Still, he’d handed over a lump sum of several thousand pounds from his redundancy payment. She couldn’t look to him for anything more. She needed to find work, and soon.
She’d applied for a couple of promising jobs, school hours only of course, but so far she hadn’t even had an interview. She had gone for a part-time job in the admin office at Lottie’s school, but hadn’t even heard back, and the constant headlines about the poor state of the economy were endlessly discouraging.
She had trimmed their expenditure, of course. She was buying wine in bulk now; it was so much more economical. It was really her only treat, now that she’d given up clothes shopping and cancelled her magazine subscriptions. It was helping her to cope, just in the short term – it was the ritual of it, as much as anything. The creak of the cork as she levered it out and the glugging sound of the cold fluid splashing into the glass were not enough to lift her spirits, but were certainly soothing. If she felt rough the next day, well, what was new? Waking up alone was rotten anyway, and a hangover was a welcome distraction.
Her anxiety about the sleight of hand required to keep on balancing the family finances came to a head in the run-up to Clemmie’s birthday party. She’d booked it – Clemmie wanted an interactive show from Salt’n’Pepper Theatre, the same as her best friend Elspeth Morris had had for her birthday party back in the summer, the day that . . . the day Lucy had rowed with Tina about her column, and come home just a bit too early.
Despite her worries, she always crashed out without any difficulty at night – the wine helped with that – but one morning she surfaced in the early hours in a blind panic. Would she really be able to handle a group of twelve seven-year-olds on her own? She’d always had Hannah to help her before. And also . . . she’d made the down payment, but what about the balance? What if her cheque bounced? She got up and checked her bank account online, and what she saw kept her from going back to sleep.
There was nothing else for it. She would have to do anything, anything at all. She’d walk up and down with a placard advertising root beer, or golf clubs. She’d go door to door asking householders what gas tariff they were on. She’d work in a call centre! On a checkout! Clean offices! Walk dogs! Babysit! But to start with, she would call round the agencies she had registered with, and she would do it as soon as she got back from taking Clemmie to school. It was Friday, a good day for picking up assignments for the following week; she remembered that from temping after Cardiff.
Having decided this, she finally dozed off. She didn’t feel too good when the alarm went off, but luckily the girls pretty much got themselves ready these days, and Lottie took herself in to Caldecott Grammar on the school bus. Lucy just about managed to drop Clemmie off at St Katherine’s without talking to anyone, though only by waving apologetically across the playground at Jane Morris, Parent–Teacher Association president and mother of Clemmie’s friend Elspeth, before rushing off as if she had an urgent appointment to get to.
Jane almost certainly wanted to confer about the forthcoming fundraiser. Oh well, maybe by afternoon pick-up Lucy would be in a suitable frame of mind to worry about knives, boards and Bath biscuits. Was she really still going to help organize, and duly attend, a cheese and wine evening? Was she still capable of making polite chitchat about different varieties of Brie, and, when that subject ran dry, about tutors and builders and cleaners?
Back home, Lucy briefly contemplated tackling the kitchen floor. She hadn’t had a cleaner since the children were small, preferring to do the chores herself; she had thought of the house as her job, and had been scrupulous about putting the effort in. There was no reason to let her standards slip now.
But first she forced herself to pick up the phone and ring Nicky from Red Apple.
‘No, I’ve got nothing at all next week, I’m afraid, but do keep on trying,’ Nicky told her. Then someone interrupted her, and Lucy could hear them conferring: ‘Marta from Barris Hume? No, I haven’t heard from Tamsin, no. Well, she could have phoned, couldn’t she? OK, tell Marta we’ve got someone on the way.’
Now Nicky turned back to Lucy. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘Do you know what, Lizzie, it must be your lucky day, because we may have something for you after all. It’s for the whole of next week, but you need to be able to start today, as soon as possible. It’s the Kingston office of Barris Hume, I expect you’ve heard of them?’
‘Er . . .’
