by Sarah Duncan
'Where did you come from?'
'All over the place: Syria, Saudi, Thailand. My husband works for a big engineering company, so we've gone wherever we've been posted.'
There was another pause. Isabel realised that the woman, despite the intimidating hair and make-up, was even more nervous than she was.
'Where did you live in London?'
'Twickenham.'
'I went to school near there,' Isabel said.
'Not Richmond House?'
'Were you there too?'
'I was. Gosh, what a coincidence.' The woman's cheeks were flushed and she seemed less nervous at having made a connection. Isabel also felt better.
'Wasn't it a dump?'
'Awful. When were you there? I left in seventy-nine.'
'Eighty-two, so I doubt you'd remember me. I was Isabel Cooper originally, Freeman now.'
'Helen Delapole then, Weedon-Smith now.' Helen shrugged her bony shoulders. 'What a small world it is.' Isabel was about to ask Helen where her family had lived, when a cup of murky brown liquid was thrust into her hand.
'Coffee?' a voice said. She turned and saw an imposing woman wearing a bright pink sweater decorated with a herd of sheep, of the sort that Isabel remembered people wearing when she'd left England eighteen years before. Perhaps there was a shop in Milbridge selling time-warp clothing.
'Thanks,' Isabel said, taking the cup and managing to slop half of it into her saucer.
'I'm Mary Wright, Chairman of the PTA. And you are?'
'Isabel Freeman,' Isabel said, resisting the urge to step back a pace or two. The herd of sheep were neatly arranged in fluffy white lines on the sweatshirt looking off towards Mary's right armpit, drawing attention to Mary's expansive chest. One had an odd expression and was facing the wrong way from the rest of the flock, just how Isabel felt. She dragged her eyes away. 'I'm new here.'
'Of course you are; I'd know you otherwise.' Mary turned to Helen who obediently supplied her name. Isabel took a mouthful of coffee; bitter, instant with a meagre splash of milk.
'And where do you live?'
'In Battleford,' Helen said, stammering slightly. 'We've just moved in.'
'Ah, you must be the new people in the Hurstbourne's old house.' Vigorous nodding. 'An accountant, I believe Vicky said.' Mary asked more questions. Helen racked up lots of points: accountant-in-the-City husband, the Old Manor, double-barrelled surname, pony in a paddock. Isabel thought the headmistress must have loved her.
'My Clemmie's in the same year as your daughter. You must bring her along to the Pony Club,' Mary said graciously, then added, 'I run it.' Surprise, surprise, thought Isabel. Then it was her turn.
She could see that her real life would score nul points on Mary's system, so instead she said, 'We live in the Old Palace, my children are called Raphael and Hermione, and my husband is an international troubleshooter, the engineering version of Red Adair.'
'Really?' Helen's eyes were wide.
Isabel laughed. 'No, not really. We live in a brand new house, Neil's an ordinary engineer and our children are called Michael and Katie. But the international bit is true. We've lived in nine different countries since we married.'
'How interesting,' said Mary, who looked as if she hadn't appreciated Isabel's pretend life. 'Well. Nice to meet you, and you must come to all the PTA events. Now, I should circulate, but before I go, I must make sure you're labelled,' Mary said. With what? thought Isabel, feeling labelled already with "Not to be taken seriously".
Mary was scanning the chattering mass of women. 'Ah, there she is. Justine!' she called, waving.
A woman squeezed through the crowd. Her blonde bob looked as perfect as her clothes, which managed to be both smart and casual at the same time. Isabel felt dishevelled and garishly bright, a moulting parakeet confronted by a peregrine falcon.
'Justine, none of these people have labels,' Mary said.
'Never mind. You carry on and I'll make sure they get labelled.' There was nothing in Justine's attitude or voice to suggest that she was saying anything untoward but Mary gave her a suspicious look.
'I must circulate,' she repeated and went back into the crowd, the women parting like the Red Sea in front of her.
