Story: The Cleaner Returns. Chapters 53-54.

 by BigBird74

Hilltop had many advantages. The biggest, as its name suggests, is that it sits atop a particularly steep hill that overlooks Barton in the valley below. Its isolated position ensures a great deal of privacy and was one of the reasons Dahlia originally opted for it. However, for someone of Dahlia’s current physique, it was something of a nightmare to climb. Of course, to those with a car, this poses few problems, but to those forced to use public transport, the nearest bus stop is several hundred metres down a winding road.

Never having taken a bus to Hilltop before, Dahlia was not completely sure of where the stop was and was looking anxiously from the misted window for clues that she was getting close. The bus was crowded and Dahlia had been crammed into the passenger well with a half dozen other people, all tired and irritable. If people’s faces do truly show how they have lived their lives, this group had been particularly hard done by. As it juddered along the road, the bus kept coming to a sudden halt, throwing all the standing passengers forwards and onto one another. After being hounded by those kids in Barton, Dahlia was hypersensitive to any signs that the other passengers would find her disagreeable. But, fortunately or not, a pall of various body odours hung over them all. Tired, hot and sweaty people, all mixing together. Each time the bus swerved, Dahlia found herself instinctively reaching to push back her hair. Years of habit left her fingering her short masculine haircut, feeling sick to the core that this time she could not remove her wig to reveal her golden tresses. No this time it was real and it could be permanent. For all her bodily changes, her hair had acted as a kind of mask or shield. Now, without it, she felt unattractive and exposed, and was doing her best to avoid making eye contact with any of her fellow passengers.

The bus slowly climbed out of the valley, gradually disgorging its passengers along the way. Cleaners, manual labourers, younger people. To Dahlia’s mild dismay, it seemed her stop was one of the very last. By the time she started to recognise where she was, other than the driver, she was the only passenger left on the bus. Even so the constant rocking motion and heat left her feeling woozy, so it came as an enormous relief when she was finally able to step off the bus.

It took Dahlia almost 20 minutes to climb the rest of the steep hill to her home. As she neared the front gates, she saw them wide open, a couple of expensive cars sitting on the gravel driveway. The entrance to Hilltop was one of its most attractive features, with tidy gardens lining each side of the circular driveway. The gravel crunched under Dahlia’s tired feet, her heavy legs aching as she walked to the front door. As she went to try the handle, something stayed her hand. Ms Nechita had scolded her on a few occasions about entering a room without knocking first and Melissa’s warning in the car – that she must not screw up and play the part – made her spine shiver. Whoever the visitor was, they had to be sure that Melissa was Dahlia and she herself was in fact Petra.

Dahlia rung the door and waited. After a couple of minutes, she heard footsteps approaching. As the person drew nearer, she could make out the clipped sound of heels on expensive tiled floors. Before she could finish that thought, the door was flung wide open and standing there was a tall, attractive black woman.

“Yes, can I help you?”

Such a straightforward question, yet so loaded with potential problems. Dahlia seemed unsure how to answer. She had no idea who this woman was, nor what she did. There was no sign of her sister anywhere and, for a second, she wondered if she had the right address.

The woman’s dark eyes hinted at a great deal of impatience. This was clearly a busy woman who did not like having her time wasted. Dahlia felt scared and cornered, and answered the only way she could: “I am Petra. I am here to start my cleaning job. Miss Western…”

Fortunately for Dahlia, her sister interrupted her. “Ah, yes, I forgot to mention Petra. I took the liberty of organising the cleaner beforehand. I am sure she will be suitable, she came with good references,” Melissa reassured the woman, rapidly defusing a situation that might have spun out of control.

Both women turned to Dahlia, neither looking pleased to be actually speaking to her. “She is a live-in maid?” the black woman asked, looking surprised.

“No. She comes from Barton, the local town. I know. She is not much to look at, but she really is highly recommended,” Melissa continued and, on seeing the other woman’s questioning gaze, felt compelled to explain. “Of course, if she disappoints, we can replace her.”

Dahlia’s face turned pale as she realised that Melissa must have already been living at Hilltop for some days. As well as taking on new employees, it seems she had already started rearranging the house. Certain features were different. A commode that had sat on the upstairs landing was now placed along the entrance hall. A new picture hung where Dahlia used to have an abstract painting. The more she looked, the more she saw differences. The new employee was clearly the thin end of a big wedge that Melissa wanted to drive between Dahlia’s old life and a new one her sister wanted to forge.  The effect was a little like deja-vu, the feeling that, somehow, you are experiencing something for the second time and are somehow aware of what might happen.

Since Melissa announced they would return to Hilltop, Dahlia had paid scant thought to what to expect when they came back. In the back of her mind she had just assumed that the tumultuous relationship between herself and her sister would somehow flip, with Melissa now the one with the money, house and looks, while Dahlia became the supplicant. Despite their mutual animosity, Dahlia had always been there for her sister whenever she had come cap-in-hand. In her naïve way, she now expected the same kind of relationship. But the thought had crossed Dahlia’s mind that Melissa may not see ‘Petra’ as her sister. She was already altering things in the house and employing new personnel, but would she somehow remove me from the equation altogether?

As Melissa spoke to her assistant, she avoided making eye contact with Dahlia, who was desperate to make even the slightest connection with her sister to help calm her jangling nerves. Melissa, of course, knew exactly what she was doing. By placing someone between them, she lessened her contact with her sister, alienating her as much as she judged possible at that moment.

