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“Thanks again Mrs Hudson, I know it’s such late notice,” John says, feet shoved into shoes, coat haphazardly thrown on. He pauses briefly to kiss her cheek before he rushes out the door.
She smiles after him, ensuring the front door is locked whilst there’s a little boy about, then takes the stairs at her slower pace. No need to rush — Lock wouldn’t dare cause trouble for her, especially a minute after John’s left. There’s noise upstairs, chattering as if Lock is talking to someone else, but it’s only those two home, the voice distinctly his and not something from the television. She hovers in the doorway to listen, curious who, and what, could possibly have him chatting away, oblivious to his landlady hovering nearby.
“-he smells so good, and he’s so kind, and I love him very much. Even when he has to go, because he’s saving people. And I love daddy and I love papa and I love Mrs Hudson. They take care of me even when I’m teeny tiny, or when I’m norty, or when I’m clingy. I just like cuddles, right Lottie? Like you do.”
He goes quiet, and through the crack in the door she can see the boy holding the stuffed animal to his ear, nodding as if listening intently. “Yeah, that too. But I can’t pick who is the best at cuddling. Maybe daddy ‘cause of his bear hugs. But I like when papa is in the special chair with me. My favourite thing is sleeping wif Jawn in bed togevver. Is so cosy.”
He listens again, peering towards the door, though he cannot see Martha, hidden in the shadows. He giggles, little cheeks rosy. “I love Mrs Hu’son too. She’s so soft. Yeah, she smells good too, you’re right. I like playing with her scarves in my fingers. An’ she lets me play whateeever I like, an’ an’ also doesn’t be mean that I like girly things, and she make me and Jawn really cool things. An’ I like her kisses, an’ when we went on holiday at Christmas!”
She shifts, her hip aching, which triggers a creaky floorboard. Lock’s head shoots up, Lottie clutched tight to his chest. “Hello?” He calls timidly.
Straightening with an internal curse, Mrs Hudson knocks on the door. “Hoo-hoo. It’s only me dear.”
“Mrs Hu’son!”
“Hello sweetling. What are you doing?”
“Erm, just playing.” He fiddles with a stuffed paw, cheeks heated and eyes slightly widened.
“No need to look so guilty, handsome. Now, I was thinking, because it’s just you and me, that maybe we could have a spa day?”
She has never seen him so rapidly elated, perking right up with dazzling sea foam eyes. “Really?”
“Oh yes, I’ve got some things I’ve been saving up for a day like this. Come along, darling, and bring Lottie too.” She holds her hand out, wiggling her fingers enticingly.
“You know her name!” Lock clambers to his feet, stumbling some in his haste.
“I know lots of things, such as how much you like your nail varnish.”
“Yeah, I do.” He takes her hand, trotting down the stairs. There’s a hamper on the table, clearly something that has been set up for a while and brought out from the cupboard. She wasn’t lying then; she’s had this planned for a while.
She encourages Locket to explore the contents, and he gasps at the options. They’ve got all afternoon to do it all, if he so wishes, and he does. They begin with changing into silk nighties with large, fluffy bathrobes overtop, tied loosely across thin waists. Lock’s hair is kept back off his face with a soft chenille headband, bright green with two plump, pink cheeks, a wide smile, and large round eyes.
“Froggy!”
“Don’t you just look a treat?” Mrs Hudson coos. He blushes, cheeks as pink as his headband, then sits, curious, watching her expertly twist and coil her hair into rollers, working methodically but quick, wont at the task. She uses a small mirror balanced on the coffee table, working back to front, and when she is done she looks the picture of someone ready to have a spa day.
“We’ll start with some face masks, shall we?” Locket nods so hard she has to fix his headband into place, using one of her bobby pins to keep it secure in case he decides to shake his head so hard it comes off. “We need to use some cleanser first.”
She uses the pump to expel some kind of thick lotion, but when she applies it to her skin it foams up, making her look part cloud. Locket cannot stop laughing at the sight, and is desperate to try. In his vim he squirts too much and nearly drowns in a fluffy explosion, sputtering between honking laughs as Mrs Hudson wipes it away from his nose and mouth.
“Now we can use the mask!”
She has two types of masks, sheet ones and thick paste. Lock picks the sheet, so she matches him, the pair giggling at the ghostly white visages of themselves. As it works, Martha pulls out a foot bath from beneath the couch. It helps her joints, and the water is delightfully bubbly against her feet. She pours in some epsom salt for the little one, warning him not to touch it until she says so. They pass the time picking out nail varnish colours; to nobody’s shock, Locket picks every colour imaginable, wanting rainbow nails. In contrast, his landlady picks a more womanly maroon colour with a top shimmer coat.
By the time they’ve made their decisions, the foot bath is ready. Locket gleefully plunges his feet in, groaning as the warm bubbles instantly attack his cold toes. He slumps back into the dated couch, tempted to nap, when he feels fingers tugging gently at the sheet mask. It peels free, leaving a sheen on his face that the warm, worn fingers massage into his skin. Blissed out, Locket snuggles further into his robe, heart a furnace for the love Martha has given him ever since they met under a Californian sun. She adds a soothing gel to his under-eyes, lightening the purplish bruising there from lack of sleep, the cold ever so soothing.
