Getting a Taste for It

Hannah never said anything to anyone about anything. Not ever. Discreet was how everyone described her. ‘My lips are sealed,’ she’d say, in response to requests to keep a secret. At their habitual Friday night dinner out, while her friends oohed and aahed over tawdry titbits of gossip about people she neither knew nor cared about, she resorted to reading the news on her phone. It was distasteful to her. She was above all that.

Until that Monday in April. She’d not been cleaning for the Davidson’s for long. It was the third house in her cleaning portfolio, part of the one-woman business she’d set up after her ten-year stint working at the bakery had finally succeeded in almost boring her to death.

The three houses she looked after were enormous, in a leafy, rich suburb, all on a quaint cul-de-sac called Yew Tree Crescent, all owned by influential and wealthy families. If I’ll never live in a house like this, she’d reasoned, I may as well clean them. It was the only way Hannah would ever darken the door of such places. She was from the wrong part of town, hadn’t had the right education, didn’t drive the right car or wear the right clothes.

Yet Hannah was rich in different ways. Blessed with a natural intelligence and clear insight, she had most people weighed up within minutes of meeting them. And these well-healed people, well…they weren’t so different from her. Beneath their controlled and polished veneer were the same flaws and insecurities that everyone had, only the stakes were bigger.

It was getting towards lunchtime when she took a few seconds’ break from polishing the parquet floor in the huge hallway. After her last visit, Mrs Davidson had pointed out in a detailed text message areas of her work that needed improvement, so Hannah was keen to double check her efforts. Skirting along the edges of the floor, scanning all the nooks and crannies for hidden dust, Hannah’s attention was drawn to the drawl of Mr Davidson’s voice coming from his office. He was a dour man with a permanently haughty expression, and completely lacking in charisma. Hannah often wondered how he’d managed to climb up the greasy pole. He hadn’t charmed his way up, that much was certain. But then, accountants were never renowned for their sparkling wit, were they? As long as he was creative with their money, she imagined that his wealthy clients could forgive his blandness.

Today, though, he sounded borderline animated, the pitch of his voice higher and sounding more breathy. Hannah couldn’t resist. She simply had to know what was contributing to this change in behaviour that if Mr Davidson wasn’t careful might quickly turn into an emotion. She put her ear against the door. To be honest, she’d have looked through the keyhole if there’d been one. The sound of his distant footsteps echoed, reassuring Hannah that he was at the other side of the room. She was safe to hover for a while, and held her breath as she tried to pick up on his conversation.

‘Yes, I know it’s taken me a while, but I’ve been married 40 years. The timing had to be right.’ Hannah gasped, her eyes straying to the family photos that decorated the walls. Not just snaps, but proper posed studio pictures, pictures of family perfection in thick oak frames. Mr Davidson’s voice became more gentle. ‘But now the plan is in place we can go ahead. Look…I know you’re making sacrifices… I’ll be leaving on Friday, as soon as Rebecca goes out… Gosh, I hate going behind her back like this. I’m sure she suspects something. I’m just desperate to get it over with. All this sneaking around is wearing me out.’

Hannah had to clasp her hand over her mouth. Whoever would have thought? Cheating on his wife, planning to leave her, and all the time playing the role of the perfect husband. How many times had she heard Mrs Davidson talk about him like he was some kind of hero? Well perhaps he was to her. But he’d gone even further down in Hannah’s estimation, that was for sure.

A bedroom door banged upstairs, the sound reverberating through the house. ‘I…I’ve got to go Sarah,’ he whispered. ‘I think Rebecca’s up and about… Can you believe that by this weekend we’ll be sitting together over dinner? I can barely wait, darling.’ And with that his footsteps advanced towards the door.

Hannah scooted into the adjacent room and jammed her earphones in, before walking with purpose back into the hallway, feigning surprise as she almost collided with Mr Davidson. He took several steps backwards, frowning at her. ‘Oh, sorry Mr Davidson,’ she said innocently. ‘Perhaps if you didn’t have those things in your ears, Anna, you’d have heard me coming,’ he said, with all the air of an exasperated father. ‘It’s Hannah,’ she corrected, smiling, then she watched him disappear into the study, the epitome of the suburban sexagenarian in his v-neck cashmere sweater and pressed beige trousers. ‘I know what you’re up to,’ Hannah thought to herself smugly. At the back of her mind, though, she was disappointed that her usual gift of judging characters had let her down.

Rebecca was busying herself in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. Hannah watched her briefly before saying hello, a feeling close to pity washing over her as Rebecca hummed to herself, completely blind to what was coming. Should she say something? Would she want to know if it were the other way round? Rebecca turned and beamed at her, praising Hannah for her thorough and diligent cleaning (although she had found some dust bunnies under the sofa) and how she was so pleased the house would look its best in light of the party she had planned for next week, that she was ‘so incredibly excited about’. Oh gosh, there was no way Hannah could burst her bubble now, even if she was slightly miffed by the criticism. So she did the next best thing and told the gardener.

‘Never!’ exclaimed James. ‘I’ve been working for them and some of their friends for years now. Steady as anything, Mr Davidson. It just show you, doesn’t it? Always the quiet ones…’ Hannah nodded empathetically, even if until today she would have described him as dull rather than quiet. ‘Should I tell Mrs Davidson?’ she asked, though asking a fifty-year-old gardener, three times divorced, for advice on relationships seemed absurd the minute the words came out of her mouth. Martin shrugged. ‘Dunno. It’s not my topic really. Perhaps ask Betty. She’s like a second mother to Rebecca.’

