Chapter 152: Chapter 152 Ropes of business STILL ON LORENZO AND DANICA’s BACKSTORY:
LORENZO
It was dusk when I return to my flat. Drained and a little drunk, learning the ropes of business wasn’t easy.
As I flopped down on the sofa in front of the large TV in my spotless, empty flat, my mind wandered as it had all day, back to the conversation I had this morning with the dark-eyed cleaner.
Where was she now?
What did she look like without the shapeless housecoat on? What color was her hair? Dark like her eyebrows?
How old was she? She looked young. Too young, maybe.
I was young though. I was just twenty but people always said I looked older.
She must be of legal age, right?
She couldn’t be younger than that.
Too young for what?
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and clicked through the TV channels. Perhaps my reaction to her was a one-off. I mean, she looked like a nun.
The TV wasn’t fun to watch. I switched it off.
Restless, I sat down at my desk and open Mail on the iMac. There were a few e-mails from my secretary had sent over.
I didn’t want to deal with on a Friday evening. They can wait until Monday. I checked the time, and I was surprised that it’s only 8:00 P.M, too early to go out, and the thought of a crowded club didn’t appeal to me right now.
Feeling cooped up but reluctant to leave my flat, I wandered over to the piano and took a seat. A composition I’d started weeks and weeks ago sat neglected on the rest. I followed the notes, the melody sounding in my head, and before I knew it, my fingers were pressing the keys and playing the tune. The image of a young girl in blue with dark, dark eyes that stripped me bare popped into my head. New notes form in a flurry, and I continued to improvise, playing beyond where my composition had stalled.
Bloody hell!
In a rare rush of excitement, I stopped, fish my phone out of my pocket, and find the voice-memo app. Hitting the RECORD button, I began again. The notes rang out through the room. Evocative. Melancholic. Stirring me. Inspiring me.
I am the cleaner, sir.
Yes. I speak English. My name is Danica Diaz.
Danica.
When I looked at my watch, it was after midnight. Stretching my arms above my head, I examined the manuscript in front of me. It was complete. I had written a whole piece, and I was overwhelmed with a sense of achievement. How long have I been trying to do this?
And all it took was meeting my new cleaner. I shook my head, and for once I go to bed early and alone.
It was with trepidation that Danica unlocked the door to the apartment with the piano. Her heart sunk when she was met with the unnerving silence of the alarm. The hush meant that the confusing, green-eyed Boss was in residence. He had invaded her dreams ever since she’d seen him sprawled naked on his bed. But during her weekend, in quiet moments, all she’d been able to think about was him. She didn’t understand why, though perhaps it was the brief, penetrating stare he gave her when he towered over her in the hallway or because he was handsome and tall and lean, with dimples on his back, above his muscled, athletic behind... Stop! Her wayward thoughts were out of control. Quietly, she slipped off her wet boots and socks, then scampered in her bare feet down the hallway through the kitchen. The counter was littered with beer bottles and takeaway boxes, but Danica scuttled into the safety of the laundry room. She propped her boots on the radiator along with her socks in the hope they might dry out before she leaves. Peeling off her wet hat and gloves, she hung them on the hook beside the boiler, then removes the anorak that sister Magda gave her. She placed it on the same hook and frowned as water drips onto the tiled floor. Her jeans were soaked from the torrential rain, too. She shivered as she removed them and struggled into her housecoat, grateful that the plastic bag had kept it dry. The hem falls to below her knees, so that she was not immodest without her jeans. Peeking into the kitchen, she checked that he was not there. He was probably still asleep, so she popped her sodden jeans into the dryer and switched it on. At least they’ll be dry when she goes home. Her feet were red and itch with cold, so she grabbed a dry towel from the pile of clean laundry and rubbed them both vigorously, massaging life back into her toes. Once they were warm, she slipped on her sneakers. “Danica?” Oh! The Boss is awake! What did he want? As quickly as her chilled fingers will let her, she pulled her scarf from the plastic bag and tied it around her head, conscious that her hair was also wet. Taking a deep breath, she exited the laundry room to find him standing in the kitchen. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to find some warmth.
