“I’m looking for work.” I stumbled over my words. The office was silent and I knew everyone was listening to me. “I’ve left Sheridan’s now.”
“Yes,” said Kourtney. “We know.”
My face was hot and damp with perspiration. “I wondered whether you had anything else available.”
There was a silence, then she slammed her mug down. I jumped and knocked the table. Coffee spilled out onto papers she had laid out there. She swore under her breath and one of her minions came rushing over with a cloth.
She leaned over the table and I thought for a moment she was going to grab me. “Are you serious?” she hissed. “You had an affair with a married man. A married man with a pregnant wife. At Sheridan’s, our best client! During working hours! And, now you’ve been fired, you want us to find you somewhere else?”
“What? How did you know that?”
“It’s a small town,” she said. “I know everyone.”
I got to my feet. I wasn’t going to argue that nothing had happened in working hours, that I hadn’t known his wife was pregnant. I’d been a good employee, I’d never been late, and I’d always worked overtime whenever he’d asked me to. I didn’t mention that I’d set up systems that streamlined their administration, that Harry had said I was ten times better than Clare, his previous PA. I could tell, though, from looking at Kourtney’s furious face that nothing I said would make a difference.
I picked up my bag and turned away.
The other staff were staring at me, agog, but lowered their eyes when they saw me glaring at them. The office was hushed as I walked through, my face burning, my heart pounding. As I shut the door behind me I heard an explosion of angry voices.
So, it might be better to look somewhere else for a job.
CHAPTER 12
Ruby
My mistake was going from the recruitment agency straight to the letting agency, where with increasing desperation I was taken to view a number of flats.
My home with Tom had been lovely, even if it didn’t always feel like mine. I’d lived there with him for twelve years and in that time we’d worked hard on it. Every room was freshly decorated. Paintings hung on the walls, soft rugs lay on the oak floors, and everything was clean and comfortable and warm. Josh came to visit a couple of times a week, but even he didn’t make much mess. Before I married Tom I’d lived in my own apartment, a stylish minimalist place whose huge windows overlooked the skyline of Liverpool. I’d loved living there; there was a crowd of us in our twenties who had apartments in the area and there was always someone to go out for drinks or a lazy Sunday brunch with. Those friends were long gone. Some had moved abroad and it was inevitable we’d lose touch, but others had disappeared after I married Tom.
Before I went to the letting agency, I bought coffee in a small café, hoping I wouldn’t bump into anyone I knew. I was still humiliated from the conversation with Kourtney. I knew she must have had a complaint from Sheridan’s, but had they really told her about our affair?
I desperately wanted to talk to Harry, but I forced myself not to call him. He was the one person whose advice I valued, yet he had let me down so badly.
When I’d finished my coffee I checked my bank balance on my phone. I needed to know how much I could spend on rent. Without a job I’d struggle to get somewhere anyway. I was close to tears at that thought. I opened my banking app and my jaw dropped. Tom had put £5,000 in my account. It made me realize that I’d had no idea how much he had in savings. Was this a lot to him? It was to me; I had virtually nothing in the bank. How much did he have?
I sent Tom a message:
Thanks for putting that money in my account.
Immediately he responded.
That’s fine. Let me know if you get stuck. Come round to the house when you can; we need to talk about the sale x
I slid my phone into my pocket. I had a horrible feeling that if I had to go back to my house, I’d want to stay there.
* * *
• • •
I couldn’t believe how expensive it was to rent. I hadn’t rented since my early twenties and then I lived in house shares. I wasn’t going to do that now; I needed my own space.
Pretty quickly I remembered why I used to share a house; it’s so much cheaper than having your own place. The rental prices anywhere decent were high. I needed to get a job and a new home fast. I couldn’t live in the hotel for much longer. I had to get something, no matter what it was like.
For the first time in years, money was absolutely the priority. The cheaper, the better, I thought, until I saw what cheaper would get me. I flinched at the photos of some of the apartments, at the flimsy front doors; the cheap, unstable furniture; the stained and worn carpets.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I buy furniture? Surely I could have some from the house. When it was sold, Tom would move into a smaller place. He wouldn’t need all of the furniture. And some of it was mine, too. I wondered whether he’d let me have that back.
I decided to look only at furnished apartments; I needed to move in immediately. And of course, just as I expected, the issue of my not having a job came up.
“Name of employer?” Gill, the woman at the letting agency, asked. I froze. She saw me hesitate and added grimly, “So that we can write to them to ask them to confirm your employment.”
Frustrated, I said, “I’ve just finished a long-term contract. I’m looking around for work now.” I crossed my fingers. “It won’t take long.”
“I’m sorry. Most of these landlords will only let to employed tenants.”
I stared at her. “That’s disgraceful!”
“Not really. They need to be sure you can pay the rent.”
I thought of the money Tom had put into my bank. “I can pay the rent. That’s not a problem.”
“Very well,” she said coolly. “You’ll have to pay six months’ rent in advance and a deposit against damages.”
