by Lucy Diamond
She’d felt sorry for herself for too long. ‘Polly Johnson is back in town,’ she muttered as she dialled the first agency.
Two hours later she was slumped in front of the television with the Bargain Hunt music playing. God, looking for a job was soul-destroying. There was simply nothing out there. Nothing! Her CV was with at least fifty people by now and she hadn’t had even the slightest spark of encouragement in return. What was she meant to do, run along Bishopsgate naked, prostrating herself to Mammon? What would it take for someone to give her a break?
She was starting to sound desperate on the phone; she could hear it seeping through her voice. And every time she was fobbed off with those dreaded words, ‘There’s nothing at the moment, but we’ll keep your details on file.’ It was like some kind of dismal purgatory. It was starting to grind her down. One interview, one call back, that wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
She heard the key in the door and felt like screaming as Magda came in, glancing warily over at the sofa. ‘You are still ill, Miss Johnson?’ she asked. ‘Is bad, yes?’
Polly opened her mouth to say yes, but didn’t even have the energy to lie any more. ‘I lost my job,’ she said bluntly. The words sounded awful said out loud; it was the first time she’d heard them from her own mouth.
Magda bit her lip. ‘Is bad,’ she confirmed. ‘Sorry. My husband – the same.’
It was on the tip of Polly’s tongue to say that actually, Magda, it probably wasn’t the same. She doubted Magda’s husband had commanded a six-figure salary like her, or was responsible for the humongous mortgage she had. It wasn’t the same at all. The pained look on Magda’s face stopped her at the last second, though. ‘Sorry to hear that,’ she mumbled.
‘Yes,’ Magda said. ‘He is builder. No building work needed now. Is hard.’
‘Mmm,’ Polly said. ‘Very hard. Not many jobs out there.’
Magda nodded sagely, removing her denim jacket. ‘Something good come soon,’ she said. ‘I know it. Something good. Oh, Miss Johnson, you crying? Don’t cry, Miss Johnson. Don’t cry. Something good come soon.’
It was truly a new low, sobbing on the cleaner’s shoulder like that. A hideous, unspeakable low. Magda had actually put her arms around Polly and held her while she wept. Talk about embarrassing.
After Magda had left, hot shame burned through Polly like a forest fire. This was unacceptable, she told herself. This was not on. She, Polly Johnson, did not indulge in this sort of pathetic behaviour. She hated herself almost as much as she hated Magda for the pitying expression on her face. How could Polly have fallen apart like that? In front of a cleaner, of all people?
Smarting, she phoned the cleaning agency immediately and made a complaint that Magda hadn’t been respectful towards her. It was very unprofessional behaviour, she said, her voice trembling, and she simply couldn’t put up with it any more.
‘We’re so sorry,’ the lady on the other end of the line said. ‘We’ll send a different cleaner next week.’
Polly hesitated. Could she bear the thought of anyone else coming in, snooping about, seeing her in her hour of desperation? She couldn’t. She’d actually rather wallow in her own stinking chaos and mess than suffer another sympathetic look from someone on the minimum wage. ‘No, don’t bother, I’m closing the account,’ she said briskly. She’d hire someone else once she’d got a new position and was back with the high-fliers, she vowed.
If she got a new position, that was.
Six weeks passed, with little change. As the days went by, one after another after another, with still no job offer, Polly began to feel as if she were sliding down a hole, deeper and deeper, further and further away from the surface. It was getting harder to fake the smile, harder to make the effort. Nobody was returning her calls. Nobody wanted her. News that she’d phoned Henry Curtis after a particularly alcoholic afternoon and called him an arsehole seemed to have spread through the industry like wildfire. She was becoming a joke. She couldn’t bear it.
Credit-card bills dropped through the letterbox like hand-grenades. Ouch. They were eye-wateringly, how-much? astronomical. She received a rude letter from the mortgage division at the bank, saying she’d defaulted on that month’s payment and needed to arrange payment within the next seven days, or else. Then her car was towed away after she’d parked on double yellows in central London, and when she went to pay for its release, her first two credit cards were declined. Thank goodness she had three others that still worked.
