‘What exactly did you have in mind?’
‘Anything that pays more than Income Support,’ she said pleasantly, trying to get the woman on her side.
‘Well, your lack of experience and qualifications doesn’t really—’
‘There has to be something slightly more than sixty quid a week. I’ll pack pies, I’ll do anything.’ Kit was trying not to let her anger show. The woman hadn’t even looked. ‘Look, I thought it was your job to try to help me find one.’
‘Yes, but in view of your—’
‘Listen, lady,’ fumed Kit, losing patience with the attitude of the woman. ‘I’m well aware of my shortfalls but you’re not hearing me. I want to work. I don’t care if it’s washing dishes, waiting tables or working for some spotty teenaged manager at a burger bar, just have a bloody look, will you?’
The face six inches from her own turned a shade of colour that Kit felt sure a paint manufacturer would have found an attractive name for, like Perspiration Pink, Rebuked Red or even Chastised Cherry.
The woman scrolled through her computer screen quickly. She paused and then moved on.
‘What was it? Tell me, I’ll do it,’ cried Kit, looking into the dusty back end of the computer.
The woman scrolled back to it. ‘It’s data input. Very boring and not much money.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ replied Kit. ‘But don’t you need qualifications for that?’
The woman looked across the desk at her. ‘No, only fingers and you have those. There’s just one thing and I think this may be why we haven’t filled the vacancy yet. It’s near Sutton Road.’
No further explanation was necessary. Kit knew the area and avoided it like a slug in a salt mine. Just outside Edgbaston it was known as the most prolific place for prostitution in the area. She took a deep breath and raised her head. ‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘I’m interested.’
A brief phone call later and Kit was walking down the Sutton Road to the interview. Practice, she repeated to herself over and over, it’s just practice. They’ll never hire me but at least I can see how a real interview works. If I can just keep my mouth one step behind my brain I might be able to get through this okay. What do I do when I go in? Shake hands, curtsey, beg and roll over? I’ll play it by ear, she decided, as she reached the front door of the company named on the piece of paper clutched inside her hand.
A portly middle-aged woman opened what looked like a serving hatch as Kit’s nervous fingers rang the bell a few too many times.
Kit formed her lips into what she hoped was a pleasant, friendly smile but could have appeared a constipated grimace for all she knew. She waited to be asked to come though the door next to the serving hatch. Instead the woman came out to her.
Ten minutes later, after a conversation that involved Kit very little, she was ushered out of the door with instructions to return the following morning.
It wasn’t until she let herself into the hostel that she realised that she actually had a job.
‘I got it, I got it!’ Kit exclaimed excitedly to Mark as she bounded into the kitchen.
He stood and hugged her. ‘Well done! Your natural good humour and charm won them over.’
She pulled away quickly. ‘Please, Mark, you know I hate sarcasm. And yes, either that or the fact that I don’t mind being mistaken for a prostitute on my way to and from work.’
‘So, we’ll celebrate with a cup of coffee.’
‘Whoopee!’ she replied, unable to tear her eyes away from the muscles in his shoulder blades as he stood with his back to her. Yes, the sooner she moved out of the hostel, the better.
‘What about the college courses we talked about?’
Kit tried to focus. ‘No problem, I can do evening classes.’
‘I wasn’t sure you’d want to carry on with it.’
‘Oh yeah, this job fulfils every one of my career ambitions,’ she retorted.
‘And what are they?’
‘I don’t know yet. Just somewhere I fit at the moment.’
‘How about in a three-bed semi with a husband and two-point-four kids?’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Yeah sure, men like that fall for girls like me all the time and I’ll surely catch one while I’m walking up and down Sutton Road.’
‘Don’t you ever hope?’
‘No. At the moment all I want is to be independent and able to give myself choices of what to do next. My life is never going to be glamorous, I know that.’ She paused, choosing her next words. ‘But I want the things that other people take for granted. This brain seems to enjoy the input of knowledge and that’s my goal for now.’