‘The estate agents. I’m looking at your form right now and I see that you’re just round the corner and you have your own transport, is that right?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘Word processing, web editing, Excel?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘And shorthand too – that’s an unusual one these days! Marvellous. I think you might be just what they’re looking for. Our contact there is called Marta, she’s absolutely lovely, and she’s off on holiday next week. She’s very keen to get someone up and running before she goes. Unfortunately, we’ve just been let down by the temp who originally had the booking. But we can rely on you, can’t we, Lizzie?’
Lucy stifled the guilty knowledge that her web-editing skills consisted of once, eleven years ago, choosing three paragraphs from Beautiful Interiors for the designer to put online, while she had failed her 80 wpm shorthand at Cardiff back in the previous millennium.
Perhaps she’d get to nose through the details of some nice houses. She’d always enjoyed helping to flatplan the property ads for Beautiful Interiors; all those Chelsea townhouses and moated seventeenth-century mansions in the Cotswolds.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I like to think I’m an extremely reliable person. And my name’s Lucy, by the way.’
But by two o’clock in the afternoon she was still nowhere near completing the task she had been set on her arrival, and as she was due to leave at half past, she was beginning to realize that her chances of finishing were nil.
Nicky from Red Apple had grudgingly agreed that it would be OK if she left in time to pick Clemmie up from school, as long as she didn’t take a lunch break, and sorted out arrangements for the following week that would enable her to stay until five. But how the hell was she going to do that? Lottie could become a latchkey kid, but she couldn’t let Clemmie walk home on her own.
Her only option was to do some serious begging of favours from the other St Katherine’s mums, which was not a pleasant prospect: she hated the feeling that she’d gone from being a provider to a needer of services. Once capable and managing? a safe pair of hands, a runner of cake stalls and stalwart of committees – would she now come across as flaky, importunate and visibly struggling? But first things first: to start with, she had to get through the rest of today.
She had in front of her an Excel spreadsheet and several windows of an website content management system, and was finding them all inhumanly baffling; everything operated with a feverish, frustrating, obfuscating dream logic, like trying to play croquet with flamingos. She couldn’t bring herself to ask for help from Marta, who was young, dressed in an impeccably professional trouser suit, brisk and busy. Such a request would only make it obvious she didn’t have a clue what she was doing.
It had all been such a rush that she had not had time to make herself a sandwich, and was subsisting on some raisins and banana crisps she carried round in her handbag as emergency snacks for the girls. Her hunger had dulled now, becoming a persistent niggle rather than a warning signal, blending with other physical symptoms of unease: aching upper shoulders and back, dry, tired eyes and fluttering heartbeat.
The fluorescent strip lighting, the artificiality of being seated at a desk in front of a computer – half forgotten, but as familiar as an archetype in an old folk tale – and her inept struggles with the work had conspired to lull her into a state of timeless, impotent anxiety, like those dreams in which you turn over the exam paper and realize that you can’t answer a single question, but are nevertheless o
bliged to sit there and suffer indefinitely.
When the phone on her desk rang it took several moments for her to come to and realize she ought to answer it.
‘Who’s that?’ said a belligerent male voice.
‘My name’s Lucy Dearborn. I’m temping here today. Can I help you?’
‘That would make me your boss. Paul Maddox speaking. I rang earlier and spoke to Marta about you. I gather you’ve got shorthand.’
‘Yes.’
‘Unusual these days. Well, Lucy, I don’t think we’re actually going to get a chance to meet. I’m going to have to go to Europe next week. It’s a shame. I was rather looking forward to giving you dictation.’
Lucy had absolutely no idea how to respond to this, so kept quiet, and Paul went on, ‘Of course that means I’ll be all the more reliant on you. Put me on to Marta, would you? Oh, and Lucy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Company policy is to answer before three rings.’
Lucy craned her neck to peer through the tinted glass of Paul’s corner office. Marta was in there with the door closed, sorting out brochures for a mail-out.