More bills arrived. She stopped opening the envelopes. If she couldn’t see how bad the debt was, she wouldn’t have to worry about what she owed. She stuffed them in a drawer and shut it. Out of sight, out of mind. She had given up looking at the stock market too. Two of the companies she’d invested heavily in had gone to the wall. The others were looking similarly precarious. If only she’d been given her bonus, none of this would have happened. But ‘if onlys’ counted for nothing.
Meanwhile she was still chasing up the recruitment agencies, trying to keep the fear from her voice as she felt the wolf coming ever nearer to her door. The bank phoned her several times and she had to pretend she was out. The mortgage people phoned and wrote again, telling her that she needed to contact them urgently about when she was going to make a payment. The flat began to collect dust and fluff in Magda’s absence. Surfaces became sticky. And Polly dreamed that she could feel the wolf’s hot breath on her face as it lay in wait, scenting fresh blood.
If she could just get a job, an interview, a short-term contract, anything, she might still be all right. She had to try harder. She had to set her sights lower. She looked in the Job Centre, exuding desperation from every pore, but they informed her she was overqualified for all their current vacancies. ‘Look, I don’t care, I’ll do anything – well, anything that pays over forty K, at least,’ she told the man behind the desk.
He gave her an ‘are-you-for-real?’ kind of look and pressed some leaflets about claiming benefits into her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to even look at them though. Surely things weren’t that hopeless?
No, she told herself. She would not go begging for handouts. Polly Johnson was made of tougher stuff. She redoubled her efforts. She wasn’t beaten yet.
At the beginning of June she met her accountant, who told her, in no uncertain terms, that unless she got some money, and fast, the flat would be repossessed. The thought of potato-headed bailiffs with worrying biceps and merciless eyes sent a terrified shiver down her spine. ‘You’re going to have to sell up,’ he said. ‘Put the flat on the market and make a quick sale. Unfortunately, with the market having bottomed out, I doubt the value of the property has risen much since you bought it, but you should make just enough to clear your debts and keep the bank off your back.’
She felt as if she’d been slapped. ‘So you’re saying, that even if I sell the flat, I’ll still basically have nothing until I get another job. Is that right?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ he said. ‘Your investment portfolio is looking pretty sick right now; if you can avoid selling your shares, I would try to ride out the market. But you’ll have to act fast with the flat – like, now. Oh, and you’d better start kissing ass with the mortgage guys too, tell them you’re on the case and beg for more time. They should give you another month, at least, before they send the heavies round.’
Polly had left his office in a numb trance. She still couldn’t quite get her head around the fact that her life had become so calamitous so quickly. Surely it hadn’t come to selling her flat already? Where would she go? She didn’t have enough money to stay anywhere; she would have to live on credit … but how long could she manage that?
And so along came the estate agents, a parade of spotty blokes in nasty brown suits who left a foul stink of BO and cheap aftershave in their wake. With a last stab of hope, she asked the first how much rental she could expect from tenants, if she let the flat rather than sell it, but the figure he quoted didn’t go anywhere near covering
the colossal monthly mortgage payment. The last dregs of her optimism leaked out like the final stale gasp of air from a punctured balloon. ‘Looks like I’m selling then,’ she said, her voice trembling.
A life can fall apart surprisingly quickly, as it turned out. All those years of work, of building her career and a glitzy, luxurious life for herself in the capital … it took far less time for the whole lot to implode. She plumped for the estate agent who quoted the highest asking price, the one who assured her he had clients queuing round the block to see properties like hers. Vince, he was called, and he looked every bit a Vince with his wispy moustache and slightly too-close-together eyes. ‘I’ve got one cash buyer in mind who’s very keen to move into this area,’ he boasted, when she called him back to tell him that he could market the property. ‘Vacant possession might just seal the deal.’
‘Vacant possession … You mean, I should move out?’
‘If you’ve got somewhere to go, yes. Makes a property much more attractive, considerably reduces the buying chain.’