Hannah tracked Betty down to the laundry room, puffing and panting as she went about her business. Of all the staff, Betty was the longest serving, knowing the family intimately, and she had to lean against the counter in the laundry room when Hannah broke the news to her. ‘Goodness, I feel a bit weird,’ she said, taking deep breaths, the colour draining from her usually rosy cheeks. ‘Poor Rebecca. Friday? That’s when she goes to yoga. I’ll have to make sure I’m around to pick up the pieces. Poor love. And those poor kiddies.’ Well the kids were well in their thirties, but Hannah knew what she meant, and she scrabbled around in her pocket for a tissue. ‘Thanks Hannah... I’m only the housekeeper, I never thought I’d have to deal with this sort of thing.’ She sniffed and straightened her back. ‘What a rat!’, she said, pulling her apron straight. ‘Only this morning he was talking about the party, like everything was normal. I don’t think I’ll be able to look him in the eye, I really don’t. Just wait till I tell Carmen.’

Carmen was the housekeeper next door, at the Smythe-Warner house, and currently dating James the gardener, who did the Smythe-Warner garden too (as well as the garden of the Henderson’s house next door to that), and James’ daughter Maisie was their nanny. Maisie’s boyfriend Scott was the handyman for all three houses in the exclusive cul-de-sac. Just as Hannah was the cleaner at all three. For the next few days Hannah stood back in awe as word of Mr Davidson’s affair weaved itself into the tangled web of maintenance people on Yew Tree Crescent. Never had she witnessed such a frenzy. The whispering, the knowing glances, the constant buzz of her phone from desperate people seeking juicy updates. Hannah found it all an absolute joy to behold. By Thursday the rumour had gone full circle, coming back to Hannah via the postman, though truth be told she had to remind herself of the original, as it had by now become an elaborate and twisted version of itself. Not only was Mr Davidson planning to leave, but it had also been years in the making, with talk of off-shore bank accounts, pseudonyms, and a secret bolt-hole in the city. Credit where it was due though. Nothing filtered up the ranks. The owners of the houses, Mrs Davidson included, were blissfully ignorant.

It was a dismal, dreary day on the Friday. Hannah arrived at work to find Betty almost apoplectic, while the Davidson’s swanned around oblivious. ‘Goodbye Rebecca,’ said Mr Davidson, without betraying a hint of emotion. ‘Bye John. Don’t forget about tonight.’ He nodded, and watched her get into her 4x4. Once she had exited the drive, Hannah, dusting the intricate sideboard in the sitting room, heard his office door close. A few moments later, he reappeared, coat on, with his car keys in one hand and an envelope in the other. He duly propped the letter against one of the family photos on a chest of drawers in the hallway, which Hannah found unnecessarily cruel. Her heart skipped a beat. So it really was true then. ‘I think you’ve polished that enough, Anna,’ he remarked on his way to the front door. ‘It’s Hannah,’ she said, but the door slammed on her words.

It was two hours later when the familiar whirring of Mrs Davidson’s car engine announced her return from yoga. At that point James appeared from nowhere, deciding that the pot plants in the entranceway required his urgent attention. Hannah and Betty, lurking in the hallway, jumped when her car door clunked shut. Mrs Davidson, looking flawless despite her work-out, did a double-take when she saw them both there, but was immediately distracted by the envelope, which was addressed to her. She frowned and ripped it open, staring at the contents, her hand covering her mouth and tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Did…did you know about this?’ she stammered to Betty, who looked down at her feet. Too flustered to wait for Betty’s reply, Mrs Davidson headed for the kitchen, the thud of the door sending a clear signal that no-one was welcome.

Hannah, Betty and James exchanged awkward glances, none of them noticing Mr Davidson’s car until the last minute, as it came to a standstill behind his wife’s. And next to him in the passenger seat? A woman. ‘The brazen cheek of it!’ exclaimed Betty, squinting for a better look. He’s definitely got a type, Hannah thought to herself. The woman, getting out of the car now, was very similar to Mrs Davidson, slim, blonde, similar age, but admittedly a less manicured version. The two of them filed past the staff, barely acknowledging them, Mr Davidson calling his wife’s name. On hearing her footsteps and the creak of the kitchen door handle, he put his arm around the other woman and squeezed her shoulders. They looked at one another fondly. A united front. Rebecca looked at the two of them and froze. ‘Sarah!’ she exclaimed, throwing her arms around her. ‘I can’t believe it!’ Tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘Your sister’s going to look after the house for two months while I take you away for our wedding anniversary. We leave after the party. For that cruise you always wanted to go on.’ Rebecca gasped. ‘The tickets…in the envelope…gosh John’. She turned to her sister. ‘You came all the way from Australia? For me?’ Sarah nodded. ‘It took some planning, I can tell you,’ she said.

Hannah sidled outside to stand with James, who was smirking to himself. ‘Talk about getting the wrong end of the stick!’ he said under his breath. Hannah burst out laughing. There’d been no real harm done, and for those few days, John Davidson had been the talk of the town, a phrase that had probably never before been assigned to him.

And as for Hannah? Well, what fun she’d had. Who knew gossip could be so entertaining? Sitting in the Italian restaurant that evening, her stomach flipped as her friend leaned over to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. ‘Hannah…did you hear about your next-door-neighbour?’ She shook her head, feigning indifference. ‘Well, if I tell you, you’re not to say anything. Promise?’ Hannah’s eyes twinkled. ‘My lips are sealed’.