I Came to Find a Girl by Jaq Hazell Page B

not say. That reminds me; I wanted to ask you something. On television there was artist who left a tap running in an art gallery. He said it was to show how we all waste so much.”
    Flood looks at Rita intently. “What did you think?”
    “It is not art. It cannot be. It takes no talent to turn on a tap. Anyone can do that. Does it not make you mad when you spend so many hours drawing and painting and someone just turns on a tap? Look, I can do it now. I am artist also.”
    “Why not, Rita – you’re a lousy cleaner.”
    “You not happy with my cleaning?” She pauses, hands on hips.
    “I’m kidding. Here, turn around, look at the camera – allow me to introduce you: this is Rita, my overqualified cleaner from Hungary. Wave, Rita.’’
    “Why you always have that thing on?”
    “I won’t miss anything.” He looks into the lens.
    “What you mean?”
    “I’m expecting a visitor – Mr Moneybags.”
    “Who is that?”
    “Nicholas Drake, my patron.” Flood rearranges his cameras, training one on the entrance and one on the main studio area.
    “Why you want to film everybody all the time?”
    “Do you not wish to know what lies beneath? I’m going to record his arrival. I have to know whether he gets it or not. Should be fun, don’t you think?”
    She shrugs. “If you say so.”
    “That’s what I love about staff – they have to agree with you. Right, I’m just going to play that back – make sure it’s set up properly. There, beautiful – did you notice how I’ve positioned it by my Seventies deluxe leather couch?”
    “That is new? I like.”
    The sofa is black and worn and yet stylish in a retro fashion.
    “I’ve had a sudden improvement in circumstances.” Flood grins. “Drake has bought five works from my Nottingham show, though he’s yet to take delivery – there are still a few weeks left to run, and then it’s on to London.”
    “Then you won’t have to travel there the whole time leaving poor Dora?”
    “Lovely Rita, artist’s maid….” From behind, Flood puts his hands on Rita’s waist as he sings. “Uh oh, she didn’t like that – better shut up.” He wags his finger at the camera as if he’s telling off a young child.
    “This is impossible. How am I supposed to clean when I cannot move a thing?” Rita pushes at the Hoover attachments.
    “Don’t complain, Rita – that’s not part of the agreement. Just do the best you can, love.”
    “I am not ‘love’.” She glares at him.
    “Spirited, you Hungarians – I like that. You’re very pale.”
    Her face is pale and yet her cheeks appear flushed.
    “Is that usual in Hungary – pale skin, I mean?”
    “Maybe, I never give it a thought.”
    “You don’t like the sun, sweetheart?’
    “I am nobody’s sweetheart.”
    “Stop dyeing your hair black – you’ll probably have more luck.”
    “You are rude man. I promise I only clean your place to take care of Dora.”
    “That’s good enough for me. Anyway, you nearly done ’cause I’ve got the main man coming round any minute and I don’t want to be disturbed?”
    “I cannot finish quick enough.”
    “Call me rude – here, what do I owe you?”
    “The usual.”
    “But you’ve only been here half the time.”
    “I come here when you say. It is your choice to let me go.”
    “You’ll go far. What was it you said you were studying in Hungary?”
    “Business studies.”
    “You gonna do that over here?”
    “Of one thing I am sure: the word ‘cleaner’ will not be carved on my gravestone.”
    “Gothic ball-breaker, perhaps.”
    “I ignore that. You want me Tuesday?”
    “I want you Tuesday.”
    “Well, I come – for Dora.”
    “All the best, Rita.”
    “Whatever.”

    Flood paces the room.
    “That’s the door.” He turns abruptly. “It’s either Gothic psycho-cleaner forgotten her handbag or the man himself. Let’s have a look. I’ve had one of those video entry-phones installed. I can choose not to be in if needs be. It’s him