by Lucy Diamond
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Clare said, getting quickly to her feet before Kate felt obliged to help her up. Her tights had ripped and her palms felt punctured from the sharp little stones, but the embarrassment was far worse than the pain. She could feel them all watching: the impeccable women from Brownes no doubt smirking at her imbecility, and Kate probably wondering if she had a drink problem. Shit. What a clumsy oaf she was. What a prat-falling, useless idiot!
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, her face fiery, as she brushed herself down, deliberately keeping her back to the other women. To top it off a crumpled length of toilet roll was now hanging right out of one shoe and she shoved it back in with her foot, feeling more gauche than ever. Don’t cry, don’t cry. ‘Thanks again,’ she managed to say and hurried off, praying her wobbly ankle would make it as far as the car. Stupid heels. Loathsome heels!
‘Okay …’ she heard Kate say uncertainly behind her. ‘Bye then. Take care.’ There was a delicate pause. ‘Now then, would you two like to come in? I’ve been looking forward to seeing your products.’
And in they went through the old oak doors, a strong scent of Chanel lingering in their wake.
Clare let out a groan. Bollocks. Big, hairy, dangling, sweaty bollocks. What a total fuckwit she was. What a klutz! She’d done okay in the meeting too, she’d actually come out with a few coherent sentences and not muffed any of the figures. And then to go and blow it by falling over, bum in the air, knickers probably flashed for all the world to see, face in the gravel like an utter twenty-four-carat loser. Why had she ever agreed to this ludicrous meeting in the first place? That little trip down the steps had reminded her of her place, all right – sprawled on the ground, while the proper business types of the world stepped over her prone body and were handed a big fat contract.
It was only the horrific prospect of being discovered weeping in her crummy old Fiat by elegant Kate that gave her the will to turn the ignition key and start the engine.
Chapter Seventeen
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For the last time, no jobs here for you. Just give up and admit you’re a failure, yeah?
Polly was going cross-eyed from staring at the computer screen for so long. For all their boasting about regular updates, the job websites were starting to look brain-achingly familiar, and soul-crushingly hopeless when she scanned them every morning. There was the Market Risk Data analyst job that sounded good, until you looked at the pay. Then came that same old project-manager post, also working in the Market Risk area, which she’d already applied for (still crossing those fingers, but the company seemed to have extended the deadline date, which was worrying). A couple of jobs in Brussels. Something in Edinburgh. Short-term contracts, some as short as a week, but these were no good to her now that she no longer had a home in London. To enable a move back she needed something meaty, a proper contract that she could show to prospective landlords of lovely flats …
Oh God, she missed her flat. She missed living alone. Being at Clare’s was … well, to be fair, it wasn’t quite as dreadful as she’d anticipated, but there were certainly no mod cons here, no breathtaking views of the city skyline, no bustle and buzz of the capital’s energy. It was turning out to be harder than she’d thought to get anything done here, what with her parents dropping in for coffee and a chat all the time, as well as batty Agatha and her frequent visits, involving more offerings of manky root vegetables.
She forced her attention back to the laptop screen. Face it, she said to herself, there were just no jobs suitable for her right now. Nothing. Even Clare’s business prospects looked more enticing than Polly’s – although after the dismal expression on her face when she’d returned from the Langley’s meeting last week, nobody was banking on that little venture coming to fruition. But still, at least Clare had some hope, some kind of way forward. Polly’s way forward seemed to be completely barred right now. She was never going to get a new job at this rate; she’d never be able to return to London, she’d have to stay in Elderchurch for ever and ever and would die here, a bitter and miserable old crone.
Her phone rang, jerking her out of her torpor. The estate agent’s number was flashing on the screen and she pressed the connection button hungrily.
‘Hello?’
‘Miss Johnson? Vince here. How are we today?’
She pulled a face. ‘We’re very well, thank you. How are things?’
‘Good, good. Listen, I’m ringing with a bit of news. We’ve had an offer on the flat – very nice couple, short chain, they’re good to go. The offer’s quite a bit lower than the asking price, though.’
