by Ruth Harrow
There are three blocks of extra-strong cheese I have little hope of getting through, large round pots of bio-yoghurt, a half-eaten packet of ham and a few slices of dry, crumbly-looking lemon cake.
Nothing to really make a meal out of.
After an overdose of eating out at beautiful Italian restaurants – sometimes with colleagues, mostly alone – I now desperately crave some hearty, British comfort food.
Gourmet meals – light bites with pretty garnishes – can become tiresome when that is all you are eating. I feel as if I have become immune from their appeal, even when eaten with wonderfully charming company from a handsome woodworker, or a charismatic female curtain maker.
Without spending a good thirty minutes on my feet, cutting around the rotten bits of vegetable, the best thing I can come up with is a machine-made cheese toastie. Certainly not on the menu in Italy.
And by the stale look of the last measly few slices of bread in the house, toasting it would be the best idea.
The sandwich toaster is by far my husband's favourite gadget in the house – a wedding present from one of his old friends from Uni. Scratched and well-used, it is by far the shabbiest thing in my kitchen, but James is adamant that I must not throw it out, or replace it.
To avoid more arguing over the matter, I compromised and let him keep it, just as long as it is kept in a woven basket in the pantry when not in use; out of sight.
I regularly post pictures of the inside of my house on my social media accounts – Pinterest and Instagram mainly. It is important to keep the buzz going around my name to allow potential clients to find me.
To have even one thing out of place wouldn't do at all. Every picture must be faultless – always. Just thinking of the comments James's little old toaster would stir up makes me turn cold.
Even though the heating is on and I have eaten a hot sandwich, a persistent chill continues to creep over me.
What I need now, I decide, is a hot shower and a change into my winter clothes, so I head upstairs to the bedroom.
It is impossible not to be inwardly amused at the attempt James has made to make the king-sized bed. He has never quite got the hang of smoothing my silver sheets exactly right. I know that if I pull back the covers, I will find the flat sheet just as crumpled.
Once I'm dressed and refreshed, I find myself sitting back in the kitchen with a mug of hot coffee from the machine, much warmer, but with the loudest sense of isolation screaming at me in the silence.
James feels a million miles away in Middlesbrough. The malfunctioning kettle distracted me from sending a “thank you” text to his phone earlier, so I do it now. I tell him that I got home safely, I put in a little joke about him being in too much of a hurry not to have eaten his favourite chocolates from the box. I wonder whether to mention the kettle, then decide against it – he often complains I am too critical of his actions. I pause, then end the message with some kisses
Love you to the moon and back. Always xxxx
I hit send before I can cringe too much over my words and put my phone down on the marble island-top, leaving me sitting once again in silence.
3
Not able to stand the quiet any more, I slip out the bottle of wine I picked up from Milan from my suitcase which still sits unpacked in the utility room.
Then, I get on my black hiking boots, purple quilted coat and and venture into the chill outside. I take the familiar route further down the now darkened country track than I ever drive, right to the building at the very end.
My best friend's house is a three-minute walk from my own and after weeks of being away, is a very welcoming sight; it looms up ahead, growing bigger by the second, glowing dimly white and black in the darkness thanks to the same type of solar lights I have on my driveway.
Nicole's house is slightly smaller than mine and has much more of a friendly cottage-feel to it – something that I have never been able to achieve, despite multiple modifications to the frontage.
I crunch up the gravel pathway and ring the doorbell. When I don't get an answer after a minute, I try again. After waiting again for a response, to no avail, I step back and look up at the windows – all dark.
Nicole told me before I left that she would be up to her eyebrows in work at home for weeks with everything she had on so I feel sure she should be here. She demanded a full catch-up the moment I got back from Milan, so I'm sure she would be pleased to see me.
My feet crunch across the gravel driveway and I let myself through the rusting gate at the side and along the damp, narrow walkway next to the building.
Without any lighting and with darkness pressing in on my eyes, I suddenly feel as if I am intruding. This is clearly an area Nicole doesn't use much and the fact that I tread clumsily onto weeds and unseen grit as I step makes me feel as though I have no right to be here.
Unseen and stealthy in my rubber-gripped boots, I feel as though I am violating an intimate part of the building; just centimetres away on the other side of the wall is the warmth and friendly glow of my best friend's home.
Some light from the back of the cottage spills onto the many bushes and plants of Nicole's quaint garden. Years ago, when James and I first moved to the area, Nicole and her boyfriend used to host barbecues and outdoor gatherings.
Nowadays we find it more practical to use my plain, neat garden for such events as there is more space for tables and chairs. Not only that, but one large tree at the end of my outdoor space stretches its large, curved branch over – perfect for hanging mason jars of golden lights.
Moving towards the source of the light, I step around a large, dormant peony bush near the conservatory and spot Nicole inside.
Behind the glass, my friend is so surrounded by piles of papers, folders and envelopes that spill over her lap, they form a sort of white and brown blanket. Here and there are bright flashes of stitching in the form of post-it notes, one of which is stuck to her wrist as she pores intently over something on her phone.