Mark reached across the table and held her hand. She enjoyed the touch of his cool, rough hand much larger than hers but removed it swiftly.
‘Why do you do this job, Mark?’ she asked.
‘I just do,’ he answered shortly.
‘Good answer, cryptic though,’ joked Kit as she left the kitchen.
‘So, you buying the coffee tonight or what?’ Kit asked sharply as she moved her chair back to the edge of the room.
Fran nodded distractedly.
‘Christ, I don’t want to force you! It doesn’t mean you’ll have to bear my children or anything.’ She looked around to make sure no one else was listening. ‘And I wanted to, you know, umm, thank you for encouraging me to go to Liverpool. It helped,’ she admitted.
‘So shouldn’t you be buying the coffee?’
‘Yeah, but you’ve got more money than me so…’
Fran nodded and followed her into the cafe.
‘So, how did it go?’ Fran asked once they were seated at what was now their table.
‘He’s dead and I’m not nice enough to say that I’m sorry, but I’m glad I went.’
Kit hadn’t said much to Mark about the visit. She hated his pity and wanted to move away from it. She’d tried hard to dislike this woman but she couldn’t. The fact that Fran had a drink problem told Kit she wasn’t perfect and her attendance at AA told her that she had the balls to try to do something about it. She ignored the fact that Fran was a lawyer.
‘So what you been up to?’ asked Kit, curious about life in paradise.
Fran shrugged, biting her bottom lip. ‘Nothing much.’
There was a story there. Kit could feel it. ‘Fine, I tell you something I’ve told barely anyone and you blank me. Yeah, that’s fair!’ Kit grabbed her coat, angrily. ‘I was right about you all along, Frances Thornton. You think you’re too good for—’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Fran asked softly.
‘Last week I told you about what Bill did to me. You listened and you gave me advice but now when there’s something wrong with you I’m treated like the hired help.’
Fran shook her head, denying Kit’s words. ‘Sit down, people are looking,’ she grated.
‘So fucking what?’ Kit shouted. Frances Thornton was exactly how she’d first imagined.
‘Okay, okay, sit down,’ Fran instructed. ‘Let’s just say I met someone I’m attracted to and I’m not too happy about it. Talk over.’
Kit sat back down. ‘Is he married? Is he older than you, younger than you? What?’
‘None of the above,’ said Fran miserably.
Kit studied her face. Something was wrong. ‘Oh I get it! He’s not in the correct tax bracket for you? What is he? A lowly engineer, waiter…’
‘Wrong again and the tax bracket means nothing.’
Yeah sure, thought Kit, I can just imagine you in the local greasy spoon with Mr Builder. ‘What’s wrong then?’
‘It’s, umm, difficult. I’m not ready yet. It’s…’ Her words faded away.
‘Yes…’
‘It was a woman,’ she said, forcing her chin forward defiantly.
‘Yes…’
‘Well, what am I going to do?’
‘You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific, Fran. Is she married? Does she have kids? Is it the two heads putting you off?’
&nb
sp; ‘Aren’t you shocked?’
‘Come on, Fran, you know my life! Should I be?’
Fran pulled at her hair in frustration. ‘But I’m not a…’
‘A what? A woman capable of being attracted to another woman? Don’t give yourself a label.’ She pointed to Fran’s Gucci jacket. ‘You wear enough of them. Just give yourself a chance to find out how you feel.’
‘But what would people think?’
Kit translated this into ‘What would my mother think?’
‘Who gives a flying shit what your… anyone thinks. From what I’ve seen you’ve spent your whole life worrying about what other people think. You still try to please them now. I’m not telling you what to do. It’s your decision and it’s a hard one to make. But Christ, Fran, it’s not weird or anything, it’s just life. Get to know the person, not the gender.’
‘It feels good to tell someone. I can’t eat, sleep, everything I look at reminds me of her.’
‘That settles it. Either have a go or die from hunger and exhaustion!’
Fran smiled weakly. ‘Easy for you to say.’