‘How much lower?’
He paused dramatically. If he’d been there in the same room as her, this was the moment she’d have punched him in the face. ‘Forty grand lower.’
‘Forty grand? They can fuck off.’ She slumped back in her chair, sick with disappointment.
Vince was chortling as if she was joking. She so wasn’t joking. ‘Okay, Miss Johnson, you’ve made your thoughts on that pretty clear. I’ll get back to them with the bad news.’
She screwed up her face as the call ended, wondering if she’d just made a mistake. But no, they were taking the piss with such a rubbish offer. She had to sit tight, wait it out and hope they’d come back with a higher figure. ‘Oh, please come back with a higher figure,’ she moaned out loud. Fred, who was slobbing out beneath the table, pricked up his ears and gave a little whine as if sympathizing.
Polly turned back to her laptop, but it was no good, she couldn’t concentrate now. She switched it off, then got to her feet, the chair screeching as it scraped across the floor. ‘Sod this for a lark, Fred,’ she said. ‘Let’s get some fresh air, shall we? Have a little walkie?’
Fred scrambled out from under the table immediately, his tail wagging, and Polly knelt down to hug him. She was becoming quite fond of Fred, even if he did smell heinous most of the time. It was nice having someone – okay, something – who was always pleased to see her, and could be counted on for a cuddle when she felt miserable and lonely. ‘Come on then,’ she said, clipping the lead to his collar. ‘Let’s stretch our legs and have a wander.’
Propping her big shades on her nose Polly set off with Fred at her side, his tongue out in a big doggy smile. It only took minutes to get out of the village, clamber rather inelegantly over a wooden stile, and then she was in a lush green field dotted with buttercups and clouds of ox-eye daisies, with large swaying oaks and chestnut trees at the far end.
She smiled to herself. All those boring family walks she’d endured as a child, with her dad reeling off the names of every tree, plant and bird they passed, must somehow have lodged themselves deep in her subconscious. She could still name most types of tree with the same certainty she had about identifying the parts of her own body. Not that she’d needed such arboreal knowledge very often in London, admittedly.
The grass swished against her jeans as she walked across the meadow. She, Clare and Michael had spent half their summers here, splashing in the icy stream, climbing the trees and swinging from the branches, making dens and camps with their friends, taking picnics, playing cricket …
‘Those were the days, Fred,’ she said, letting him off the lead and patting his hairy brown coat before he gambolled away. Happy times. She tried to recall which tree it had been that Michael had fallen from and broken his arm – perhaps that vast horse-chestnut, laden with white candle-like flowers. She could still remember the cry he’d made as he’d slammed against the ground, the sick-making bend in his arm that looked so horribly wrong. Clare had been dispatched to the nearest house (Mrs Warren’s, that was it) to phone their parents, while Polly stayed with Michael, holding his other hand, frightened by how dark his freckles looked against the ghostly white of his face, scared by how fast her own heart was racing and by the inj
ured-animal whimpers he made at intervals.
Oh, Michael. She wished she could hold his hand again and tell him how much she wished he hadn’t died. She wished she could tell him how sorry she was.
‘Well, look who it is! Fancy seeing you here.’
She turned in shock to see a man in front of her grinning, his dark eyes twinkling beneath the shock of black hair. Oh my God. It wasn’t, was it? Where had he just sprung from?
‘I heard you were back in Elderchurch, Poll.’ He peered at her, suddenly affronted. ‘Don’t say you don’t remember me?’
Didn’t remember him? Of course she remembered him. She was remembering, right then, having sex with him on her parents’ sofa, the night her life fell apart. ‘Hello, Jay,’ she said, her mouth dry. ‘I … Long time no see.’
‘Very long. Must be … what, twenty years?’
‘Something like that.’
There was an awkward pause. The sun suddenly felt too hot on Polly’s face and she was glad she was wearing enormous sunglasses, which hid her eyes and disguised the fact that she had absolutely no make-up on. If only there was something to hide her scruffy ponytail, and the old jeans and pink top she’d bunged on earlier as well.