“How much do you think I’ll have to pay per month?”
She shrugged. “Most of the one-beds go for around six or seven hundred a month. Before bills, of course.”
Frantically I made calculations in my head. “I can put six months’ rent down now, but I want a monthly contract. I don’t want to pay rent if I’ve got somewhere else to live.”
“There’s no point in you trying to write your own rules. The courts have no power to make a tenant leave until six months are up, so you won’t find a landlord who’ll give you a contract for less than that.” Gill must have seen the wave of panic that flooded me then, because she softened and spoke more kindly. “Look, if you sell your house and want to move out of the flat early, I’ll put in a good word for you. You’d lose your deposit, but they’d probably let you go.”
* * *
• • •
By the time we reached the fifth flat I was ready to take anything. Gill parked her car just off the main road. I got out and looked around. There was a row of a dozen or so shops and the area was tidy and well kept.
“The flat’s up above the florist’s shop on the corner,” said Gill. “I’ve placed people there before and everything’s been fine.”
“Is it safe around here?”
“As safe as anywhere,” she said. “In the daytime all these shops are open, of course, but it’s a quiet enough place at night. It’s not the sort of place where you’ll have trouble with people hanging around.”
“Are there other flats in the building?”
“No, these shops have just one flat above each of them.” The front door was on the side road, around the corner from the shop entrance, and Gill pulled out a key ring and opened the door. Inside there was a small hallway and a set of stairs leading up to the flat. An unadorned lightbulb hung from the ceiling and she flicked the switch before we both went upstairs. In the dim light the stairs looked gloomy and the thick carpet was
covered in a fine layer of dust.
Once we were upstairs, though, things looked a bit better. The stairs went up to a small landing with doors going off it. The living room was large and light, with a bird’s-eye view of the street. It was furnished with a mishmash of furniture, as though everyone who’d lived there over the years had left one item behind; nothing matched in style, era, or color. There was a large wooden table and a couple of chairs in the window overlooking the street. Outside, at the end of the street, schoolchildren waited at the bus stop and a couple of old ladies stood chatting outside the greengrocer’s shop, their shopping bags by their sides. Below the window was the awning covering the florist’s shop below. I pulled up the sash window. The air was warm and a light breeze floated in from the river, carrying with it the scent of flowers from the display below.
I turned to Gill. “This is better than the others, isn’t it?”
She said, “Yeah, it is,” but her eyes were fixed on her phone and I could tell her mind was on something else. My gaze flitted over the sofa that had seen better days and the marks on the paintwork. I could sort that out. I went through to the bedroom; it overlooked the narrower side road and was big enough for all the bags and boxes I had. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the bed was new and still in its plastic cover.
“Is it free to move into immediately?”
“You can move in on Thursday, if you like. I’ll get back to the office now and contact the landlady. I’ll draw up a contract and e-mail it to you later today. If your payment clears tomorrow, then you can move in the next day.”
“I’ll take it,” I said.
CHAPTER 13
Ruby
Early on Thursday morning I went down to the hotel reception with my bags to settle the bill. I wanted to pick up the keys to my flat as soon as the agency opened.
I handed over my credit card.
“That’s okay, Mrs. Sheridan.” When the receptionist called me by that name, it was as though she was rubbing salt into my wounds. “Mr. Sheridan has paid for the room.”
My heart thumped. “Is he here?”
She looked surprised. “No. The payment was made in advance. Haven’t you seen him?”
I flushed and muttered something about him being delayed. “I’ll pay for room service separately.” I handed over my card. The last thing I needed was for Harry to receive the bill for all the alcohol and snacks I’d had. I pictured him casting an eye over the list, judging me.
I thought back to the day when Harry had booked the room online for a week. “Are you sure about this, Ruby? Dead certain?”
My stomach had tightened with nerves as I said, “Yes. Yes, of course!”
“Promise?”
“Yes! I promise.”
He’d beamed at me and entered his card details. “Me, too,” he’d said, and then he’d kissed me.
* * *
• • •
I was deep in thought as I drove from the letting agency to my new flat. I couldn’t stop thinking about that Friday evening when I left work, believing that Harry and I would be together that night. It tormented me. He’d grinned at me as I left. Who would do that to someone they were going to let down? He knew I was going to leave my marriage for him and he knew he wouldn’t be there for me. I couldn’t forgive him. And I thought of Emma, at home with her pregnancy, knowing nothing of this, not realizing the man she’d chosen to be the father of her child was promising to move out to be with another woman. How had we both got it so wrong?
I managed to find a parking space outside my new home. Seeing it afresh didn’t exactly make my heart sing. It was scruffier than I’d remembered, with peeling paint and bare wooden window frames. Inside, the hallway floor was littered with junk mail. I picked it up and separated out a couple of bills for the previous tenant. There was nothing for me, of course.