It was with trepidation that Danica unlocked the door to the apartment with the piano. Her heart sunk when she was met with the unnerving silence of the alarm. The hush meant that the confusing, green-eyed Boss was in residence. He had invaded her dreams ever since she’d seen him sprawled naked on his bed. But during her weekend, in quiet moments, all she’d been able to think about was him. She didn’t understand why, though perhaps it was the brief, penetrating stare he gave her when he towered over her in the hallway or because he was handsome and tall and lean, with dimples on his back, above his muscled, athletic behind... Stop! Her wayward thoughts were out of control. Quietly, she slipped off her wet boots and socks, then scampered in her bare feet down the hallway through the kitchen. The counter was littered with beer bottles and takeaway boxes, but Danica scuttled into the safety of the laundry room. She propped her boots on the radiator along with her socks in the hope they might dry out before she leaves. Peeling off her wet hat and gloves, she hung them on the hook beside the boiler, then removes the anorak that sister Magda gave her. She placed it on the same hook and frowned as water drips onto the tiled floor. Her jeans were soaked from the torrential rain, too. She shivered as she removed them and struggled into her housecoat, grateful that the plastic bag had kept it dry. The hem falls to below her knees, so that she was not immodest without her jeans. Peeking into the kitchen, she checked that he was not there. He was probably still asleep, so she popped her sodden jeans into the dryer and switched it on. At least they’ll be dry when she goes home. Her feet were red and itch with cold, so she grabbed a dry towel from the pile of clean laundry and rubbed them both vigorously, massaging life back into her toes. Once they were warm, she slipped on her sneakers. “Danica?” Oh! The Boss is awake! What did he want? As quickly as her chilled fingers will let her, she pulled her scarf from the plastic bag and tied it around her head, conscious that her hair was also wet. Taking a deep breath, she exited the laundry room to find him standing in the kitchen. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to find some warmth.
“Hi,” he began, and smiled.
Danica glanced at him. His smile aas dazzling, lighting up his handsome face and his emerald eyes. She looked away, blinded by his good looks and embarrassed by her creeping blush.
. But she felt a little warmer.
He had been so cross the last time she saw him, what has brought about this change of heart?
“Danica?” he said again.
“Yes, sir,” she answered, keeping her eyes lowered. At least he was dressed this time.
“I just wanted to say hi.”
She peeked up at him but didn’t understand what he wanted. His smile wasn’t as broad this time, and his brow was furrowed.
“Hi,” she said, uncertain what was expected of her.
He nodded and shuffled from one foot to the other, hesitant. She thought he might say something further, but he turned and left the kitchen.
LORENZO What an idiot I am! I mimic “Hi” to myself in ridicule. I’ve thought of nothing but this girl all weekend, and the best I can come up with is, “I just wanted to say hi?” What the fuck is wrong with me? I wandered back to my bedroom and notice a trail of wet footprints on the hallway floor. Did she walk barefoot in the rain? Surely not! My room was gloomy, and the view across was drab and uninspiring. The rain is lashing down outside. It had been pelting against the window early this morning and the noise had woken me. Shit. She must have walked through this atrocious weather. Again I wonder where she lives and how far she has to come. I had hoped to engage her in some conversation this morning to find out these details, but I can tell I make her uncomfortable. Is it me or is it men in general? It’s a troubling thought. Maybe I’m the one who’s uncomfortable. After all, she chased me out of the flat last week and the idea that I fled to avoid her is disconcerting. I resolve not to let it happen again. The fact is, she’s inspired me. The whole weekend I’ve immersed myself in my music. It’s provided a distraction from all my newfound and unwanted responsibility and my seconds thoughts about working at the company or maybe I’ve found a way to channel my longing for another life. Truth was, I have always wanted to do music but my family wouldn’t hear of it. So here I was, working in the family’s business against my will. I had given up on music before but since meeting my new cleaner, I had three pieces completed, sketchy ideas for two more, and I’m tempted to put lyrics to one of them. I’ve ignored my phone, my e-mail, everyone, and for once in my life I’ve found solace in my own company. It’s been a revelation. Who knew I could be so productive? What I don’t understand is why she’s affected me like this when we’ve only exchanged a few words. It doesn’t make sense to me, but I don’t want to overthink it. I picked up my phone from the bedside table and look down at the bed. The bedding is in complete disarray.