My tapping on the glass door causes a sudden spasm of movement as Nicole looks over at me.
For a moment, her face looks terrified as she locks onto mine. Her startled look alarms me, but then her tense body-language melts and I see her visibly sigh with relief before she clears a path in the sea of papers.
It takes a minute before she manages to wade to the glass door to let me in.
'Heather!' She pulls me into one of her vice-like hugs. 'You almost scared me to death! You were just a bright white face at the window. I thought you were a burglar. I almost wet myself!'
'Sorry,' I say, squeezing back with earnest. 'I tried the doorbell, but didn't get an answer.'
'Oh God. Was that you? I thought you were... someone else.'
'Who did you think I was?'
She shakes her head, dismissively. 'I had some cold callers knocking the last week or so. Never mind. How was your trip? You didn't catch much sun – you looked like a ghost just now when I saw you. Are you ill? Goodness, I've never known someone to come back from Italy so pasty!'
It is perfectly fine for Nicole to say that – she has been amber-skinned beneath her golden hair ever since I first saw her in secondary school. Back then, my mousy, teenage-self thought it was her natural glow, but she revealed years later that she used sunbeds and these days gets spray tans religiously.
Once, I accompanied her to her favourite salon and failed miserably to get the same effect.
'It's nice to see you too, Nicole. I missed you.' I hold up the bottle of wine.
'I thought you'd never ask.' She takes it from me and picks some mugs from the tree in a corner cabinet which also holds a cold pot of coffee and pours us each some wine.
'Take a seat, Heather,' Nicole says as she hands me my generously-filled mug.
I awkwardly step over piles of forms and papers, eyeing the overly laden rattan sofa.
'No way,' Nicole says, pointing instead to a faded open briefcase on top of a leather tub chair. 'Just move that case out the way. T
hat seat is the comfiest thing in this room.'
'Thanks.' I gingerly slide the case in between the wooden legs and sit facing Nicole.
'So, tell me everything,' she buzzes. 'It looks like you had an amazing time. Yes – I admit, I did sneak a peek at your Instagram page. God – I wish I could be paid to eat out at fancy restaurants every day. Sadly, there isn't any excuse for me to go to the Mediterranean to go through plumbers tax returns.'
She gestures to the various mounds of paperwork around her. 'Why does everyone always leave it to the last minute when they have had since April?'
Nicole tells me about the ridiculous things she found in one of her clients' expenses list and my face cracks into a laugh, making me realise I haven't done so genuinely for a while. My fake smile must use different muscles. As we talk, I find the tension in my shoulders melting effortlessly and I realise with a pang how much I missed my best friend while I was away.
I fill her in on everything I did in Italy that wasn't posted to Instagram – like all the hard work and late hours I had to do to get the job finished.
'That's probably why I look so pale – I was indoors ninety per cent of the time, you know.'
'Honestly, Heather. It sounds almost like you are complaining about your jet-set lifestyle.'
I laugh. '“Jet-set”. You make it sound so exotic. And anyway, I'm not sure I would take another overseas job.'
Nicole looks almost like I've thrown my wine over her and she stares at me as if I have gone mad. 'Why on earth not? It looked great on your Instagram!'
'Of course it does. That was what I wanted everyone to see. But really it wasn't that exciting. I was eating out alone most of the time. Speaking of which, something smells nice.'
'Really? That's yesterday's cauliflower cheese in the oven.' She pulls a face. 'Not exactly fine Italian cuisine.'
'It isn't all it is cracked up to be. Anyway, I really missed home-cooking while I was away.'
'Hmm, you do look a bit skinny, actually, Heather. You should cook for yourself more – whether James is there or not.'
An unexpected pang of longing rises in me at the sound of my husband's name and I have the sudden urge to call him and demand that he comes home from his business trip so we can be together. We would always well and truly make up for any missed time whenever he went away. Now that I am travelling for my career too, we don't see that much of each other.
'Heather?'
I find Nicole staring at me enquiringly.
'You're not still thinking of cauliflower cheese, are you? If you think it smells that nice, you're welcome to it.'
I laugh. 'That's OK. I was just thinking of the next job I was offered.'
'So what's next for my favourite international interior designer?'
'I have an interview with Jones and Stanton in Salford on Tuesday to see if I'm suitable to decorate their new holiday apartments. But I'm thinking of cancelling.'
'Why?'
'I don't know. I was supposed to be back from Milan a over a week ago and I would have had more time to prepare. And anyway, they will want someone really experienced too.'
Inside, Tuesday fills me with dread. More things went wrong in Milan than I expected; it knocked me, stripped me of some of the confidence I thought I had.
'But, Heather, you do have loads of experience. Is it a good opportunity?'
'Yes,' I reply, swirling my wine around the mug. I stare at the dark liquid, as though mesmerised. 'It could lead to a permanent position with the firm.'
I don't mention it to Nicole, but if I could land this job, I'd have more time that I could spend with James. A permanent position would be a dream.