Justine gave a pussycat smile. 'Mary's put four children through this school, which may explain why she acts as if she runs it. The thing to remember is that it's not just you she's patronising, she does it to everyone equally.' She pulled a roll of labels from her bag. 'If you could put your name and your children's year onto these and stick them on. Then you can find the other mothers in your children's year groups, and go up and introduce yourselves.' Justine tore off two labels and handed them out. 'Have you both got a pen?'
Helen started writing out her label while Isabel rummaged in the bottom of her bag. 'I think so,' she muttered, feeling car keys, loose coins, lipstick and what felt like thousands of pieces of paper.
'Never mind. I've got one.'
Isabel straightened up. 'Isabel Freeman,' she said as Justine wrote it down in neat blue ballpoint. 'I've got Michael, Year Four, and Katie in Year One.'
'Year One,' repeated Justine. 'I've got a daughter in Year One. Rachel - she's in Mrs Baker's class.'
'So is Katie.'
'Brilliant; they've been completely swamped with boys. Rachel will be thrilled another girl's joined them. Perhaps you and your daughter would like to come and have tea with us after school one day. If you're not busy.'
'That'd be lovely.'
Justine handed Isabel a business card. 'Here. My number's at the bottom.'
'How smart.' Isabel peered at the card. 'Is this you?' Justine nodded.
'Wardrobe, Colour and Image Consultant,' Isabel read out. No wonder Justine looked so immaculate. 'It must be odd being on show all the time,' she blurted out, and then blushed at her gaucheness. 'I mean, I expect you feel you always have to be an advertisement for your business.'
Justine cocked her head to one side. 'Yes, but once you know what you should be wearing, then it stops being an issue. Everything looks right.'
'It obviously works for you,' Isabel said, knowing that short of waving a magic wand, she would never look as smart as Justine. Her hair was all wrong for smartness for a start. 'We lived abroad until the summer and I can't get used to the weather here. I'm either freezing, or boiling because I've put too much stuff on.'
'It's not just colours. I can organise your wardrobe and help with what you should be buying,' Justine said.
Isabel hesitated. The idea of someone rummaging through her things appalled her, however much she might need it. It seemed too personal, too exposing.
Justine touched Isabel's arm lightly and smiled. 'Don't worry, I'm not going to do a hard sell on you.'
'I've always meant to have it done,' Helen said.
Justine promptly gave her a card. 'Give me a ring if you want to know anything more.'
'I will.' Helen nodded. 'I could do with a clear-out. I've still got loads of work clothes from before I had children.'
'Do you still work?' Isabel asked, wanting to change the subject from clothes.
Helen pulled a face. 'Lord no, the children are quite enough for me.'
'What about you?' Justine asked Isabel.
'It's almost impossible for ex-pat wives to work; you move around too much and besides that, in a lot of the countries we've been in, women aren't allowed to work. But now we've settled back in the UK I'm looking for a job.'
'What sort?'
'I don't know. I've only done a bit of TEFL before.'
'Teffle?'
'Teaching English as a Foreign Language. I rang round the local language schools but they all wanted the new qualifications - my old TEFL certificate doesn't count. The alternative would be to get experience through casual work, but that would be next summer and I want something now. So I'm not sure what I'm looking for. Anything, I think, just to get started.'
'Can you type?' Isabel nodded and Justine continued, 'I do know someone who's looking for somebody to w
ork in his office, part time. He offered it to me, but to be honest, now I'm single again, I have to work full time.'
'Part time sounds wonderful.'
'I don't think it's very exciting, just basic office stuff.'
'No, that would be fine.' Isabel didn't care what the job was. She felt adrenaline join the caffeine already racing through her veins and had to stop herself jigging up and down.
'If you give me your phone number, I'll find out if the job is still going, and if it is, get him to give you a ring.' She handed Isabel one of the PTA labels.
Isabel started to write down her phone number, then had to check it with her address book. 'It's silly, but I still can't remember it by heart.' She thought that didn't sound very organised, so she added quickly, 'I don't usually have a problem remembering things.'
'Don't worry, he's the world's most disorganised person. Anyone would seem a paragon of efficiency next to him.' Justine gave her a long look, as if considering. 'In fact, I'm probably not doing you a favour,' she said.
