Work Text:
It was all very standard, very professional, exactly what Mina expected from a first scheduled cleaning. Her new employer was a little distant. Not exactly cold—she insisted Mina call her Rebecca, and the tour was peppered with jokes about the state of the place—but not exactly warm. It was clear she’d just moved in. Her demeanor shifted in the kitchen, near the end of the tour, when Rebecca thanked her for the short-notice visit. Mina nodded an affirmation, but before she could say anything, move away to start her shift, Rebecca spoke again. Something about always liking the couple who had referred her—old friends of her parents, lifelong Richmond residents, tennis people—no one at all affiliated with her ex-husband or his—hers—football club. She’d caught Mina’s eyes on ‘ex’—there was a flash of anger Mina never wanted to see directed at her. Rebecca ended the ramble with a gesture toward a pile of tabloids on the countertop.
Mina hadn’t known how to respond; Rebecca spoke as if she expected her to know exactly who she was. A bit presumptuous, a level of out-of-touch not uncommon in her tax bracket. She glanced down at the covers. These ones depicted an older man (she’d never seen him before in her life, but she wasn’t a football fan) walking hand in hand with a much younger woman, an unflattering photo of her new employer off to the side. The newspapers were trash, nothing but gossip. Mina lifted her head.
“I’ll start in the study.”
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It wasn’t her business, but she’d picked up a copy of The Sun on her way home all the same.
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She doesn't ask questions. She learned that early on. At this point in her tenure she knows the majority of the paper's old accusations were bunk—but Rebecca is still her employer, and she's walked in on enough early-morning kitchen scenes to know there are some things she'd rather be left in the dark on.
There's only so much context one wants as a cleaner.
(She does keep her gloves on while stripping the beds now.)
But the small things start to add up—she's learnt to scan the floor for stray little green army men (toys, though a boring one, in her opinion) after an unfortunate incident involving a painful misstep on the landing and a spilled laundry basket. And no matter how many times she re-lids and shelves a jar of (American) peanut butter, it always reappears on the countertop, open, with what appears to be evidence whoever is consuming it is doing so with their fingers. She can't imagine Ms. Welton is the culprit.
She suspects a child is involved. This rules out the majority of the team. Not that she really thinks Rebecca would make that mistake again.
(She didn’t have concrete proof a mistake had been made in the first place, but she knew more about AFC Richmond than when she started, and a lot of the players have very distinct boots.)
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She only ever bought the one paper, but she’s more cognisant of their existence in checkout lanes now, and she noticed the headlines have been much kinder to Rebecca as of late.
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Mina doesn’t dwell in guessing, she’s got enough on her mind, and truth be told, she doesn’t really care. She does think it’s someone at least tangentially related to Richmond, at least in the industry—a club-branded puffer jacket has taken up residence in the coat closet, and she knows enough about Nikes (her sister frequently complains about how much her son, a self-proclaimed sneakerhead, spends on shoes) to understand the rotating pairs (in the closet, on the stairs, by the back entry) likely rival Rebecca’s Louboutins in cost.
Despite the occasional kitchen jumpscare, Rebecca’s been an ideal client—naturally tidy, heavy-handed with tips. And it has been nice to watch Rebecca settle into herself. They’re not friends, not by any stretch of the imagination, but Rebecca’s gotten friendlier, and Mina’s shared more of her own life than she’d ever expected to. Nothing big, of course, but she’d been surprised to find a small box of cupcakes left for her daughter’s birthday. She didn’t think the Rebecca she first met would have remembered.
Or asked in the first place.
There’d been an explosion of baking accessories in the last month, but the cupcakes didn’t taste like they were made by someone who’d just picked up a new hobby. Mina complimented them the next time she saw Rebecca—she smiled wide, said she’d pass the message along to ‘T—the baker. He’ll be happy to hear it; those are his son’s favorite.’
Rebecca had to rush to work shortly after, but Mina remembered something halfway through sweeping the front hall that stopped her in her tracks.
Ted Lasso had a son.
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Her hunch was confirmed two weeks later, in an Aldi. A photo of Rebecca and Ted laughing, hands clasped, leaving the pub Mina recognized as their local. To the right, a small photo of Rebecca’s ex (looking absolutely miserable) leaving his solicitor’s office, the text underneath saying something about ‘assault charges.’
She slipped a copy into her cart.