‘So …’ she said. ‘What have you been doing in the last twenty years then?’ The answer certainly wasn’t spending time on his appearance – that was obvious. He had a few days’ worth of stubble, his hair needed cutting and he was in raggedy jeans and old trainers. What a hobo.
He shrugged. ‘Bit of this, bit of that. Travelled for a while. Worked in Australia with a few mates.’
She hadn’t been expecting that. ‘Oh, nice. Sydney?’
‘Perth. Nothing that exciting – labouring work, mostly, but I loved it there. Then Rachel and I got married …’
‘You married her? Big-Tits Lewis?’ Rachel Lewis was the girl Jay had hooked up with after they’d split. She’d had better boobs than Polly, and her family owned a villa in the south of France. Polly couldn’t imagine what Jay had ever seen in her.
‘Yeah, I married Big-Tits Lewis,’ Jay said drily. ‘Not for long, though; she went off with another bloke. That’s all water under the bridge now. No kids. How about you?’
‘I’m in finance,’ she said, drawing herself up to stand slightly taller in her tatty flip-flops. ‘I’ve worked all around the world, but have been in London for the last twelve years. Busting balls in the City, earning a fortune, you know …’ She gave a short laugh. He didn’t know, obviously, but she couldn’t help wanting to rub it in. I’m better off without you, mate.
He shook his head. ‘Clare’s been keeping me up to date,’ he said. ‘I heard you were one of those buy-sell types, all suited and booted.’ Was it Polly’s paranoia, or was he casting a smirky eye up and down her current outfit? ‘All sounds a bit stressful to me.’
She tossed her head. ‘Not at all. Personally I thrive on big business – in fact, I’m finding it a real chore being here in Nowheresville. I can’t wait to get back to city life.’ She stuck her nose in the air and scanned the field for Fred, who was frolicking happily with a waggy-tailed mongrel. Jay’s waggy-tailed mongrel, at a guess. It looked about as scruffy and charmless as him. ‘Fred! Come here, boy,’ she yelled, completely ineffectually as it turned out, when Fred paid no attention whatsoever.
‘Nowheresville, eh?’ Jay chuckled, much to her annoyance. ‘Oh well. See you around.’ He put two fingers in his mouth and gave an ear-splitting wolf-whistle. Both dogs turned immediately and galloped across the meadow. ‘Good girl,’ he said, reaching down to pat his dog, who seemed to have half a stinking cowpat on her feet. ‘Come on then, let’s go.’
Without another word he turned and stalked off, his dog gazing adoringly up at him as she trotted alongside.
Polly glared, her feathers well and truly ruffled by the encounter. Honestly! What a prat. What a total jerk. What had she ever seen in him? The nerve of him, the way he’d been so dismissive of her. Contemptuous, even.
Well, she’d been right to dump him after Michael had died. And good riddance to him as well.
The conversation kept replaying in her head like a jammed recording, though, as she strode away. Oh God, why had she felt the need to boast to him about her glittering career, for heaven’s sake? Who cared what he thought anyway? She flushed as she remembered the mocking way he’d described her job: buy-sell, all suited and booted, or however he’d put it. That was plain bad manners, and sour grapes too no doubt, because he’d never done anything with his life. As if she would start criticizing him for his career – labouring in Perth and what-have-you – even though she had every right! No. She had manners. She had a bit of courtesy. Unlike him, the … tosser.
Bloody Jay Holmes. And bloody village life! More than ever she missed the anonymity of London, where you could safely wander around without having to worry about bumping into ex-boyfriends. Not that there’d been many of those, of course. The night Michael died had put paid to that. How could she have a relationship with Jay or anyone else when she was responsible for her own brother’s death? She didn’t deserve it, end of story.
She’d reached the other side of the meadow now and walked into the shady refuge provided by one of the chestnut trees, leaning against the trunk, grateful for its support. If only he hadn’t caught her off-guard like that, the conversation might not have gone so wrong so quickly. But he’d taken her by surprise, and she’d been boastful, and then he’d been sarcastic … Why had they reacted to one another that way? And why was she letting it get to her so badly, letting him get to her? She’d barely thought about him for years, she was certainly not about to start raking up old history and heartbreak now.
