The Difference a Day Makes

by Carole Matthews

  That was another thing. The prices here were eye-watering. Something else you forgot when you lived in the country.

  ‘It would be a lot easier if I had the money from the sale of the house,’ Amy continued.

  Guy felt himself go hot under the collar.

  ‘For some reason the Gerner-Bernards are delaying signing the contracts and I can’t get any sense out of the estate agent.’ She shrugged her frustration. ‘I don’t know what can be wrong. They seemed so keen on it. Now it appears that they’ve gone off the boil.’

  ‘Perhaps it will sort itself out soon,’ Guy said evasively. Amy would kill him if she knew what he’d been up to, and he felt guilty at the thought of his actions.

  She looked across at him and smiled. ‘You’re not loving London, are you?’

  ‘Does it show?’

  She giggled at that.

  ‘I’d forgotten how busy it was,’ Guy explained, joking, ‘Did there used to be so many people here?’

  ‘Don’t ever see yourself becoming a townie again?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I hope we can stay in touch, Guy.’ Amy’s hand rested on his arm and her fingers burned through his shirt to his skin. ‘It would be nice if you could come down to see us every now and again.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Before this, he would have thought that he’d have moved heaven and earth to come down to London to see them as often as he possibly could, if there was any chance, no matter how tiny, of him and Amy getting together.

  But the truth of the matter was that he didn’t really believe it now. Would he want to spend his weekends down here in Amy’s horrible, depressing flat? If they both had demanding jobs, exactly how many weekends would they be able to wangle together? He’d thought that he could give up his life in Helmshill and move here permanently, if that was what Amy wanted him to do, but now he wasn’t so sure. It would kill him to live here – that was an odds-on certainty. Did he love her and the children enough to give up all that he cherished? He had thought that he did. He had been so absolutely sure. But now that he was here, the reality of the situation had hit him full force and the question was a lot more difficult to answer.

  Chapter One Hundred and Two

  This is my second week of work back at the British Television Company and my third cocktail party, the third night in a row. It’s Thursday and I’m absolutely knackered. I cannot wait until Friday comes around so that I can slob out in front of the telly with the kids instead of being forced to make small talk in loud bars to people who have had too much to drink. I seem to have lost the art of trivial conversation. Didn’t I used to enjoy doing this? I’m sure I did, but for the life of me, I can’t now see why.

  We’re at another ‘in’ place to go. The hot ticket. To me it just looks like another packed bar even though we have it for our company’s exclusive use. Didn’t I once find the buzz of the city energising? Now I feel that it’s sapping all of my strength. God, I’ve found this week so hard. None of my colleagues seem to find this so tiring or so mind-numbingly tedious. They all look as fresh as daisies and as if they’re having the best fun of their lives.

  I’ve reached the age when a quiet drink in a country pub with a roaring log fire is more my sort of thing than standing crushed in a place where painting everything stark white and providing chairs that are impossible to sit on is considered the height of chic.

  Kati, our new au pair, is doing a sterling job and she’s fabulous with the kids, but I’m paying out an absolute fortune every week for childcare. It’s eating an enormous hole in my salary, and the cost of living back here is truly scary. I haven’t had time to sit down and do the sums properly – once again, that was Will’s forte – but I feel as if I’m barely breaking even. It might not even be that good.

  Serena has promised to look after the kids for me a couple of nights each week to ease the burden, but that means she’ll have to make sure that she’s out of work early, which is nigh-on impossible for her even if the spirit is willing. I’ve haven’t even had the time to contact my old friends yet, never mind reacquaint myself with the babysitting circle. How would I manage to reciprocate when it was my turn, now that I’m on my own? I can’t rely on neighbours here as I might have done in Helmshill. How the hell do you make instant friends in a cold, impersonal city like London? A place where you might not speak to your immediate next-door neighbour for thirty years.