If you’ve got somewhere to go … Oh God. But she didn’t have anywhere to go! This was all happening too fast. ‘I’ll let you know,’ she said guardedly.
‘No problemo. I’ll swing by again tomorrow with a contract, and take some photos. We’ll have that apartment sold before you know it, Miss Johnson.’
‘Right. Thanks.’
So it was really happening. The dream was over. Practically penniless and soon to be homeless, she was too depressed and scared to cry any more. Her luck had run out, as well as her money. Now what?
Well, there was one last avenue left open to her, if she could stand it. The nuclear option. She took a deep, sighing breath, then dialled another number. ‘Mum?’ she said. ‘It’s me, Polly. I need a favour …’
This was never part of the life plan, Polly thought as, just two days later, she heaved the last box of her belongings out of the apartment and down to the van below. This was not even Plan B. This was Plan Z, the very last resort. She’d arranged to have most of her furniture and non-essential possessions put in storage, not wanting to think about when she might see them again.
‘That the lot, love?’ asked her dad, taking the box from her and shoving it into the back of the van he’d hired.
‘Yeah,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s the lot.’
He slammed the van doors shut and put his arms around her. It was a hot, soupy day and she could smell his sweat, mingling with the quick ciggy he’d had when he first got there. He wasn’t a man for cologne, Graham Johnson, just as he had no truck with moisturizer, or shaving enhancers, or any of the other male grooming products that regularly baffled him on the shelves in Boots. Soap, deodorant and a slick of pomade, that was all a man needed.
He clapped Polly on the back now, trying not to show how alarmed he was to see her in such a state. He’d always been so proud of his eldest daughter, had revelled vicariously in her career triumphs, boasting to all his mates about her vast salary and high-end lifestyle. True, she wasn’t exactly the most daughterly of daughters. Karen phoned her every Sunday to see how she was, but apparently it was like pulling teeth, trying to engage Polly in conversation. He knew Karen and Clare minded that she had turned her back on them when she got her first City job, but he understood that she was ambitious. Secretly he admired her for it.
Now, though … now she looked pale, scrawny and limp, as if the life had been squeezed out of her. Her hair was greasy, she had spots round her mouth, and the spark was missing from her eyes. She looked defeated. Beaten. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and look after her. Well, he’d drive her back to Elderchurch and she could have the spare room for a while anyway.
‘I’ll just check I’ve not missed anything,’ she said, wheeling away before he could give her that sympathetic look again. She couldn’t bear her own dad thinking she was a loser.
Upstairs in the empty echoing flat, it already felt like some kind of dream, her having lived there at all. She’d actually had this incredible Thames view and cavernous living space, but she’d barely appreciated it. When she’d moved in she’d pictured herself throwing fabulous parties and swanky dinner dos, had imagined a lover throwing her onto her gigantic bed and rumpling the sheets with her. None of it had happened. Somehow she’d just been too damn busy, and now it was too late. The apartment’s particulars were already up on the estate agent’s website, and Vince had arranged an open day there this Saturday when hordes of interested buyers would tramp through, marvelling at the light and airy rooms.
She leaned against the cool cream wall, staring around unseeingly. Was this it, then? Would she ever return to London, or would she have to make do with the spare room in her parents’ bungalow for the rest of her life?
A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I blew it,’ she whispered into the hushed room. ‘I totally blew it.’ And then, because being here any longer was just going to make her cry and cry so hard that she didn’t know if she’d be able to stop, she took a deep breath and walked out.
‘Goodbye,’ she murmured, pulling the door gently shut. She pressed her hand against the white-painted wood for a few seconds, then turned and walked away, her goodbye resounding in her head with every step.
Chapter Eight
Clare had been at work when she’d heard the news a few days earlier. She’d been updating the patient database – a grindingly tedious job that she and Roxie always put off for as long as possible – when her mobile rang. ‘You’ll never guess what,’ her mum had gasped down the line. ‘Polly’s coming home for the summer.’
‘What?’ Clare had yelped, her head jerking in surprise.
