by Joy Richards
“I spoke to some of the staff we’ve already recruited and they said they would not mind helping out,” Aaron replied.
“Who have you hired?” Michael felt as though he was in the way of the husband and wife team working together: they both knew the ins and outs of the refuge, he felt like he was always playing catch up.
“A couple of residential staff, and a psychologist and a nurse who can go in twice a week. Really nice people.” Aaron frowned. “I’d just like for the whole hiring process to be easier.” After years living in precarious conditions, the shackles of bureaucracy seemed to overwhelm him.
“The residential women both worked at a posh public school before.” Penelope put on her hoodie as she opened the door. “I don’t know how long they’ll last.”
“It will be all right,” Aaron said curtly. “We’ll be there to help.”
Penelope left quickly. Michael felt that particular discussion had been had many times.
“This is harder to do with only civilians,” Aaron said quietly. “I’m afraid I am somewhat out of touch.”
“I know how you feel.” Michael put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’ll settle back into England before you know it. You just need this whole project to kick off, and you’ll feel right at home.”
8
Sarah
They were exchanging on the 31st. That left them sixteen days, including weekends, to complete, pack up and make it over to New York before Alex’s first day at work. Any delays, and she would stay, joining him once everything was settled. If she joined him at all. The question was weighing on her mind. With no job to speak of in sight, it was getting more and more unlikely she would be able to start straight away. According to their original plan, they would leave in less than a month. If nothing else, at this point she had to hand in her notice at work within the next couple of days if she intended to actually leave with Alex. That, however, was not the issue. Did she even want to go? She certainly wanted to move to New York. She just wasn’t sure whether she wanted to go with Alex.
It had all started with his unwillingness to admit that she may not find a job. She was getting relatively senior, and jobs at that level were few and far between. While she had no doubt she could land one within the space of a year or so, doing so within a few months was always going to be difficult. The obvious thing to do, from Sarah’s perspective, was to quickly get married, go over together and she could keep applying for jobs from over there. This would make the search easier, as she could network, invite people over for coffee and generally make a better impression. They had savings and Alex would earn plenty of money. They did not need her to start work straight away. She sort of assumed this was implied, but the more hints she dropped the more he made it clear he heard her, and disagreed. The issue couldn’t be the marriage. They had friends who had visa weddings all the time, and Alex had always said it was a very sensible way to get things done. Clearly, the issue was Sarah. He didn’t mind getting married, but he did mind getting married to her. And she was starting to agree: where they had once agreed on everything, she couldn’t help but feel they were going in two different directions in life. For one, she was almost certain he wanted kids.
At first, she thought she was being paranoid. Every time they had even vaguely talked about children, Alex had always agreed with her that it was not for them. For one, neither of them really liked babies. She quite liked children five and up, but not for long periods of time. She loved visiting her sister, but playing with her nieces was never the highlight of the trip. Sarah never seemed to click with them, she could never understand what they wanted, or what they thought was entertaining. Alex didn’t even particularly like older children. He had no patience for games, and didn’t really enjoy talking to them. And yet, increasingly she got the feeling there was something really important bothering him.
She’d asked him, and he’d put it down to the pressure of wanting to move. Angling for the right clients, positioning himself just right so that his request to transfer to New York would seem like a good move for the firm. She’d even believed him, for a while. But she couldn’t help but wonder. Then he’d started to ask odd questions.
“Would you like to have a wedding, someday?” he asked her one evening. They’d been to a posh fundraiser, and were sitting on the night-bus home. He was wearing his black-tie suit, and looked handsome, like James Bond. She thought he must have been drunk, and laughed it off. Then, when he insisted, she thought it might be a joke. She was knee-deep in wedding stuff for one of her clients, a famous gown designer. She’d even been taking some of it home, learning names of wedding dress styles and earmarking photos in magazines where they had totally gone off-brand. She hated that assignment, it was a small client who didn’t bill a lot of hours. The only reason, the only possible reason it had landed on her already very busy desk was that she was a woman, and her boss, Lewis, was a sexist. Not a sexist, a dick. Sarah laughed even more, and told Alex to stop it. He’d looked troubled. Had he meant it?