Sod it, she thought, heading back to Clare’s with the dog. She’d rather take a job in Brussels than spend any longer than she had to in the vicinity of him.
The phone was ringing when she got back and she scrambled to unlock the door and get into the house. The reception for her mobile wasn’t always brilliant in the village, so she’d given Clare’s landline number to several companies recently in her contact details and had subsequently been pouncing every time it had trilled.
‘Hello?’ she panted into the receiver, adrenalin buzzing around her. Would it be Vince the estate agent again, calling with a better offer? Or, even better, a headhunter who’d found a post that was absolutely perfect for her? This conversation could well be the first link in a chain of events that would pull her all the way back to good old glorious London town. Take that, Jay Holmes, and shove it!
‘Hi, is that Clare?’
Disappointment sank through her like ink in water. She couldn’t speak for a second. ‘No, this is Polly,’ she replied eventually. ‘Clare’s …’ She glanced up at the clock: two-forty. ‘Clare’s on her way back from work right now, she should be home in a few minutes. Can I take a message?’
‘Please,’ the woman said. ‘This is Kate Hendricks from Langley’s. Let me give you my number.’
Ooh, a call from Langley’s. Polly was so startled for a moment that she didn’t have the wherewithal to grab a pen and take down her details, and had to ask the woman to repeat her number. Surely this was good news? Would she really be phoning if it was a big fat no to the pitch? It was on the tip of her tongue to try and glean some crumb of information, some hint about what was happening, but she managed to hold back. No. This was Clare’s news to be told. All in good time.
‘Okay, I’ll pass that on,’ she said, her brain teeming with questions. She hung up and stared at the phone for a few seconds. Well, this could be interesting.
Clare had come back in a right state from the meeting last week with torturous tales of falling down steps, toilet roll dangling from her shoe and tittering Barbie competitors. Polly had been as kind as possible and had tried to say all the right sympathetic things, but inside her head was a flashing neon sign that said: WRITE-OFF. Reading between the lines, Clare had no chance.
But what if the pitch hadn’t been as disastrous and doom
ed as Clare had predicted? Polly swallowed. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d think if Clare had actually gone and swung a deal.
No. Surely not. The call-back was probably just because this Kate woman was the aunt of Clare’s friend Roxanne. Simple courtesy as a favour to her niece, perhaps providing a bit of much-needed feedback. Thanks, but no thanks; we’ve decided to go with a proper company, which actually does this for a living – like professionally? Don’t give up the day job, whatever you do.
Polly sat down at the table once more and dutifully checked her laptop for new emails or job alerts, but it was hard to concentrate when she kept glancing out of the window for Clare’s car returning. She scrolled through her in-box with an increasing sense of déjà vu. A rejection, an acknowledgement of an application, her new log-in for yet another financial-recruitment website, another rejection and a newsletter from Waterman’s that she was still signed up to. Nothing whatsoever leaping out to say: GOOD NEWS, POLLY!
When was anyone going to say ‘Good news, Polly!’? It had been such a long time.
At last there came the familiar chug of Clare’s old banger as it swung into the drive. Polly couldn’t wait any longer and ran through the back door to greet her. ‘She’s just phoned. The lady from Langley’s. Wants you to ring back.’
Clare’s eyes went very round as she stood there, a hand flying up to her mouth. ‘Oh, gosh. How did she sound? Did she say anything else?’
Polly shook her head. ‘No. Just could you call her. I’ve got her number for you.’
‘God,’ Clare said with a nervous laugh as they went into the house. ‘I’ve gone all jittery. I wasn’t expecting her to phone. I thought it would be a Dear John letter in the post: thanks and everything, but we don’t want to work with someone who puts toilet roll in their shoes.’
‘Well, I know, I thought the s—’ Polly began, then broke off quickly before she could put her foot in it. ‘Ring her and see,’ she urged.