Marta had told Lucy how to transfer a call, but now Lucy came to look at her notes they didn’t make much sense. She screwed up her nerves and punched a couple of numbers on the telephone key pad. The line went dead; then, almost immediately, the phone rang again.
‘Lizzie? It’s Nicky from Red Apple. How’s it going?’
‘OK, I think.’
‘Great stuff, that’s what I like to hear. OK, Lizzie, I’m just phoning with a personal message for you. Your sister called. Hannah. She is also registered with us, incidentally, so you’re keeping it in the family! She said can you please give her a very quick call about your older daughter, but not to worry as everything is under control. Apparently your mobile is off. OK then, I’ll let you go. Don’t forget to fax over your timesheet! Have a nice weekend!’ And Nicky rang off.
Lucy fished her phone out of her handbag. Oh God, the bloody thing had switched itself off; the screen was completely blank. Sure enough, it was a bit on the old side; back in the spring Adam had suggested several times that she should replace it, but she knew how to work it so . . . Well, she knew how to text, and nobody phoned her on it very often . . . How the hell did you get into voicemail?
A-ha. Finally. Three messages.
First message. Lois from the Caldecott Grammar School office, to whom she had, not so long ago, addressed an unsuccessful job application.
Oh God, it was Lottie, Lois had called to tell her that Lottie was ill, and she’d been stuck here, completely oblivious . . .
Second message. Lois again:
Mrs Dearborn, just to let you know that as we were unable to reach you we’ve been in touch with your sister, as she’s named as the primary emergency contact in Charlotte’s personal details file.
The next message was from Hannah herself.
Don’t worry about Lottie, she seems fine now, I’ve picked her up and we’re back home. I still have my key, so I thought that would be best. I saw the agency card next to the phone and I’ve had some dealings with Nicky myself, so I just gave her a call and I think she’s going to try and get in touch with you. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll pop out to get Clemmie from St Katherine’s – don’t worry, I’ll double-check with her teacher, just in case you’ve made arrangements for her to go home with someone else.
End of messages.
Hannah! Of course, she had filled in all the paperwork back in the spring, when the school confirmed that Lottie had been offered a place . . . She had never updated the form.
She had never been quite so pleased to hear her sister’s voice, and the thought of Hannah being back inside her house was, under the circumstances, a relief.
She rang her home number, and Lottie said, ‘Hi, Mum. Where are you?’
In the background Lucy could hear Hannah saying, ‘Who is it? Is it Mummy?’
‘I’m so sorry, darling, my stupid mobile isn’t working, it turned itself off,’ Lucy said. ‘Are you OK? What happened?’
‘I got my period,’ Lottie said.
There was a short silence.
‘What happened?’ Lucy said.
‘I got blood on my skirt. The teacher sent me to the nurse and she gave me a sanitary towel. My tummy aches. Mummy, where are you? Why is it taking you so long?’
‘I’m just on my way home now, darling. I’ll be with you very soon.’
Out of the corner of her eye Lucy saw Marta emerge from the corner office and bear down on her, carrying a stack of letters. Lucy shook her head without looking up and gestured sharply with her free hand. Not now.
‘Let’s talk about it when I get home, shall we?’ she said to Lottie. ‘Tell Auntie Hannah I’m going to pick Clemmie up from school, and then I’m coming home. I’ll see you soon.’
She ended the call and dropped the phone in her bag. When she looked up Marta was standing right next to her, hands on hips.
‘If you’ve quite finished?’ Marta said.
‘Yes, sorry, urgent personal call. My daughter’s not very well. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go.’
Marta didn’t reply. She moved round to stand behind Lucy and leaned over to peer at the computer screen. ‘Look, you’ve left a non-breaking space in there. And what’s that down in the bottom? It’s in the wrong style.’
‘Oh dear. So sorry.’
‘OK, I’m going to have to have another look at these. I spoke to Mr Maddox, by the way. I gather you cut him off. He managed to get through to me eventually, however. He wasn’t best pleased.’
‘Sorry. I got a little confused with the phone system.’