He kept dropping hints over the next couple of weeks, and she became convinced he really was changing his mind about the whole marriage-and-kids situation. He even hinted that once they moved back from New York they might want to get a bigger house, with a garden. How could they be on such different pages if up until now they’d been in complete unison? She was thinking once they got back they could get an even slicker, even cooler apartment, on a higher floor of a tall building, with breathtaking views of the city at their feet. He, apparently, was thinking about detached homes with large gardens near to good schools.
At first, she perceived it as a betrayal. How dare he. They had talked about this. She remembered when, a year or so into their dating life, they’d spent a Saturday afternoon strolling around Borough Market eating goat’s milk gelato and making their plans. They would both climb to the top of their professions. They would get a slick apartment. They would spend some time abroad, Berlin or New York. Experience all these cities had to offer. They would retire early and travel the world, maybe start a B&B in Costa Rica. How dare he betray all of that.
Then, she started thinking it wasn’t all his fault. Her friends who had chosen to have children all talked about motherhood as though it was an unavoidable instinct. Maybe once you had it, you had it. Like a deadly virus. It was a primal call of nature, something you could not ignore. Maybe that’s what was happening to Alex. She loved him so much. Would he leave her for a woman who wanted to carry his children? Was that what the New York move was all about?
That would make sense. He seemed more and more in a hurry to move, rushing through the weeks and months until, as he put it, “They made it to New York.” Like New York was a haven, a place he had to reach to make it to safety. From her.
She started researching options. Could she freeze her eggs? Buy some more time, for him to change his mind or for her to pluck up the courage and do it. She spent a terrifying Sunday googling babies. It was like researching an alien species. The whole process, from getting pregnant to giving birth to getting the little snot-covered monster to eat, walk and use the bathroom properly filled her with dread. She actually got nauseous. She couldn’t do it. She could never do it. What did that mean for them? More and more, Alex seemed to brush off her concerns about not finding a job. While at the beginning this had been nice, a boost of confidence knowing she had a cheerleader in him, she started to think that perhaps he didn’t much care if she got a job or not.
If she didn’t, he would move to New York alone. He would be free. He probably wouldn’t even need to break up with her. Or maybe he wasn’t even thinking that far. Maybe he just wanted to get away from her for some space. And once he made it to New York, he was bound to meet other women. Women who were younger, but just as smart and good-looking. Women who could not wait to start a family, and who would fall over themselves for a handsome, athletic, rich English man who was broody for babies. They would get a dog, a house in New Jersey from which he could commute in. They w
ould pop out four children in six years, and live happily ever after. Fuck him. If that’s what he wanted, that’s what he should get.
Sarah contemplated her CV, staring back at her from her computer screen. It was the middle of the day, she should be working instead of sending off job applications to increasingly obscure US firms. This one wasn’t even in New York, it was in Jersey City. With each rejection, she kept applying for jobs that were less and less suitable, and further and further away. This may be crossing a line. The whole idea of them living in Manhattan and walking to work was never going to be feasible with her commuting an hour each way by car. If that was even the idea anymore. Plus, this firm was small: their largest client was smaller than the smallest client Sarah had handled in years. She probably would get the job, she was beyond overqualified. But did she even want it? Her reputation could never recover from a job like that. Never come back to jobs like the one she had now. Sarah looked around her. She loved her work. No number of sexist bosses or stubborn clients could ever disguise how happy she was every day walking in the door.