‘Yes! It’s true,’ her mum had said, breathlessly as if she was running back to London to get Polly herself. ‘She’s taken a sabbatical to do some research, apparently; goodness knows what this research is about, it went completely over my head when she tried to explain it. But anyway she needs somewhere quiet to work, she said. So she’s coming to stay with us for a few months.’
Clare gaped. ‘God,’ she said. ‘Really? A few months?’
She wasn’t sure how to feel about this bombshell. It seemed so out of character, for starters, her brash, loadsa-money sister leaving the Big Smoke to camp out in their quiet, sleepy village. As for taking a sabbatical, that was even more out of the blue. Polly had always been welded to her job, her BlackBerry like a shiny plastic extension of her hand. How would she cope without the nine-to-five? It would be like transplanting a hothouse flower to a cool, rainy meadow.
‘How come she’s staying with you?’ she blurted out. ‘No offence, but I’d have thought Polly’s style would be to hole up in a glamorous hotel somewhere, not …’
Her brain caught up with what she’d said and she trailed off, not wanting to offend her mother.
Karen Johnson merely laughed. ‘Not slum it with us, you mean? Well, it did strike me as strange too. Maybe she’s been missing my home cooking. She looked that skinny at Christmas, you could almost see the roast potatoes going down her throat. Wrists like Twiglets, bless her. I’ll feed her up, you wait. Anyway,’ she went on. ‘Just wanted to let you know. I’m cleaning every inch of the spare room in preparation. You know how particular she is. High standards, and whatnot.’
‘Mmm,’ Clare replied, still digesting the extraordinary news. ‘Mum, are you sure you’ve got enough room for her?’ Her parents’ bungalow was very modest after all, with barely space for the two of them and Sissy, their Yorkshire terrier, not to mention her mum’s vast collection of knick-knacks, arranged on every available shelf and occasional table. Clare knew her mum had her sewing table set up in the spare room and, since she’d been forced to take early retirement from her job in Amberley library, she liked to sit there on sunny afternoons, sewing machine whirring and The Archers on the radio as she worked on a new patchwork quilt or pair of curtains.
‘Well, it’ll be cosy, put it like that,’ Karen replied. She was perched on the sofa as she spoke and glanced along it, trying
to imagine a third bottom parked there every evening – a fourth bottom, if you counted Sissy’s. Poor Sissy would be miffed if she was suddenly relegated to the carpet; she always gave you that look, those big sad eyes, that Karen could never hold firm against.
The dog cocked her head as if reading Karen’s thoughts and gave a little whine. Please don’t put me on the carpet.
‘I’ll just have to chuck your dad out to his shed if it feels too cramped,’ Karen joked in the end.
Clare felt her lips pursing. Her dad was sixty-six now and by rights shouldn’t have to be chucked out anywhere, least of all for Lady Muck. ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do to help …’ she said. ‘I’d better get on now, Mum. See you later.’
She put the phone down. ‘God,’ she muttered again. Polly hadn’t spent more than two consecutive nights in Elderchurch during the last twenty years. It was going to be very odd having her back. A few months, hey? Plenty of time for Polly to wind her up, big-style.
‘You okay?’ Roxie asked, looking over from the front desk. ‘Your face has gone all scrunched up. Have you got trapped wind?’ She pointed her pen at Clare authoritatively. ‘Try sticking your bum out and bend your knees; you need a big old fart, that’s all, Clare.’
Clare laughed. Despite her art degree, Roxie increasingly fancied herself as a medical expert, as if by working in close proximity to doctors and nurses she had somehow imbibed their knowledge by osmosis. ‘Not wind, just … news,’ she replied, wrinkling her nose. ‘My sister’s coming back to Elderchurch for the summer.’
‘Your sister? I didn’t even know you had a sister,’ Roxie exclaimed with interest. Then her turquoise-lined eyelids snapped open a fraction wider. ‘Oh, wait, is she the one who always gives you mad presents? The stinking-rich one?’
Clare snorted. ‘That’s her,’ she replied.
‘Whoa. The prodigal daughter returns,’ Roxie said, shuffling excitedly on her chair. ‘What the hell has she come back to this dump for?’