  The man next to me guffaws at something that has been said and I try to switch back into the conversation and not dwell on how much my feet hurt or my legs ache or my head throbs. My companion is a high-flying executive for an Italian television company. I’m supposed to be talking to him about a raft of programmes with titles too ridiculous to say out loud – all new ideas from the crazed mind of Lawrence Holmes – and I wonder for the millionth time whether I’m really cut out for this any more. My ideas and Lawrence’s are, creatively, poles apart. Would I be happy working on the sort of programmes that would make up our department’s output? Programmes such as Celebrity Art Exhibition, Celebrity So You Wannabe a Writer? and Celebrity Interior Design Challenge. Every single one of them populated by people who’ve been tossed off Big Brother.

  I had a lovely weekend with Guy – you won’t believe how much it lifted my spirits. We took the children and Hamish up to Hampstead Heath and let them run around for a few hours, all of us enjoying the wind in our hair. It felt so good to be out of that cramped flat and in the fresh air.

  But now that Guy’s gone back to Helmshill, I feel quite down again. It could be weeks before we’re able to see him again. I need to visit Will’s grave too. I thought being back in London would somehow make me feel closer to my husband, but I simply feel more alone. At this rate, when will I manage to get up there? I’m so exhausted by the time that Friday comes around that I hardly have the energy to move all weekend, let alone flog up to Yorkshire and back.

  I could tell that Guy didn’t enjoy being in Town again – and who can blame him? He said it was years since he’d been in the city, and that he was surprised how much it had changed. Frankly, I feel like a fish out of water after having been away for less than a year, so I can fully understand how Guy must have felt.

  The man next to me howls with laughter again and I force a wide grin even though I’ve no idea what’s been said. Then I feel his hand on my backside and he turns his leery face towards me. In case I’m tempted to think that he’s done this in error, he then grabs a handful of buttock and squeezes.

  ‘Get. Your. Hand. Off. My. Arse,’ I say through gritted teeth in a voice that’s audible just to him. This may be acceptable behaviour in his country – though I doubt it – but it certainly won’t wash with me. The man’s English is limited but what he can’t understand in actual words he can tell from the tone of my voice and the fire in my eyes. His hand drops away, he shrugs insolently and turns his back on me to talk to another one of my colleagues.

  I don’t care if it’s still early. I’ve had more than enough, and I’m fuming. There’s no way that I need to put up with that kind of behaviour. I slug back my drink – at least the champagne is good – and head for the cloakroom to retrieve my coat.

  As the cloakroom attendant hands over my things, my boss appears out of the men’s room. Lawrence Holmes looks taken aback as I struggle to shrug on my coat and he marches over to me.

  ‘You can’t go now,’ he says.

  How do I tell him politely that I can’t get out of here quick enough?

  ‘I’ve had it for tonight,’ I say. ‘My feet hurt. My head hurts.’ My heart hurts. ‘And I’ve just been goosed by one of the Italians.’ I hold up my hands. ‘That’s me done.’

  His face hardens. ‘Amy,’ he says, ‘I have to tell you that I’m beginning to doubt your commitment to this job.’

  ‘You know what, Lawrence?’ I reply, hands on hips. ‘Me too.’

  Then I flounce out of the door and, as I can’t face the bloody Tube either, hope I can hail a cab quickly to t
ake me home.

  Chapter One Hundred and Three

  ‘It did not go well.’ I tell Serena my sorry story when I get back.

  My sister puts on the kettle and utters suitably soothing noises as she makes me some chamomile tea. I slip off my shoes and enjoy the pain of the cold tiles on my bare feet.

  ‘Every company wants their pound of flesh these days,’ she reminds me.

  ‘I don’t mind giving a pound of flesh, but I do mind having my bottom groped. That’s definitely more than a pound!’ We both laugh at that. ‘It’s not as if he was even attractive.’

  This was to be my big chance at getting back into the cutting edge of television, steering a raft of popular arts programmes to the small screen. I didn’t envisage working for a megalomaniac barely out of his teens, nor of producing programmes that wouldn’t tax the brain cells of an amoeba.