LORENZO What an idiot I am! I mimic “Hi” to myself in ridicule. I’ve thought of nothing but this girl all weekend, and the best I can come up with is, “I just wanted to say hi?” What the fuck is wrong with me? I wandered back to my bedroom and notice a trail of wet footprints on the hallway floor. Did she walk barefoot in the rain? Surely not! My room was gloomy, and the view across was drab and uninspiring. The rain is lashing down outside. It had been pelting against the window early this morning and the noise had woken me. Shit. She must have walked through this atrocious weather. Again I wonder where she lives and how far she has to come. I had hoped to engage her in some conversation this morning to find out these details, but I can tell I make her uncomfortable. Is it me or is it men in general? It’s a troubling thought. Maybe I’m the one who’s uncomfortable. After all, she chased me out of the flat last week and the idea that I fled to avoid her is disconcerting. I resolve not to let it happen again. The fact is, she’s inspired me. The whole weekend I’ve immersed myself in my music. It’s provided a distraction from all my newfound and unwanted responsibility and my seconds thoughts about working at the company or maybe I’ve found a way to channel my longing for another life. Truth was, I have always wanted to do music but my family wouldn’t hear of it. So here I was, working in the family’s business against my will. I had given up on music before but since meeting my new cleaner, I had three pieces completed, sketchy ideas for two more, and I’m tempted to put lyrics to one of them. I’ve ignored my phone, my e-mail, everyone, and for once in my life I’ve found solace in my own company. It’s been a revelation. Who knew I could be so productive? What I don’t understand is why she’s affected me like this when we’ve only exchanged a few words. It doesn’t make sense to me, but I don’t want to overthink it. I picked up my phone from the bedside table and look down at the bed. The bedding is in complete disarray.
Bloody hell, I’m a slob.
Hastily, I make the bed. From the pile of clothes discarded on my sofa, I grab a black-hooded sweatshirt and slip it on over my T-shirt. It’s chilly. With wet feet she’s probably cold, too. In the hallway I stop and turn the thermostat up by a few degrees. I don’t like the idea of her feeling the cold.
She comes out of the kitchen carrying an empty laundry basket and a plastic caddy full of cleaning fluids and cloths. Head down, she walks right past me toward my bedroom. I regard her retreating figure in the shapeless housecoat: long pale legs, a gentle sway of slim hips...are those bright pink underpants I can see through the nylon? From beneath the headscarf a rich brunette plait snakes down her back to just above the line of her pink underwear, and it swings from side to side as she walks. I know I should look away, but I’m distracted by her underwear. They cover her backside and come up to her waist. They are possibly the largest knickers I’ve seen on a woman. And my body stirs like I’m a thirteen-year-old boy.
Fuck! I groan inwardly, feeling like a pervert, and resist the urge to follow her. Instead I head into the study, where I sit down at my computer to work through my e-mails from my secretary and ignore my lust and my cleaner, Danica Diaz.
Danica is surprised to find that his bed has been made. Every time she’s been to his apartment, this room has always been a mess. There is still a pile of clothes on the sofa, but it looks tidier than she’s ever seen it. She opens the curtains fully and stares out at the river. “Wow.” She whispers the word aloud, her voice wavering a little. It’s dark and gray like the naked trees on the opposite bank. Not like home. Here it’s urban and crowded, so crowded. Back at home she was surrounded by fertile countryside and snowcapped mountains. She sweeps away the painful thought of home. She is here to do a job, a job she wants because it comes with the added bonus of the piano. She wonders if he’s going to be here all day, and the thought that he might bothers her. His presence will keep her from playing her favorite pieces. But on the plus side, she gets to see him. The man who’s been dominating her dreams. She has to stop thinking about him. Now. With a heavy heart, she begins to hang some of the scattered clothes in his walk-in closet. Those that she thinks need washing she places in the laundry basket.
Danica is surprised to find that his bed has been made. Every time she’s been to his apartment, this room has always been a mess. There is still a pile of clothes on the sofa, but it looks tidier than she’s ever seen it. She opens the curtains fully and stares out at the river. “Wow.” She whispers the word aloud, her voice wavering a little. It’s dark and gray like the naked trees on the opposite bank. Not like home. Here it’s urban and crowded, so crowded. Back at home she was surrounded by fertile countryside and snowcapped mountains. She sweeps away the painful thought of home. She is here to do a job, a job she wants because it comes with the added bonus of the piano. She wonders if he’s going to be here all day, and the thought that he might bothers her. His presence will keep her from playing her favorite pieces. But on the plus side, she gets to see him. The man who’s been dominating her dreams. She has to stop thinking about him. Now. With a heavy heart, she begins to hang some of the scattered clothes in his walk-in closet. Those that she thinks need washing she places in the laundry basket.