ON THE COVER First Impressions

Sarah was missing the thrill of romance, but where could she find the right man for her?

Sarah sank back into her couch, balancing her tea and biscuits. She took a moment to admire the tidy environment she’d re-established.

She loved the children coming home from university for the weekend. She liked to hear their news, and to see them eat properly.

Sarah admitted that at nineteen and twenty-one years old, her offspring were on paper adults, but they still seemed very young to her.

Life was often tough, stressful and expensive, harder than when she and Liam started out; the children often seemed as vulnerable as they were on their first day of school.

She encouraged them to visit. She didn’t mind the extra work.

That said, they were incredibly messy. White towels became bruised with smudges of mascara, jars and bottles repelled their lids, bins spat out litter and tables were tattooed with coffee cup rings.

Sarah’s cleaner came every Wednesday and had been doing so for years. Sarah couldn’t live in this mess until Wednesday, so she tidied up herself. Besides, Maggie was not an especially effective cleaner; anything beyond light dusting was a stretch.

Still, Sarah wouldn’t dream of firing Maggie after many years of devotion (as Liam had done to Sarah). Maggie needed the extra money – and quite honestly, Sarah liked the company.

Sarah remembered thinking she was entitled to a cleaner, it was a social status thing. There were certain things a woman like her was supposed to have – a detached property, a cleaner, a window cleaner, a husband in the city.

She hadn’t been able to hold on to her husband, but she was determined to cling on to the rest.

Their divorce had been relatively amicable. Liam moved to Hong Kong with his younger, prettier, blonder (sillier!) PA. Sarah got the family home and enough cash. Guilt motivated him to find his way to a squabble-free divorce.

Sarah didn’t miss Liam any more; he was absent long before they divorced.

She sipped her tea and surveyed the now dust-free surfaces, the neatly stacked magazines and the polished floorboards with the same pleasure as other women ogled George Clooney. A tap at the front door disturbed her. “Afternoon, Sarah.” Sarah would prefer it if Michael, the window cleaner, called her Mrs Jackson; Sarah seemed too familiar. She tried to call him Mr Simmons (the name on his van); he’d make a joke about his dad being retired and insisted she call him Mike; they compromised with Michael.

“Can you refill my bucket, please?” Michael asked with a polite smile. He always asked for fresh water now, which Sarah loved. It was an unequivocal joy to her when the sunlight bounced through her streak-free windows. “Have you been cleaning?” he asked, craning his neck into the spotless hallway. “Looks like I could eat my dinner off your floors!”

She was SURPRISED to discover that he was EXTREMELY EASY to talk to

Michael was always cheerful and made pleasant small talk. On cold, blowy days he commented how fresh everything was; on a hot day he said it was lovely weather to be outside.

Liam had always been dour; he didn’t “do” chat. Not that it was fair to compare. Mike was a window cleaner and therefore carefree and with little responsibility, while Liam had an important job with a great deal of stress. He never noticed Sarah’s polished surfaces.

“Would you like a cold drink? I’ve some delicious home-made lemonade. It wasn’t made in this home. Farm shop

purchase. The children visited, we went for a bracing country walk.” Michael followed her. “How are the kids? Working hard?” “Fine, I think. The only thing they worry about is me. This month Amanda suggested I download a dating app. Last month she suggested a night class.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “She thinks I’m short on company.” “Are you?” “Not at all.” Michael had been cleaning Sarah’s windows for five years. For four of them they’d barely spoken. Sometimes she’d sit inside a room while he cleaned the windows outside. She wouldn’t acknowledge him, instead she’d bury her nose in her novel.

Sarah didn’t mean to be rude; she just didn’t know what to say to him. What could they have in common?

Then, about a year ago, Michael asked for some clean water and she obliged. Naturally, they shared a few words. Now they had a cup of tea or juice together almost every week.

Sarah was surprised to discover she found Michael very easy to talk to. He knew all about the trials of her children’s exams, he understood her anxiety as to whether she ought to move her fiercely independent father into an assisted living flat. How far must a good daughter go? He knew a lot about her life.

She knew nothing of his. He wore a wedding ring, so she thought any enquiry she might make would seem inappropriate. She also thought it would be inappropriate to admit that yes, sometimes she was short of a certain type of company.

She nervously searched around for a new topic of conversation. Suddenly Michael seemed very big and very male stood in her neat and gleaming kitchen.

Michael’s eyes flicked around the room and then settled – with some relief – on Sarah’s novel. “What are you reading?” “It’s the book group’s choice.” “Any good?” Michael picked up the book and started to read the blurb. Irrationally, Sarah felt embarrassed. She wasn’t sure it was the sort of book a window cleaner would enjoy. It was very deep and complex. It was a novel split into two parts; half set in nineteenth-century India, the other part twenty years in the future. “I’m enjoying it.” “Why?” Sarah always had a book on the go, sometimes two. She loved diving into stories and living other people’s lives for a short time. She enjoyed being challenged, exploring the world and growing her vocabulary, all from the comfort of her front room. But when anyone ever asked her about why she enjoyed reading she found it impossible to articulate.

“Oh, it’s erm, unexpected,” she mumbled. “Fancy a biscuit?’

Ithink he sounds interesting,” said Cath, with a cheeky, wink-wink grin that Sarah knew and dreaded. “Who sounds interesting?” asked Liz. “Sarah’s window cleaner.” “Oughtn’t we to talk about the book?” asked Sarah.

It frustrated her that every month the book group followed the same chaotic course. Wine would be poured, nibbles handed round, chatter and gossip would flow. The book would be forgotten.