“Okay. You deal with her then,” Melissa told the woman impatiently, clearly wanting to be elsewhere.  

“Wait. May I just ask… a…,” Dahlia started to ask, then stopped as a look of thunder crossed both women’s faces.

Dahlia had never felt as submissive as she had that moment. She had trapped herself completely. She needed Melissa to keep silent about what had happened and, yet, for all that was happening, she could scarcely believe that Melissa wanted to sideline her to this extent. The way she looked at me without an ounce of recognition was astonishing. She did not even seem intrigued by how I now looked after the loss of my hair. It felt for a moment like I really was ‘Petra’ and not her sister.

“Come with me.” The black woman’s icy tone betrayed her angry feelings as she motioned for Dahlia to follow her to the kitchen.

Closing the door firmly behind her, the stranger started on a minute’s long harangue in which she made crystal clear that Dahlia was never to speak to Ms Western unless she deigned to ask a question, or spoke to her directly. Cementing her place in the house’s hierarchy between the two sisters, she went on to explain that she was the only person Dahlia could approach and that she would be dealing with her on a day-to-day basis.

After taking a moment to calm herself, the woman went on to introduce herself and explain Petra’s duties. As she spoke, it was obvious that she was a highly experienced Personal Assistant. And, by the usual standards of the job, a very powerful one. Dahlia herself had been through a number of them in her time and understood that you could grow to rely on them a little too much. Melissa was yet to experience this and it was clear that Katherine – the name of the assistant – was intent on filling as big a space as circumstances allowed.

One thing that became clear immediately was that Ms Nechita had trained Dahlia reasonably well. Many of the duties she listed did not faze Dahlia in the slightest. Part of the reason could also have been a growing impatience within Dahlia. She needed to know one thing above all others: where would she be staying in Barton? The prospect of returning to that horrible town filled her with dread. Perhaps she could endure the daily humiliation of seeing her sister take her place here in her own home, but to be forced to live as… Petra… oh god! That was simply too much.

As the day ground on, and the issue remained unresolved, the nervous energy building within Dahlia reached a crescendo and she took the impulsive step of confronting her sister. The afternoon had been spent working downstairs, cleaning the hallway, stairs and kitchen. Now that Katherine had stepped out into the garden for a cigarette, Dahlia knew she had to find her sister.

Dahlia could guess whereabouts in the house she might be and headed directly for her dressing room. The house had been laid out so that the bedroom faced south and lots of natural light flooded into the top floor. Dahlia loved the feeling of freedom she got every time she had entered her bedroom, typically at the end of a long, busy day. She knew that, once inside, she could simply shut the door on all the anxieties and worries that had crowded around her. Things were distinctly different today. Rather than a sanctuary, her bedroom felt more like a lion’s den. It had been so long since she had been in the refuge of her bedroom and she grew dizzy for a moment, as though she were lost. Nothing felt right and then, as she stepped into the body of the room, she saw what looked like a reflection of herself from months ago. Melissa was looking directly at her sister, dressed beautifully in a soft silk dress that extended to the floor, forming a pool of expensive silk at her feet. The neckline was low and formed a beautiful V that exposed her generous cleavage perfectly. Her long, golden hair was made up in very loose curls, styled to fall seductively over her face and accentuate her shapely neck. The contrast with Dahlia and her sorry state was extreme. She felt like the wind in her sails had dropped to nothing.

“Yes?” She demanded of Dalia

“I… I came here to see. Are… you serious? About me staying in Barton?” Dahlia stuttered.

“That is where you live. Or have you taken leave of your senses… Petra?” She smiled as she paused to emphasise the name, turning back to admire herself in a long, floor length mirror.

“Melissa… I… do not know…” Dahlia started, only to be cut off immediately.

“What did you say Petra? What did you call me?” Melissa’s tone was acid, stinging me with its ferocity. “I warned you. No mistakes. Do you want me to tell Katherine to fire you? Then what? What will you do? Huh?”

Melissa had crossed the room and was in Dahlia’s face. “If you fuck this up, you fat slob, I swear there will be tribesmen in the farthest parts of the world that will know just what you did to yourself. I am the model now! I am the beautiful one!” she slammed Dahlia, jabbing a pointed finger into Dahlia’s fleshy chest. “Just look at what a mess you are. That awful haircut. You look terrible!”

Dahlia felt absolute shock. She might have started crying if not for being frozen in place by the sheer terror she felt. Would Melissa do that? Would she drag everything down? Dahlia was in no fit state to test her and simply bowed her head and nodded. “You are… You are … Ms. Western.”

As though entering some kind of survival mode and feeling Melissa was already unhinged enough, Dahlia backed off, not wanting to risk the situation unravelling further. But she still needed to know what to do. She pushed again, but carefully, making sure she played the part properly.

“P..Please Ms Western. I just needed to know if… there was somewhere I could stay?”

Like the sudden ending of a child’s tantrum, Melissa remained silent for a moment before speaking up, this time in a coolly offhand and measured tone. She turned to her dressing table and scribbled a note on a piece of paper, before handing it to a visibly shaken Dahlia.

Clutching at the paper in her trembling hand, Dahlia looked down and saw an address written there: 27 Edge Road, 7pm.

“Go. And remember. No fucking up!” Melissa turned away from Dahlia, who, close to tears, turned and left the room as fast as her vast bulk would permit.

 

Subscribe to Lady2Maid Blog Newsletter