I pick off one of the cucumber slices and eat it. Around me, the sight of wall-to-wall Artex and avocado bathroom suite make my stomach give a little lurch. Why am I here when I should be standing at the head of a table filled with clever and interested students, engaging in intelligent debate about ‘The myth of feminist identity in Jane Austen’? What happened to the future that ‘might have been’: a scene in a romantic restaurant, wine and candles; Simon taking something from his pocket, down on one knee, everyone else stopping their conversations and turning to watch. I imagine the ring – he knows I like antiques, so maybe it will be something vintage –Victorian with seed pearls and tiny diamonds. And instantly, I will have joined the sisterhood of women who, after going through toil and hardship, finally get a happy ending.
A happy ending. Was I so wrong to want one?
I wash the mud off my face and look in the mirror. The woman who stares back is a little thinner than a month ago, with what a novelist might glibly describe as a heart-shaped face and porcelain skin. Her shoulder-length hair is thick and dark, and cut in a long bob. Only her eyes seem to have lost a little of their sparkle. While the sting of being usurped by the perfect ‘Ashley’ (‘I’m really sorry, Amy, but when I met her at that little “do” for new teachers, I just knew it was destiny’) has begun to numb slightly, the ache of what the hell I’m going to do now lingers on. A temp job is not what I had in mind. But I have to do something – anything – to get back on my feet, even though my knees still feel like jelly. I do a few facial exercises in the mirror and practice my best ‘interview’ smile. It’s always nerve-wracking trying for a new job, but really, how bad can it be?
I brush my teeth and don my fuzzy slippers. Before leaving the bathroom, I poke my head into the hallway to check that the coast is clear. The TV is off and there’s a light on under my parents’ door. I venture down the hall to the airing cupboard in search of Mum’s sewing kit, but it isn’t there. Hurrying back to my own bedroom, I pop in a pair of blue foam earplugs bought last week following a nocturnal emergency – noises coming from my parents’ room in the middle of the night. I cross my fingers that I’ll get a job quickly, earn some money, and soon be able to afford ‘a room of my own’.
But until then, all I can do is lie down in the narrow bed, crawl under the duvet, and pull the pillow tightly around my ears.
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Addictive Fiction
First published in the UK in 2017 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd Copyright © Lauren Westwood, 2017
The moral right of Lauren Westwood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781784975890
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
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