It was a smart office, with green glass partitions and a clever carpet with different bright colours in different areas, signifying different departments. Accounting was orange, client relations bright teal. Sarah’s carpet was electric blue. She liked to wear colours that popped against the carpet: mustard yellow, aqua, bright white. Today it was a fuchsia blouse, tucked into her wide-leg black crepe trousers. Her shoes were black, tall and impractical. She loved dressing up for work. At the small firm in New Jersey, people probably went in wearing jeans and a hoodie on Friday. She would stand out like a parrot in a plaza full of pigeons. She might have to buy new clothes, dumpier, sadder items to make her fit in with her new surroundings. No, she thought, while getting up. She was late for a client lunch. I won’t apply to this. In fact, I am done applying to things. I’m done.
She was shocked with herself, with how quickly she made a backup plan. She was still waiting to hear from a couple of the good jobs. If nothing materialised, she would wait until Alex left and then move in with her sister. Temporarily. When she had called and asked if it was okay, Julia had been her usual, reliable self. Of course, she’d said, anything you need. She was expecting information in return. Were she and Alex breaking up? If so, why? If not, why wasn’t she going with him to America? All good questions. Sarah would have to figure out the answers later. They could stay together and attempt long distance, until he inevitably left her for a younger, more fertile, broodier woman. She could leave him, and live forever a broken person, half of a whole. She could bite the bullet and just give in, have a baby. She would have all her evenings free to think, once the flat sold.
Holly
Crisis
It was an unseasonably cold evening. It had been raining all day, and the garden was sodden and grey. Holly shivered underneath her blanket, a coarse tweed mammoth marred by moth-holes. She glanced upwards, towards the mould stain on the ceiling. In spite of her regularly soaking it in bleach, it was coming back. She hated that house. That wasn’t strictly true, she thought, as she got up from the creaky sofa to make herself a cup of tea. That run-down cottage had gifted her with so many happy childhood memories when her granny lived there. During the summer, her mum would drop her off for a whole week, and she and Granny would get to go on long walks in the countryside, bake and make jams and chutneys. In the evening, they sat on that sofa and Granny read books to her, mostly inappropriate for her age. They had gone through the literary classics: that’s where her love for literature was born. It had been magical.
However, by the time Granny died it was no longer magical. It had been severely neglected, and upkeep had essentially stopped since Granddad had died in the early nineties. The garden, once a charming cloud of well-groomed roses and herbs, was now overgrown with weeds. There was no insulation to speak of, the boiler managed to heat up enough water to shower and do dishes but heating was dependent on a smoky wood stove in the corner of the lounge. The kitchen was the worst: it had been so deeply used and deeply loved, but the white linoleum was now a pale-yellow colour and was peeling at every corner. The countertops were covered in deep brown stains, and there was rust everywhere.
Yet, Granny had left it to Holly. The only child of her only child. Her dad had offered to help her sell it, but Holly was desperate to save money and the opportunity to earn London wages while not having any living expenses was too tempting. She would move in, live there rent-free and slowly try to fix it up. Once she had saved enough money to take on her Great Round The World Adventure, she could sell it and stash the money away as a nest egg for when she came back. While the DIY renovation plan had almost immediately ground to a halt, she was saving a lot of money. On the other hand, life was pretty uncomfortable. As well as crumbling, the cottage was half-filled with her granny’s possessions, things that she hadn’t taken with her into the care home.
Holly had sorted through her clothes to make space in the closet: she’d donated some, but she’d mostly held on to her dead granny’s dresses. They were fabulous, and vintage was back in fashion. While totally inept at most of the feminine arts of cooking and cleaning, Holly was a good enough seamstress to adapt some of those authentic vintage pieces for herself. She even had an ancient but still functioning sewing machine, occupying such a permanent spot at the kitchen table it was essentially glued to the gingham oil tablecloth that was nailed to the tabletop. On the sewing machine, Holly altered a red summer dress, cut from ankle-length to end right above her knee. She made a green velvet dress sleeveless, to wear out to bars. She turned her granny’s floral pattern house dresses into blouses, to go over boyfriend jeans or with a little skirt.