Isabel wanted to ask her what she meant but was distracted by Mary's voice calling from the far side of the hall, effortlessly overcoming the noise of the other women.
'Justine! Labels needed here, please.'
Justine wrinkled her nose. 'I must go and avert disaster. Mustn't have anyone unlabelled, you know.' She touched Isabel's arm again. 'I'll try and remember about the job.'
Isabel watched her squeeze her way through the crowd, then turned to Helen. 'I suppose that's networking,' Isabel said, wanting to sing. 'It probably won't get me anywhere but . . .'
'You never know.' They said it together and Isabel's heart lifted. Perhaps she'd found a friend.
Chapter 2
Isabel got back from the town centre and slowly unloaded her shopping. Other women managed to do one shopping trip a week, but she found herself having to slink back several times. It wasn't so much that she ran out of food, more that she ran out of things she knew how to cook. And then there was the unaccustomed luxury of having so much choice. She would buy a head of fennel, excited by the bulbous shape, the elusive scent of aniseed, the wholesomeness, but then once home it would sit there, slowly liquefying in the vegetable rack. After all, what did you do with fennel? The children wouldn't eat it, and Neil had pulled a face and pushed it to the side of his plate when she tried braising it. It was like skate wings. A lovely idea that looked great in a recipe book but didn't quite work in practice.
Having stored the food, she thought she would eat something as it was lunchtime. It was strange, cooking for one after years of cooking lunch for both Neil and the children in the middle of the day. Now, most days she didn't bother with lunch, just picked at bits and pieces. It wasn't worth cooking properly just for herself. Today what she really wanted was a peanut butter sandwich, with squishy white bread, but she got out a low calorie instant soup instead. She scanned through the post while waiting for the kettle to boil. Neil sorted it before going to work and usually took out his letters for reading on the train. Isabel got left with catalogues and junk mail. She poured the hot water on the powdered soup. It looked thin. It tasted thin. Would it make her thin? Wistfully she thought of peanut butter sandwiches. Still, as she'd been so good, just having the soup, she could let herself have one biscuit.
She selected one of Katie's red felt pens, checked that the tip hadn't completely dried out, and sat down with the local paper. Pen in one hand, biscuit in the other, she turned to the recruitment section. Hundreds of jobs, it promised. Packers, salespersons, fork lift truck drivers. Nurses, welders, executive this and that. Trainers, FE lecturers, waste disposal operatives. So many jobs, none of which she could do. She munched another biscuit, scattering chocolate chip cookie crumbs over the ads. None of them seemed to want what she had to offer. They all wanted different things - HGV licence, NVQs, RSA HI. Two years' experience minimum in an administrative capacity.
She reached for another biscuit and realised she had eaten half a packet of chocolate chip cookies. Far worse than a peanut butter sandwich. Oh well, at least they had been two packets for the price of one so she hadn't wasted money. She'd start her diet properly tomorrow. The packet of biscuits could be a final fling.
Her weight had crept up over the last two years so she couldn't even put it down to having babies. Thinking about it, she realised that she could remember days spent at home in Syria, isolated and bored, comfort eating. She couldn't even get in a car and drive somewhere: for security reasons the company's staff and their families were forbidden to drive. But that was there, she thought to herself. We're in England now. No restrictions on women working. I'll get a job, and I'll lose the weight by Christmas she decided.
Isabel got out a piece of squared paper and began to draw up a chart, weeks running along the top, weight running down the side. She then drew a line marking a two-pounds-a-week weight loss. I could easily be back to the weight I was two years ago by Christmas, she thought. And if I exercised as well... She drew another line for three pounds a week. The line dropped steeply away off the page. Minuscule by Christmas, vanished by March. No more buttons bursting off, no more tight waistbands. She scrunched up the empty biscuit packet and chucked it in the bin. She felt energised, as if she had lost two stone already.
The phone rang and she went to answer it, tripping on a stray chunk of Lego and falling, wrenching her ankle. She struggled to her feet, propped herself up against the mantelpiece and picked up the phone.
'Ow. Hello?'
