. She looked up at the doctor, who was smiling brightly. Like exiting a long railway tunnel, that moment represented a huge wave of relief for Dahlia, as the claustrophobia of the past few months seemed to give way to a huge sense of freedom and opportunity. It was hard for her to shield her feelings from the doctor as excitement rippled through her and her body seemed to dance slightly.

“Does the … nurse… know?”

He nodded. “She understands. You are not the only one who has come here for treatment like this,” he lied convincingly. Yes she knew - it was hard not to - but to work at the clinic, every employee signed a non-disclosure agreement and was paid handsomely. After more than a decade of business, there had not been one leak to the tabloids revealing embarrassing facts about the famous guests.

For her part the nurse recognised Dahlia from the gossip columns. In fact if Dahlia’s fears of publicity could have been wrapped up in a persona, it would have been that nurse. A typically dowdy mother of two who read the kinds of magazines that revealed in bringing the rich and famous back to earth with a thud. No pampering for her, just hard, dull work.

Even so, Dahlia felt only a little reassured. She paused: was this a good idea? It was all so thrilling before in the doctor’s office and at home. But here? She had no idea what she was going to find outside the door, let alone further afield.

“I… need to look around. Just see where I am first,” she answered quietly.

“Of course, here, put these on and I will show you around,” the doctor said as he passed her a long white dressing gown.

The clinic was housed inside a large country mansion that would have served as the country seat of a reasonably wealthy member of the aristocracy at the turn of the 20th Century. It soon became apparent that the house was equipped to deal with very few guests, confirming the doctor’s assertion that Dahlia would not accidentally bump into anyone else while stalking the long corridors.

As her sense of security grew, Dahlia began to realise the extent of the opportunity on offer. Total seclusion aside from a few staff, miles from any roving cameras and then there was that uniform. She simply could not put it out of her mind for any length of time. It all felt like anything was possible.

Still that nagging at the back of her head would not fade away. Was this what she really needed? To lose herself in this odd little ‘treatment’. She knew some of the therapies favoured by psychologists could seem odd to the casual observer. This surely would rank high among those. And ultimately where would it lead? To feel ordinary. To feel nothing special. To live like someone unremarkable.

Ever since she had been discovered by Tommy, life had been a roller coaster ride. Even before then, her looks had marked her out as someone popular at school, lifting her from the day-to-day concerns many of her contemporaries would have felt. She had lost touch with her classmates, but surely many of them lived ordinary lives devoid of any hint of fame, fortune or luxury. That was the case for most people after all, wasn’t it?

The doctor was offering a chance to be normal. Dahlia had lacked discipline for so long she had almost drifted onto the rocks that lined her graceful passage. Now was a chance to be steered onto a better route, to experience herself without all the trappings of her luxurious life and see her real self in the mirror.

By the time they returned to her room, she was brimming with an energy she had not felt for many years. “Do you need more time?” The doctor enquired softly, his eyes twinkling as he could see she was primed for this. She looked up and shook her slowly and fingered the name badge again.

Once left alone, Dahlia dressed in the knee-length polyester grey dress. As that familiar surge of pleasure rippled through her, it crossed her mind that this was the only dress she had right now, having been rushed to the hospital in just a light t-shirt and leggings. That thought was potent. “This is my only dress while I am here,” she said to herself as she put together the functional ensemble.

Inspecting herself in the mirror, she applied the wig. She had needed to wear wigs frequently for many runway shows, so she knew just how to secure her thick blonde mane under her new hair. The effect as always was slightly chilling. The luxuriousness of her tresses had long marked Dahlia out as something special among other models. To lose it, even playfully like this, robbed her of so much of her look.

The loose fitting grey dress drowned her lithe figure in a sea of polyester, erasing almost everything else that marked her out as special. The final touch, the thick rimmed glasses sent a shudder through her. Staring back at her was someone. Not Dahlia. Not Petra. She was still too slim to ever be mistaken for her. Her features were too slight and pretty. But whoever she was, she was not a model. 

She was not rich and famous. She would easily be mistaken for a member of staff here, not a guest. Her insides sizzled with a curious need for that. A deep-set desire to feel like a nobody coming to the fore. Melissa’s words, “you do not deserve it,” surging into her mind as she left the confines of her room.

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