Aside from the clothes, Holly hadn’t touched much. There was crockery and cutlery, mostly mismatched, and an astounding collection of Tupperware containers. There were some old books, mostly detective stories and romance novels Granny had bought from mail-order catalogues decades earlier. The clutter didn’t make the house uncomfortable, but it was not pleasant to rest in. Not that it mattered, Holly spent a lot of time out of the house. Mostly in London, hanging out with her friends from work. Although at this point they were hardly “friends from work” any more, they were genuine friends.
Her phone buzzed, and kept on buzzing. Not a text. Someone was calling. How strange. An uncommon enough occurrence these days, when texts seemed to cover the whole spectrum of human communication. Even more strangely, it was not her mum, it was Paul.
“Hey, pussycat,” said the voice at the other end of the line.
“What?” That couldn’t be Paul.
“I’m sorry, I was trying to do a joke. Having a bit of a crisis down here.”
“Oh no, what’s happened?” She sat down again, noticing another hole in her thick tights. Bugger.
“You know how I was supposed to move in two weeks’ time?”
“Yeah.” The Move. Paul had hardly talked about it. For some reason, since he’d put in an offer on his new house they had been spending less time together. Maybe he had only found her opinion useful on house viewings. No viewings, no hangouts. Fair enough.
“The move is off.” His voice was slightly cracked, like he’d been at a football game.
“What?” That could not be.
“It’s off. Exchange was meant to be tomorrow, and it’s off. Sellers pulled out.”
“It’s off? Can they even do that?” Could they? God, people were assholes. She hated that she owned a house. Crappy as it was, it still made her part of the landed gentry. The term “homeowners” on a newspaper headline applied, undeniably, to her.
“They can.” He sounded defeated.
“But why?”
“No idea. They don’t even have to tell me why. But I think they decided to stay. They probably had too many happy memories in that house, it’s where their child was born. Bet they’re just doing an extension somehow to fit in their second baby.”
“That’s shitty.” Was he drunk? Was he dr
unk calling her? Holly had to be careful. Once he drunk called her there was no going back. No pretending to be friends, unless they were friends, of course. “Are you drunk?” she asked.
“A little. I thought it would make me feel better but it hasn’t. Now I’m drunk, and imminently homeless.”
“Oh shit. I forgot. You still need to move out in two weeks, right?”
“Right. The place is already let to someone else. I have no choice, I’m out on my ass.”
“What are you gonna do?” She spoke without thinking. “Do you need a place to stay?”
“Oh my God, yes.” He sounded desperate.
“You do know I live in Essex, right? It’s ages away, and my house is a shithole.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he sounded wounded. “Did you not actually mean it about a place to stay?”
“No no, of course I do. It’s just not very guest-ready is all.”
“I mean, don’t worry, I can ask Chris and Lizzie if they’ll have me.” Their other friends from work shared a tiny one-bedroom flat and definitely didn’t have any room.
“That’s not what I meant. It’d be great to have you!” She smiled. It really would.
“I am so grateful, Holly. It will only be for a couple of weeks, until we get this sorted out. I really think the sellers might change their mind.”
“No problem,” she said. “When can you move in?”
Suddenly, she had a lodger. Because he was getting his own room, Paul had insisted on paying rent, however symbolic. The cost of a takeout for two a week. He came up on the train, and she met him halfway to help carry his things. Surprisingly very few possessions for a man of almost three decades. They walked from the station, along an overgrown path through the tall grass next to the train line, him carrying his two suitcases of clothes and her juggling a large cardboard box of books. He did look slightly shocked when he first saw the cottage. Looking at it from an outsider’s perspective, Holly had to admit it was only marginally better than homelessness. Moss was growing under the roof tiles. The outside paint was saturated with soot from the chimney, and was peeling at the edges. The windows, single paned, shook every time a car went by, which was thankfully rare as they were the last house in the village.