‘I gathered.’ Marta sighed heavily. ‘You’d better go. Don’t shut down. I’ll sort it out. Which means I’m going to have to stay late. I’ll be in Mr Maddox’s office when you’ve done your timesheet.’ And with that she went off.
The one thing you must never do in the office is cry. Lucy hurried off to the ladies’ and locked herself into a stall. As she perched on the toilet seat the urge to burst into tears receded.
‘What on earth am I doing here?’ she said out loud.
She came out and went straight back to the office without looking in the mirror. She knew her reflection was unlikely to boost her confidence.
Marta was on the phone in Paul’s office, but hadn’t shut the door.
‘You’re going to have to send another one on Monday,’ she was saying. ‘Not this one, OK? Send someone else.’
Lucy went back to her desk and sat down to fill out her timesheet.
After tax, her pay from Barris Hume would almost, but not quite, cover the balance of payment due for Salt’n’Pepper Theatre.
She hoped that Clemmie would appreciate it, but thought it quite possible that she wouldn’t.
Lucy had fully intended to ask Hannah to leave the minute she got back home, but somehow it wasn’t that easy with the girls around, and when Hannah offered to help out at Clemmie’s birthday party, some crazy, masochistic, stupidly forgiving impulse prompted her to say yes.
In the end, when the day of the party came round, she was glad of the help. She even found herself able, despite everything, to treat Hannah fairly normally; it was difficult to sustain feelings of murderous rage while surrounded by excited small girls in polyester dressing-up clothes.
The party package Lucy had booked for Clemmie was designed for a group of twelve children. There were six parts – Cinders, Prince, two Ugly Sisters, Wicked Stepmother, Fairy Godmother – and eleven carefully vetted little girls, plus Clemmie herself, to play them. (Lottie had agreed to come along, but only as a spectator.) Vicky and Rufus of Salt’n’Pepper Theatre allocated the roles in rotation, in order to ensure that no one child enjoyed the glory of being Cinders, and none was condemned to remain an Ugly Sister in perpetuity.
So it goes, Lucy thought, as she helped Clemmie into Cinderella’s bridal gown for the final scene. She herself had gone from contented br
ide to bitter reject, and didn’t much fancy her chances of another turn in the limelight.
Salt’n’Pepper Vicky pressed a button on the CD player and the Wedding March started up. Lucy withdrew to join Hannah and Lottie behind the counter that separated the kitchenette from the rest of St Margaret’s Church number one function room. They had already cleared away the paper plates, half-chewed cocktail sausages, untouched diced carrots and crumbs of mini strawberry tarts: the remains of the feast the girls had scoffed during Cinderella’s third and final ball appearance. There was nothing left to do but look on as Rufus declared Clemmie and Elspeth Morris man and wife.
A big dirty fantasy about money. That was the secret of the Cinderella story’s enduring appeal. Who wouldn’t like to hook a super-eligible bachelor on the back of a few choice costume changes and some chemistry on the dance floor? But then, when the dancing and the magic was over, all you were left with was rodents, a pumpkin – and rage.
The music moved on to Lucy’s pre-approved, age-appropriate disco selection, and the girls tried to follow the dance moves modelled by Vicky and Rufus.
‘Look, some of the mums are here,’ Hannah whispered. ‘Shall I let them in?’
‘Sure,’ Lucy said.
Hannah opened up and the waiting mothers filed in. A general hubbub broke out. Some of the girls helped Rufus and Vicky tidy the masks and props into their trunk; others rushed to their mothers; a few chatted excitedly to each other. Lucy steered Clemmie towards the box of party bags standing on the counter.
Jane and Elspeth Morris came forward and Clemmie handed over a party bag. Jane wished Clemmie a happy birthday, and her voice was so kind and concerned that it was obvious she was thinking about Adam, and wondering whether he’d been in touch. And the answer to that was: no, or at least it would have been if Lucy hadn’t lost her nerve at the last minute and reminded him to phone.
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