  ‘I’ve got some more bad news for you,’ she says. ‘I think Hamish has eaten some of your pants.’

  I sigh. ‘That’s the least of my worries.’

  ‘I caught him in your underwear drawer,’ she continues. ‘He was looking very sheepish and I’ll swear I saw some white lace disappear down his throat.’

  ‘Looks like my dog might be getting better.’ I nurse the cup of chamomile tea to me. This stuff had better be strong if it’s going to be able to relax me. ‘Have the kids been good?’

  ‘Angels,’ she says. Then she looks sadly at me. ‘They deserve better than this.’

  ‘I know.’ I let out a wobbly, stressed breath. ‘I’m working on it. Really I am.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do to help,’ my sister slips her arm round my shoulder and squeezes tight, ‘you only have to ask.’

  Then the doorbell rings and my stomach plummets, because I just know that at this time of the night it’s not going to be something to cheer me up. ‘What now?’ I say, and then plod out to open the door.

  Hamish starts up a crazy bark. ‘Hush, hush,’ I tell him, finger to my lips. He gives a low growl instead and I shove him into the living room and close the door behind him.

  A woman is standing there in the stark communal hallway. She’s tiny, Chinese and very polite. ‘I live upstairs,’ she tells me, helpfully pointing upwards.

  I haven’t actually met anyone else who lives in the block yet – so typical in London. Could be another five years before I’m on nodding terms with any of them.

  ‘So sorry to trouble you,’ she says, ‘but I have to tell you this.’

  I’m all ears, but I think I know what’s coming.

  ‘Your dog is howling all day long,’ she continues, looking embarrassed that she’s had to raise the issue. ‘I am a nurse. And I work night-shift. During the day I must sleep.’

  I can hardly deny Hamish now, can I, when he’s just done his favourite party piece. ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ I say, and I am.

  ‘I do not think that you are allowed to keep dogs here. I do not mind. I love animals. But I do not think that other neighbours will be so kind. He is very noisy.’

  Yes, that’s Hamish all right. ‘I do apologise. I’ll try to keep him quiet. We’re only here on a short-term let,’ I explain. ‘We’ll be gone before you know it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I know that you will deal with the situation.’

  I close the door and lean against it. What can I do? Gag Hamish? Turn the television up so loud that all they can hear is Bargain Hunt, 60-Minute Makeover and Place in the Sun rather than my dog? But then I’m upset to hear that Hamish is distressed while we’re all out. He’s got so used to having us all around that it must be lonely for him. He was clearly overjoyed to see Guy last weekend. And he wasn’t the only one.

  I worry about Milly Molly Mandy too. She hasn’t been out at all since we got here, as I’m terrified that she’ll be run over on the busy road or that she’ll escape and never come back. She looks lethargic and disinterested in her modest surroundings and, with her penchant for disembowelment, was never intended to be a house cat.

  Most of all I worry about the kids. They’re not settling in well at their new school, although I appreciate that it’s early days yet. My children already seem to look paler and less robust, the country colour having fled from their cheeks.

  I go back into the kitchen.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Serena says.

  ‘My neighbour is complaining about Hamish,’ I tell my sister.

  ‘Haven’t they got anything better to worry about?’

  ‘It’s fair enough, I suppose,’ I say wearily. ‘We’re not supposed to have pets here.’

  Serena comes and puts her arms round me. ‘It will be all right,’ she says. ‘I promise you. Everything will be all right.’

  But, you know, I’m not sure that I believe her.

  Chapter One Hundred and Four

  Bad news – like buses, it seems – comes along in threes. At eight-thirty the very next morning, just when I’m selecting Hamish’s television viewing for the day in the hope of keeping him quiet, my phone rings and it’s the secretary from Queensway, Tom and Jessica’s school. The Headteacher, she says, would like to see me urgently but can offer no further information as to the reason for my summons.