“My good boy,” she murmurs, kissing his tacky temple. Azure eyes crack open, a toothy grin gifted to her, when he forces himself to sit up and return the favour. “Oh, so gentle, that’s lovely,” she remarks.
When he has finished, adding the eye gel to her own sockets, rubbing large thumbs over the wrinkled skin there with all the tenderness he can muster, she gets to her feet with a grunt to put the kettle on. As a treat, he’s allowed a cuppa or two, something not usually permitted in headspace. Toes dance in the water, bubbles tickling at his leg hair, which shimmies like anemone. He stares down at it, mesmerised by the glittering salt catching the light, little shards of glass in the sun. It’s a disappointment to finally remove his feet, Martha towelling them off and removing the dead skin loosened up.
“Ewww!” Locket giggles. She doesn’t seem to mind, kissing the top of one foot. The foot bath is emptied, briefly cleaned, then refilled with the kettle water left over from their drinks. Locket’s tea is kept in a lidded cup for everyone’s safety, including the couch, but he doesn’t mind at all.
Mrs Hudson sits back against the cushions, her feet now in the bath with a fresh helping of epsom salt, but she pulls Locket’s feet in her lap, so he’s curled against her side with his knees up near his chin. A towel is laid over her thighs, thick glasses perched on the end of her nose. To begin, she massages knots out of his feet, working her way through muscles so tight he hadn’t realised their pain until she’s eradicated it, the cream she uses ensuring his freshly sloughed skin is kept soft and hydrated. The excess is rubbed into his legs, and his knees, where there are patches of dry skin.
Next, she shakes some bottles of varnish, confirms where Locket wants each colour, then gets to work painting his toenails. They’re already shaped perfectly, but if they hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have dared try to file them, not with his sensory issues. He seems just about able to tolerate the tickle of the brush, and if she treads lightly with an avoidance towards his cuticles, he cannot feel the varnish at all.
“Thank you.” He whispers, voice thick with reverence.
“They look lovely, don’t they?” She says back lowly.
His grin is utterly contagious as he adds. “I like the sparkle.”
“Oh, you’ve always got to have a bit of sparkle, dearheart!”
“And stickers.” He replies with a nod of curly hair.
“That’s true. Stickers are lovely, but I can’t have them on.”
Locket frowns, peeling his eyes away from his dancing toes to look at her. “Why?”
“Well, they might fall off in someone’s food next door!”
“Oh yeah,” Locket giggles, “that would be a bit gross.”
They sip their tea for a while, allowing the tot’s toes to dry, when he suddenly leans forward to grab her choice of varnish. Legs stretched over hers, Lock leans her hands on his robe and gets to work painting her nails. Despite his young age, he’s got plenty of practice from doing his and Jawn’s nails that there are scarce mistakes. Her nails are beautifully shaped like almonds, clipped fairly short to not interfere with her work in the cafe, and she lifts them to admire his handiwork.
“Gorgeous.”
“Like you,” Locket mumbles, ducking his head into her neck so she cannot see his blush. She leans her head on his, twisting her fingers to admire the subtle sparkle.
“Time to do your fingers.” She says quietly, pulling her feet out of the bath.
“Not yet!” Locket shoots off the couch like a rocket, plonking his padded bum on the floor with a whoompf. A towel is wrapped around her feet, the moisture dabbed dry reverently, until she is dry and warm.
Copying her moves, Locket massages cream into her skin, mindful of calluses, refusing to stop despite her embarrassment. He’s sat in a nappy, for god’s sake. She can hardly find shame in weathered, hard-worked skin. Like her, Locket kisses the tops of her feet then takes his time applying the same colour as her fingers. It doesn’t take long — her toes are so dainty and small barely any product is needed.
As that’s setting, Mrs Hudson returns the favour with his fingers.
“Why don’t you do one hand and I do the other?” He suggests.
“But then you’d use the hand I need to paint.” Locket stares at her blankly, and now she understands why John imagines a buffering sign above his head. He comes-to with a snort.
“Oh yeah. Silly me!”
“You just sit back and relax. Why don’t you pick something for us to watch?”
“Girly film?”
“If that’s what you like.” Locket hums, picking up the remote with the hand not taken captive by Martha’s deft fingers. She has all the base colours done in a minute, and when Locket has selected the Bridget Jones series as his choice, grinning at her approval, she moves onto his second hand. That way she can tackle them both much quicker, and it’s a simple job really, plain colours with a few flowery stickers, backed with sticky adhesive to make her life easier. Tweezers help along the way to stick them down exactly where he wants them, and by the time the introduction to the film is done, his nails are complete, left to set.
She makes them some more tea and cracks out some scones she’s been saving for their time together, as she knows they’re his favourite. The final touch to their spa day is matching glittery lip gloss, as well as clear mascara. It’s more of a thickening moisturiser for eyelashes, but it works well to lengthen them too without smearing black product everywhere. To top it all off, Martha gently tugs Lock’s headband off, his curls springing free; the forelocks are twisted around her fingers and clipped back with a pair of ladybug slides. He’s beaming so sunnily that she cannot help but snap a few photos of them, their grins wide, Locket snuggling into her. That’ll be going on her computer screensaver for sure.
With tea, Locket’s preferred scones topped with jam and cream and a hilarious movie set to pass the afternoon by, the pair cuddle together on that battered little couch, just as they had a decade ago, in a too-hot room in the back of a nightclub.
Some things never change.