I jammed the front door open and carried everything from my car into the empty hallway, then made several long slow journeys up to my flat, dragging my bags and boxes with me. The first thing I did was to open all the windows. I could hear the sound of customers chatting on the sidewalk below. It was comforting, somehow. As though I had company. I planned to go down to the florist’s later to introduce myself and buy some flowers for my living room. It had been so long since I’d had to consider close neighbors; my house with Tom was detached and although Oliver lived only a short distance from us, we never had to worry about disturbing him. It would be different here, I knew.
Looking around the flat, I realized I should have brought more things with me. But Harry and I had decided on a new life together. We’d said we wanted to choose everything together, to start again, without reminders from our previous lives. I could see now how stupid that had been, as though a lamp or a bookcase would remind us of our spouses, when our own thoughts didn’t.
Without thinking, I went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea before I unpacked. Of course there wasn’t anything there. I’d have to start again and buy a kettle and some mugs. Even teaspoons. I thought of my kitchen at home, crammed with food processors and three sets of cutlery, the cleaners and scrubbers under the sink, the tea towels neatly arranged in the cupboards, the copper-bottomed pans that hung from the hooks on the wall, the knife sets, the recipe books, and the china, the lovely china I’d collected over the years. The happiest days of my marriage had been spent in that room, alone.
This small grubby flat was so far from where I thought I’d be living that I could hardly make sense of it. I should be with Harry today, looking at apartments with him. Moving in with him, christening our new bed. We’d even chosen the bed we’d buy, had looked at tons of them and had made a decision on one. He’d bookmarked it online and said that ordering the bed would be the first thing we’d do when we were together. My mouth tightened. He’d be okay, I knew that, wherever he was. Sarah had said he was on holiday for a week. Were they on a beach somewhere right now as though all was well in the world? Would he leave Emma lying on a recliner in the sun and go down to swim in the sea, thinking about me and the narrow escape he’d had? Perhaps he’d run back up the beach toward her and shake cold water over her hot tanned body so that she’d shriek, then take her hand and chase her back to their room.
I shuddered. He’d told me they hadn’t slept together for a long time and I’d believed him. I was such an idiot. I knew if I told a friend about our affair, they’d say he was having his cake and eating it, that faced with the reality of leaving his lovely home, he’d chosen the easy way out. And I knew that was true—I was almost sure of it—but when I thought of his face that Friday evening, just when I said good-bye, he looked so happy and smiling and . . . well, I was going to say trustworthy but that probably isn’t the right word, given he was cheating on his wife.
I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I couldn’t afford to get upset now. I’d wanted to leave Tom; I’d thought of it for years. And now I’d left him. I needed to cope with that, rather than thinking about what might have been.
* * *
• • •
The first thing I did once I’d carried everything up to the flat was to go to a supermarket and buy a load of cleaning products and some cheap kitchenware so that I didn’t have to eat out. I had no intention of taking those things with me to my new house, so I just bought a fork, a knife, a spoon. One plate, one pan, one bowl. I felt a bit like Jack Reacher, as though I should keep my toothbrush in my pocket.
I was okay until I started to buy some food. Automatically I picked up a box of muesli and put it into my cart. It was as though something pinged in my brain and I couldn’t stop staring at it. People pushed past me and I moved to a quieter aisle. I realized I’d been eating that cereal for years and years. It was a muesli with all sorts of things in it, nuts, raisins, the lot, and though the packaging was impressive, I’d never liked it. It tasted dusty and too sweet. Yet I’d eaten it every weekday for yea
rs. Tom liked it and used to say there was no point in getting two different cereals, that they’d go stale. Whenever I suggested trying something else he’d go quiet and moody. It was crazy, really, how much his mood could affect me. Why had I put up with that? I went back to the cereal aisle and looked at the range on offer. Which should I buy? What did I actually like? My head started to hurt. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know what I liked. It hadn’t mattered what I liked.
Tom chose everything. And, to be fair, he did usually make the right decision. He had good taste—I knew that. It’s just that . . . well, sometimes you want to choose something yourself, don’t you? When I was living at home my mum decided everything. We either did things her way or we suffered; my sister and I learned that lesson pretty early on. And Fiona got away from it by emigrating when she was eighteen. As for me, I had a few years of freedom and then just when I was really enjoying my life, I met Tom.
I put the box back on the shelf and moved away. I wouldn’t buy any cereal at all. I’d have something else. But the same thing happened in the other aisles. I didn’t know which bread to buy, which cheese I liked. All I knew was which cleaning materials I liked, which washing powder was best. Even the soap confused me. Should I buy the one we always used? Did I actually like it? I didn’t know anymore. I could feel my throat swelling with tears and knew I had to get out of there. I hurried around the store, throwing things into the cart. The only criteria was that I hadn’t had it at home. If it looked familiar, I didn’t want it.
There was a woman in the supermarket who was buying cushions and blankets; she looked like she had good taste so I watched her and just bought what she did. This was a tip my mother had passed on to me. Not that she did it herself, of course, but she told me my taste was a bit odd. Unreliable, she said. She told me the best thing to do was to copy someone else who seemed to know what she was doing.
The Closer You Get Page 6