Frazer Lee - The Lamplighters

Marla dropped the shampoo bottle onto her foot. Fuck . As she bent down to retrieve it, the shower curtain clung to her in a vile embrace. Joining the assault, the showerhead began to sputter cold water onto her back. Cursing wildly, she retreated to the safety of the sink and rinsed her hair there. Looking at her reflection in the chipped mirror, Marla spied a pimple forming on her chin. Brushing her teeth angrily, she climbed back into her bathrobe and sloped out into the hallway.

Glinting eyes peered out at her from a crack in her neighbor’s door. The dirty bastard was spying on her again. As she hurried by, she heard pornographic moaning from the TV set inside—the sound made Marla wince. This place was really beginning to get under her skin. She pushed her door. She’d locked herself out. Oh no. Oh please for the love of God no, not again. Now she’d have to face the landlady and get the spare set of keys, which would no doubt be accompanied by a lecture about not losing her keys. That lecture would be followed by the one about paying her rent on time. Marla suddenly felt suicidal. Maybe suicide wasn’t such a bad idea. Just kidding, she reminded herself, but it wasn’t such a bad idea, what she was thinking. The window to her room was still open after all. Strangely amused that her fear of her landlady was so great she’d be willing to risk life and limb to avoid speaking to her, Marla quickly ducked back into the bathroom.

Wrapping her bathrobe tightly around her, she opened the window as wide as it would go and looked out over the ledge. It was certainly wide enough for her to climb across, then she just had a short section of roof to navigate before she could climb in through her window. A pigeon flapped noisily from the eaves above her, egging her on with its dumb show. Marla clambered out, wincing at the chill air as it penetrated her bathrobe and whistled, freezing, around her nethers. Clinging to the arch of roof tiles above her she set off along the ledge, walking sideways like a crab. The wind picked up and her bathrobe rose up, billowing out suddenly and making her shriek like an embarrassed schoolgirl. It wasn’t long before she heard the wolf whistles from below. Great, someone had seen her—and invited his pals along to witness the spectacle too. Let them look, sad bastards. She wished that pimple had been forming on her backside, let them wolf whistle at that for a while. Marla reached the sloping section of the roof as the aural humiliation of hoots and lascivious cries railed on below her. Don’t look down. Don’t . Gasps from below now as her foot slid off the side of the roof, loosening a tile, which smashed noisily on the ground far below. Then loud cheers rang out as she corrected herself and clambered on up the slope to her window. She climbed inside and turned to shut the window. As she did so, she glimpsed a face pressed up against the glass of the window nearest hers. Her neighbor. He was naked. She closed the curtains.

Grabbing clothes from the floor, Marla dressed in a hurry and stuffed her door keys into her pocket vowing never to lock herself out again. Her make-up bag was almost exhausted, so she decided not to bother. She'd save what was left for a hot date. She snorted. Like that’d ever happen.

Minutes later and she was downstairs. Envelopes lay in disarray on the doormat. More damn junk mail. Still, she picked them up and dutifully separated them into neat little piles for the Mansions’ inmates. The landlady would like that. And a happy landlady was a forgiving landlady—she hoped, wincing as she replayed the sound of the roof tile shattering on the ground. Marla’s rent check was going to bounce again this month.

Sighing heavily, Marla saw the logo on the envelope first. It was one of those clunky, important corporate stamps. Then she saw her name, and a single rubber-stamped word in red.

URGENT.

Wincing at the chicory taste of the coffee, Marla put the cup down and added another two sugars. This was the worst café in London, no question, but on quiet days they never hassled her to free up the table. And today she really needed to be away from her crappy bed-sit and out of the rain.

She picked up the letter and read it again, slowly this time.

“Dear Ms. Neuborn,

I am writing with reference to a potential offer of employment. We acquired your details from the agency and believe you could be an ideal candidate. The position is one of housekeeping in a private Mediterranean community owned and operated by our parent group The Consortium Inc. We are confident you’ll agree that the job placement offers a paradise of opportunity to the right person. Please contact us to arrange an interview. Please note; should you prove to be a good fit, the job requires an immediate start.

Marla looked down at the cup. The agency? Surely she'd dropped off their records ages ago.

A sickly beige skin had already begun to form on her coffee.

Marla folded up the letter, paid the waitress, and headed for the nearest phone booth.

The voice on the phone had been friendly enough, but The Consortium Inc. Building was pure corporate terror. Nestled in among the higgledy-piggledy side streets of the City district, it had taken Marla three bus routes to find it. And so here she was, craning her neck up at it, a modernist megalith of black marble cladding and smoked glass. She took a breath, licked her lips, and stepped into the revolving doors.

Sealed off from the hustle and bustle of outside, the foyer was calm and still. Marla’s footsteps echoed as she approached the reception desk. The receptionist peered at her through layers of make-up, took her name and directed her to the sixth floor. Marla shuddered as she stepped into the elevator—any minute now and they’d find her out, pull her file, hear from the agency about her Big Mistake. It’d be a blessed relief, she thought, then I wouldn’t have to go through with the damn interview.

Ding. The elevator doors opened and Marla found herself in another reception area. This time, the desk was vacant, with a closed door just beyond it. Marla sat down in a brown leather sofa and waited. She was still, miraculously, five minutes early. The voice on the phone had seemed delighted that she could make it that very afternoon. Wouldn’t be so delighted if they’d read the tabloids , she thought beginning to panic again. Palms sweating, Marla stood up and opted for pacing the room instead of sitting. It helped. Her heart rate slowed and her hands became merely clammy instead of wet hot.

“Ms. Neuborn?”

Marla turned, and the voice on the phone now had a face, handsome and tanned, with a prominent jaw and strong hairline. He’d either had work done, or simply looked after himself. Maybe a bit of both.

“Marla?”

His teeth were so white.

“Yes that’s me,” she spluttered.

He thrust his hand out. Marla discreetly wiped her palm on her hip and shook his hand. What a grip—the guy definitely worked out.

“A pleasure to meet you. I’m Mr. Welland. But you can call me Bill. Come on in.”

Welland’s office was the cleanest room Marla had ever been in. Even her time in hospital had seen more dust than this. He asked her to take a seat and offered her a coffee. Trying not to recline into the soft comfort of the leather swivel chair, she refused the offer of a drink. Probably spill it all over his desk in a matter of seconds. Damn her nerves.

“So, I take it our letter came as something of a surprise?”

Marla cleared her throat, “You could say that, yes.”

“But a welcome one?”

He beamed at her.