  Immediately, I call Lawrence’s PA and explain to her that I’m going to be late this morning. If my boss is already cross with me, then let him stick that in his pipe and smoke it too.

  I chivvy up the children and we set out towards the school. The traffic thunders by us on the road. I try to talk to Jessica, but I can’t even hear myself think, let alone hold a sensible conversation about whether or not she’s done her homework.

  At the school door, I say goodbye to them, remembering not to kiss Tom, then I tell the receptionist that I’m here to see the Headteacher. There’s paint peeling off the walls in the hall and I don’t recall seeing that when I was here before. Perhaps I’m seeing London through different eyes now than I did then. If I am, it all looks horrible and dirty and downright depressing.

  In her worn and slightly grubby office, Mrs Richards offers me a cup of tea. Even though I’d love one, I refuse because I can’t afford to hang around too long. ‘I’ve asked you to come in, Mrs Ashurst,’ she says, ‘because I’m worried about Tom and Jessica.’

  You’re not the only one, I think.

  ‘They don’t seem to be settling in well,’ Mrs Richards continues. ‘Are they unhappy at home?’

  ‘It’s been a very traumatic year for them,’ I explain. ‘We uprooted to the country, then they lost their father and now we’ve upped sticks again to come back to London to be near my family. I’ve had to become a working mum again. That’s never easy when you’re on your own.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she says, lips pursed. ‘I can see that it’s rather a lot for them to cope with.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say meekly, all of my guilt buttons having been pushed.

  ‘And for you too.’ She smiles softly at me which makes me feel even worse. ‘I’m afraid that Tom and Jessica aren’t having a much better time here,’ Mrs Richards continues. ‘They’re being bullied.’

  ‘Bullied?’

  ‘I can assure you now, Mrs Ashurst, we’re doing all that we can to stamp it out in the school, but this issue does raise its ugly head every now and then.’

  Don’t remember her mentioning this at the interview when she was keen to extol the virtues of her school.

  ‘You see, as new pupils arriving halfway through a school year, Tom and Jessica are prime targets.’

  ‘They never said anything.’

  ‘They’re lovely children, Mrs Ashurst,’ she tells me.

  I know that, and I want to weep because of it. I hate to think of some streetwise little oik pushing my kids around when they’re already feeling vulnerable. I hate the fact that they haven’t felt able to tell me about it.

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Just be supportive of them. We’re trying to keep on top of the situation here,’ the Headteacher assures me
again, ‘but I wanted to let you know that they are having a hard time at the moment. We’ll do everything we can to help them.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I appreciate you calling me.’ Why am I being so polite when I really want to scream at her to get her scabby pupils under control and then go and snatch Tom and Jessica from their classes?

  ‘We’ll keep in touch,’ she says, and stands up to shake my hand. A frown crosses her brow. ‘Are you sure that you’re all right, Mrs Ashurst?’

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ Then as I leave her office, I check my watch. I’ve got to fly like the wind. I’m an hour late for work already and I know that I’m not going to be able to stay late tonight as neither Kati nor Serena are available for babysitting duties and I have to get back for the children. Wonder what Lawrence Wonderboy Holmes will think of that?

  Who cares? I want to spend time with my kids. They need me more than some poxy television company. Let Lawrence Holmes swivel on it.

  Chapter One Hundred and Five

  Without heed of the expense, I manage to hail a cab outside the school and jump in it. I lay my head back on the seat, close my eyes and try to absorb what Tom and Jessica’s Headteacher said to me and how I can help them get through this.

  Twenty minutes later and I’m swinging through the chrome and glass doors at the BTC. As I try to sneak to my desk unnoticed, I see the dreaded Lawrence Holmes coming out of his office and he heads me off at the pass.

  ‘Can you spare five minutes to have a word with me?’ he says. His sarcasm isn’t lost on me.

  ‘Of course, Lawrence.’

  He steers me back to his sumptuous office. An office just like the one I used to have.