Cold Caller, Hot Bottom
By #HerbieHind
When Laura ignores a “No Cold Callers” sign to pitch her premium cleaning products, she’s in for a surprise regarding what’s about to get a dusting down. Let’s just say — Patrick has a very hands-on approach to customer service, and he’s about to give her a lesson in why you should never knock on a door without reading the signs — literally.
There were several signs along Victoria Avenue that Laura felt she could quite happily live without: Mind the Step, Please Close the Gate, No Junk Mail. They were all, in her view, exercises in stating the obvious. Even the electricity distribution box nearby, with its dramatic KEEP OUT – DANGER OF DEATH, seemed a bit over-the-top—though she grudgingly admitted that one might be justified.
At number 42, a brass plaque reading No Cold Callers briefly caught her eye. She dismissed it with breezy indifference and pressed the doorbell.
In hindsight, she would come to regard this moment with a shade more caution. Her thoughts on household signage would never be quite the same again.
Inside, Patrick was just finishing his second cup of coffee. An early morning flight home from a client meeting had earned him a well-deserved day off, and he fully intended to spend it in the garden with a good book, preferably uninterrupted.
The doorbell, therefore, was not a welcome sound.
“Good morning, sir!” Laura began with the sort of cheerfulness that could split stone. “What a beautiful home—immaculately maintained—and I thought some of our premium household products might be of interest.”
It was one of half a dozen opening gambits she kept in rotation. This one, she felt, struck just the right balance between flattery and business. And, gratifyingly, the homeowner’s initially stern expression softened to something more like weary tolerance.
At the very least, she had his attention.
With a flicker of satisfaction, Laura noted his gaze flicking over her summer dress, which clung lightly to her figure in the warm breeze. Knee-length, floral, and cinched at the waist, it was a favourite from her warm-weather wardrobe. Modest, but just suggestive enough to earn a second glance. Chestnut hair curled around her shoulders, framing a neckline that dipped just low enough to imply—without revealing too much.
“I represent SparkleCare,” she said brightly, lifting a clipboard from her box of samples. “We carry only the highest quality cleaning and care products for the home. Would you like to take a look at our catalogue?”
Patrick said nothing at first, his attention drifting from the samples to her clipboard, then back to her face.
“I don’t get many of these visits,” he said at last. “Most people seem to notice the sign on the gate.”
Laura turned her head reflexively. The plaque gleamed smugly in the sunlight.
“Yes,” he continued, “that one. You’d be surprised how effective it usually is.”
Despite her thirty years, Laura suddenly felt like a chided schoolgirl, nervously awaiting her fate under the gaze of a stern headmaster.
“Well, I just thought…” she began, but the sentence dissolved under his gaze.
Then, mercifully, a shift.
Patrick’s tone lightened. “Still, you’ve caught me on a rare day off—and one of your sample items has rather caught my eye. Please, come in.”
He stepped back and gestured down a bright hallway. The open-plan kitchen-diner at the rear of the house led out through French windows to a stone patio and a meticulously kept lawn. Birds chirped in the distance. Somewhere, a lawnmower hummed. Suburbia was in full chorus.
By the window, a chaise-lounge basked in a patch of sunlight. Laura sat as invited, pen and clipboard at the ready, as Patrick bent to inspect the box of goods.
His hand paused on a particular item.
“A fine choice,” Laura said, perking up. “Our gentleman’s clothes brush. Natural cherrywood handle, boar’s hair bristles—ideal for maintaining your suits between trips to the cleaner. Durable, elegant, and surprisingly versatile.”
Patrick turned the brush over in his hands. “It’s got a good weight to it.”
“Oh yes,” she said confidently, feeling she was on the verge of a sale. “That’s our extra-large model. The extra surface area really helps—just a few strokes and you'd be surprised.”
A pause. Then:
“I do believe it’s exactly what I’ve been looking for,” Patrick said. “Would you mind terribly if I gave it a quick trial run?”
“Of course!” Laura exclaimed. “I noticed your jacket in the hallway—” she started, but before she could rise, Patrick reached out, caught her gently but decisively by the arm, and swept her across his lap in one smooth, practiced motion.
“Excuse me!” she cried, suddenly horizontal. “That is not how you try out a clothes brush! For starters, you shouldn't use a clothes brush on cotton delicates.”
Patrick said nothing. One leg casually hooked around her ankles, keeping her in place with absurd precision.
“And besides,” she added indignantly, catching a glimpse of the brush hovering close to her upturned bottom, bristle side facing upwards. “That’s not even the right end! You’ve got it upside down!”
“I think,” he replied, with calm assurance, “that you’ll find I know exactly what I’m doing.”
As he gently laid the oversized wooden brush against the fabric that tightly wrapped the firmly rounded orbs of her bottom cheeks, the magnitude of her predicament finally dawned on her.
The first whap landed squarely across her dress-covered rear. Laura gasped—not so much from pain, but from sheer disbelief.
“Well really!” she huffed, wriggling to no effect. “This is outrageous!”
The second and third swats followed swiftly, punctuated by commentary.
“For ignoring a clearly displayed sign…”
Whap.
“For unsolicited flattery…”
Whap.
“For marketing cleaning products with suspicious enthusiasm…”
Whap. Whap.
Laura’s protests dwindled into helpless sputters as the sting accumulated. It wasn’t exactly painful, but it was undeniably effective. Slowly, she arrived at a grudging acceptance of a correction that she knew her presumptuousness had deserved.
Eventually, Patrick relented and helped her upright with all the courtesy of a man escorting a lady from a dance.
“There,” he said. “Lesson learned, I trust.”
Laura clasped both hands to her tender derrière and massaged vigorously. Her cheeks flushed, and she wore an expression somewhere between scandalised and stunned.
Patrick placed the brush back on the table with ceremonial care and retrieved his wallet. He slipped a folded note under the plastic flap on her clipboard.
“I think this is exactly what I’ve been needing, and I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s most efficacious. I’ll take it! Excellent craftsmanship. Very persuasive.”
She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again.
“Allow me to help you with your box,” he added smoothly. “And should you find yourself back in the area, feel free to call again—though I daresay next time, you’ll remember to read the signs.”
The door clicked shut behind her with all the finality of a gavel.
Out on the pavement, Laura adjusted her dress, squared her shoulders, and gave the street a look of professional disdain. She’d sold the brush, certainly.
But at what cost?