A man's voice asked, 'Is that Isabel?'
'Speaking.'
'You sound in pain.'
'I fell over.'
'I see.' The deep voice paused. 'My name's Patrick Sherwin. I hear you're looking for a job.'
'Yes.' Isabel stopped rubbing her ankle and grimaced. Fell over indeed. She must sound like a complete disaster area. Think "good telephone manner". She took a deep breath. 'Are you Justine's friend?' That sounded wrong, too like something she'd say to a child - are you Justine's little friend, dear? She stood up straight. Get a grip. Act normal, she told herself.
'Is that what she said? Yes, I suppose I am.' He sounded amused.
'That was quick. I only spoke to her this morning.'
'She moves fast.' Isabel thought his voice was wonderful, as rich and smooth as hand cream. 'I need someone to come and help out with my business. Nothing too alarming, keeping the paperwork in order and up to date, answering the phone. That sort of thing. Are you interested?'
'Absolutely.'
'Why don't you come round to my office and we could chat. How does tomorrow sound?'
'I'm not sure...' she said, thrown by the thought that something might actually happen.
'I'm flying to Rome late that evening, so...'
'No, no, tomorrow's fine,' she said, not bothering to look at the calendar, knowing that it was blank for weeks ahead beyond "collect Neil's suit from the dry cleaners" and "children to dentist".
'Good. I'm at number forty-five, Downton Street. Do you need directions?'
'I'll look it up.'
'I'll see you there at, say, twelve thirty.'
'That's fine,' she repeated, hoping that her voice sounded as calm as his.
'Until tomorrow, then.'
She put the phone down and hugged herself. A job interview. She'd got a job interview.
- ooo -
Isabel could hardly wait until Neil came through the front door. The minute she heard his key in the lock she rushed up.
'Guess what? I've got a job interview.'
'Well done. What's the job?'
Isabel rubbed her nose. 'General office admin stuff, I think.'
Neil let his briefcase drop to the floor and stretched. 'Sounds good. I'm just going to pop upstairs and change, and then you can tell me all about it. Are the children already in bed?'
'Sorry. They were so tired after school that I put them to bed early.' Automatically she picked up his briefcase.
'Never mind. I'm late myself.'
'I've got supper waiting for you.'
'Great. I'll be down in a second.' Isabel watched his feet trudging upwards. Not so long ago he would have taken them two at a time. She put the briefcase into what he and the developer grandly called the study, a cupboard of a room by the front door. It niggled slightly that the hallway was spacious, giving a deceptive indication of the room sizes. The space would have been better added onto the kitchen in her opinion, but Neil had liked the hallway.
She went into the kitchen and took the fish pie out of the oven, settling it on a trivet next to the salad bowl. She sat down and waited, picking at the dry and crusty edges of the dish, till Neil came down. The kitchen units were new, blonde wood with stainless steel handles, but cheaply made. Already some of the doors were scratched and there was a grubby look around the edges that wouldn't shift, however hard she scrubbed away at them.
'So, what does the business do?'
Isabel doled some fish pie onto Neil's plate. 'Umm, I'm not sure. Help yourself to salad.'
'Thanks. What's the business called?'
'Not sure.' She mumbled deliberately, she'd replayed the conversation in her head so many times she knew she didn't know the answers to Neil's questions. But the tactic of incoherence failed as he asked her to repeat herself. Neil looked puzzled.
'What did it say in the ad? Show me.'
'It wasn't from an ad.' Isabel felt her excitement seep away like water in sand. 'Someone said that they knew someone who wanted someone and, well, he rang up and asked me to come for an interview. Networking. You know,' she said with a bright smile, hoping she looked confident.
'So who rang up?'
'His name's Patrick -' Sherman? Sherden? 'Patrick Sherwin, I think. He's a friend of a woman I met at the new parents' coffee morning. She suggested me.'
'And do you know her name?'
'Oh yes. Justine something. She's got a daughter in Katie's class.'
'It all sounds a bit dodgy to me. Where are you going for this interview?'
'Forty-five Downton Road.'
'Where's that?'