Kit could see the emotions crossing Fran’s face: loneliness, hope, fear… She felt for her. ‘Come on, Fran, you can tell me. How did she make you feel?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Scared, safe, excited, confused. Pick an emotion and I felt it, but more than that. I wanted something and I don’t know what. I’ve tried to put a name to it but I can’t.’ She looked pained. ‘Have you ever felt that, Kit, that you want something so bad it hurts?’
Kit tipped her head. ‘Actually yes. When I was about six a girl who lived two doors away came back from a day trip to Blackpool with one of those snow scene things that you shake. God, I thought it was magic the way the snow swirled around the top of the tiny Blackpool Tower! It was so beautiful I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I begged her to let me shake it but she wouldn’t let any of us touch it. I went to sleep that night thinking of the snowflakes and glitter being swirled around by the water inside and ached because I wanted something as pretty as that.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘It was so rare to find anything magical in the poverty of our street, I never forgot it.’
‘Here I am telling you that I think my whole life is about to change and you tell me about a snow scene.’
Kit shrugged. ‘Well, you did ask.’ She observed Fran’s discomfort. ‘I bet it’s bloody killing you,’ she observed accurately.
‘What?’
‘You’ve actually come across something over which you have no control. That must hurt.’
Fran smiled sadly. ‘You have no idea,’ she answered honestly. ‘Anyway enough about me, what’s new with you?’
Kit grudgingly told her about her plans to move out of the hostel and her new job.
Fran leaned forward, her eyes wide. ‘Pretty boring week then?’
‘Can we talk about something else please, like the merits of alcoholism and drug addiction.’
‘Ouch, the spikes are out!’
‘I’m not spiky, it’s just boring!’ she snapped.
‘Fine, so bore me. Where is the job?’
‘Sutton Road,’ stated Kit, enjoying the shocked expression in Fran’s eyes.
‘Isn’t that…?’
‘If you must know, it’s data input.’
‘Yes…’
‘What?’ asked Kit
‘Well, judging by the tone of your voice I guessed there had to be a punchline.’
‘Let’s talk about something else.’
‘Why are you so defensive? I’m not judging you. Believe me, the way my life is going at the moment I don’t have the right so for goodness sake, loosen up!’
Kit laughed loudly, scarcely able to believe that uptight Frances was telling her to loosen up. ‘Okay, you asked for it,’ said Kit, sobering. ‘You make me feel stupid. No, actually it’s just me when I’m around you. There you sit in your designer labels with your fancy job. How can you really be interested in what I do?’
‘Firstly, what makes you think I have a great life? Secondly, I think you’re my friend and thirdly, that woman over there is wearing Armani. Should I go and ask her if, because she wears good clothes like me, she understands the hell I go through every time I pass a wine bar or my uncontrollable envy of people in restaurants who can drink in moderation?’ Fran paused. ‘Why do you find it so difficult to believe that I like you?’
Kit didn’t look up from her coffee. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said genuinely.
‘So you should be, Miss Mersey Tunnel Mouth. Anyway, what sort of prospects are there in this job?’
‘Christ, Fran! Am I dating your daughter?’ An uncomfortable expression passed over Fran’s face. ‘Anyway, did you always want to be a lawyer?’
‘No, I loved art first but realised quite early on that it wasn’t realistic and that I needed a career like my parents.’
‘You see, Fran, that’s the difference between us. You talk of prospects and careers. I talk of jobs and rent.’
‘Yes, but we both have to want to get up in the morning,’ replied Fran, unable to keep a harsh note out of her voice.
‘Have you noticed what stage of friendship we’re in?’ asked Kit to break the atmosphere that had become heavy.
Fran shook her head.
‘Well, there are five stages. The first stage is where we’re polite to each other. Well you are because I’m naturally rude. This is where we tread warily, eyeing each other up to see if we like what we see. Then there’s stage two. Here we decide we like each other and decide to meet again. The third stage is more interesting. This is when we begin to open up a little more, confide small things but keep the big stuff to ourselves. Stage four is the juiciest bit. We get to know each other’s deepest and darkest secrets. This is when I’ll tell you about the time I was abducted by aliens. Stage five is when we know everything about each other and I tell you to sod off because you don’t interest me any more.’ Kit sat back with a satisfied smile on her face.
Fran cocked her head to one side. ‘I’d guess we’re at stage three, am I right?’
‘Buggered if I know, I just made it up!’
They both laughed.
‘Well, fellow party animal,’ said Kit, reaching to the back of the chair for her coat. ‘My curfew awaits me and although I’d love to stop here and chat all night, I’m also rather fond of having a roof over my head. At least until the weekend.’
‘Kit, I want you to take this,’ said Fran, handing her a business card.
‘Hmm… Thanks, but I couldn’t afford you,’ Kit said dryly.
Fran chuckled. ‘My home number’s on the back. Ring me if you want to talk.’
‘Yeah, whatever. See you next week,’ said Kit as she put the card into her pocket.
8
Fran
Fran watched as the jury took their places and knew their decision immediately. She succeeded in keeping her face expressionless. Jurors two and seven had glanced in their direction with a hint of a smile. She’d won.
She looked sideways at Philip Tranter, whose hawkish eyes darted around the room, anxious for the verdict. By a slight squeeze of the arm or half smile she could let him know that he was free and clear. But she chose not to. She felt no emotion for this man who was guilty as hell of two counts of GBH but she had been assigned to defend him. And she had. She stared at the legal pad in front of her while the formalities took place. When the words ‘not guilty’ eventually came Fran was already filling her briefcase.
‘You were excellent,’ he beamed, encasing her in a rough hug.
‘Just doing my job,’ she stated with distaste as she disengaged herself. She didn’t like him. She didn’t have to, and she meant what she’d just said.
‘I picked a fucking winner in you! I’m just glad you didn’t interrupt your record of victories with me.’
Fran snapped the briefcase closed. The gratitude of this bastard who had quite openly admitted to her that he’d beaten his wife and child, purely becaus
e he had disturbed them when he was trying to watch football, made her feel sick. He strutted out of the courtroom arrogantly and she thanked God she didn’t have to see him again.
The usual tricks had worked for her once more. He’d been cleaned up, his beard shaven off – Fran knew that facial hair made the jury think that the defendant was hiding something – and he’d attended two elocution lessons. She’d brought in three colleagues from the bank where he worked to testify to his generosity, shyness and efficiency. The jury’s perception became that of a stereotypical ‘nice guy’, just as she’d intended. They had been unable to connect a wife and child beater with the well-spoken, well-dressed gentleman before them. The proof had been there, but public perception, as Fran knew, was much stronger.
The stuffy courtroom was nearly empty. Her watch told her it was four thirty. Lesser mortals would have been tempted to go home but Fran could see a few hours of work instead.
‘Good one, hope you’re pleased.’
Fran looked up startled. She’d thought she was alone. ‘Just doing my job, Keith,’ she defended.
The prosecutor eyed her from his chair. ‘How the hell do you sleep at night after defending scumbags like that?’
Fran understood his anger. The emotional part of her would have liked to see her client being dragged away kicking and screaming. She’d seen the police photographs but the professional side of her had been tasked to take on this case by the two senior partners of the firm for whom she worked. It was actually her first case back in court and she could only marvel at their faith in her ability. She had pointed out that there were better-qualified people in the company to try this case but they’d pressed her to take it.
‘Do you get any satisfaction at all from your work? This is our eighth meeting, and incidentally my eighth loss, but you sure don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.’
‘I won, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, but you wouldn’t guess from the set expression of your face.’
‘Is that sour grapes I can smell from a sore loser?’ she asked.
‘Oh no, I’m not the loser! I get to go home tonight, eat dinner, listen to some music and watch TV without fear of the doorbell or the phone. You’re not the loser either. You can go home. You can do whatever you do, which I’m sure involves some sort of surgical procedure to remove the bad taste from your mouth.’
The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting Page 13