'That sounds great. Hey – you'll have to get yourself a stylish city pad! Make sure you get a nice guest room for me. I'd love to get out of the slow-lane for a while.'
I see Nicole planning our city place together all in her mind, head tilted dreamily to one side, golden tendrils framing her face, miles away.
She looks back to me again. 'I'm really excited for you!'
*
I'm anything but excited as I get into bed later that night. However, thanks to an evening with Nicole and the bottle of wine, I'm more at ease as I climb beneath the jacquard covers.
I'm not drowsy enough to experience a dose of surprise that James has managed to smooth out the flat sheet more than usual.
I am actually quite impressed. Perhaps he made an extra effort for me because I was away longer than I said?
What else has he done though? Something doesn't feel quite right. Does something smell different?
I can't quite put my finger on it as I fidget around, trying to make myself comfortable.
I make a mental note to check if James has deviated from our usual fabric detergents during his shopping spree too.
Trying my best to cast all thoughts of the upcoming interview from my mind, I stretch out an arm and click off the bedside lamp.
4
Tuesday morning rolls around so quickly I feel as if Monday was just a formality. An empty filler day; a starter before the main course – a large helping of terror.
I can't remember being this nervous about any other interview before. I get up from my seat in the foyer and move over to the coffee machine set along one large wall beneath obligatory modern art. Trembling, cold hands that appear to move of their own accord select an upside-down coffee mug from the tray and hastily press a button on the machine. I'm not even sure what I've selected, but a pale, milky drink comes pouring red-hot from the spout and into my mug. I realise at the last second that there is an unpleasant brown smear on the inside of the cup, but it's too late now.
Not knowing what else to do with it, and aware that a figure in navy, also waiting in the foyer is staring at me, I carry the mug back over to my seat and place it on the table in front of me.
Like I needed any more caffeine this morning anyway.
The drive from Hope Valley to Salford was so heavily fuelled by cappuccino, I feel as though someone else drove me here.
I'm sitting five storeys up in the high-ceilinged, glass-fronted waiting room of the Jones and Stanton headquarters. The neat rectangle is artfully empty, apart from a reception desk manned by two headphone-wearing young women so well-dressed they make me feel as though I should have tried harder with my own outfit.
I've gone for a cable-knit jumper over a plaid blue shirt with standard black trousers that feel a little too baggy after my time eating petite servings in Italy.
Even the ankle boots I have paired with the look seem a little frumpy now in the grey light of day flooding through the large glass windows, which proudly display a view of the River Irwell.
Perhaps I should have ignored the slippery conditions outside and gone for my thin black jumpsuit instead? I had felt good in that, confident.
I don't think I can do this.
The image that has floated to and fro in my mind's-eye of late comes back again now – my dream home filled with not only myself and James, but also with a baby. Our child. James and I have talked about it so often.
The baby would have the smallest room – currently my office. It wouldn't make sense to give up my walk-in wardrobe room or the guest room. I would have to relocate downstairs. Maybe I could get one of those garden offices? I have enough images of them Pinned to one of my boards on Pinterest. Which way would it have to face to get the light in the morning?
'Mrs Peterson?'
One of the receptionists is gesturing towards an open door to the left of the reception desk.
'Thank you,' I say, as I breeze past, shutting the frosted door behind me.
Inside is the same view of the river through a glass wall, the rest of the room is dominated by a large, shiny white table. The art is less impressionist in here and features artist visualisations of various types of buildings.
Two men wait near the doorway, dressed in formal, expensive-looking suits. They both smile broadly as we move forward to shake hands.
'It'
s very nice to meet you, Mrs Peterson,' the older, white-haired man says with a firm shake from his thick hand, 'I'm Jonathan Stanton, but please call me John.'
'OK, John. It's very nice to meet you.'
I hope he can't tell how damp my palm is.
'This is my son, Ian.'
The other man, in his late thirties, takes my hand; his shake is noticeably weaker. He wears a shiny blue suit and brown boots with short, sandy hair so well set it looks like a solid object. 'Hello. We're really excited to meet you. We haven't had a celebrity-designer in here before.'
'Well, I'm not sure about “celebrity”,' I say, 'but I am really excited to be here.' It actually sounds quite plausible when I hear the words coming out of my own mouth.
'Modest too. Please, take a seat,' John says as both men retreat to their position at the side of the large table. 'Lisa says you two have already met.'
I suddenly realise that the navy figure from the waiting room has already taken a seat at the white table too.
Now I see it is a woman; her chestnut hair is cut into a stern bob, at odds with her round face and bulging dark-green eyes.
She has gone for a similar look as me, I notice – navy blue top half with generic black trousers.
Something is familiar about her, and I get a jolt of dread that suggests it isn't from anywhere good. Something tugs in the recesses of my mind; there are pieces scattered somewhere deep and dark that I have deliberately chosen not to pick up for years.
The woman chooses to address the men across the table instead, determinedly avoiding eye contact with me. 'Yes, we used to go to secondary school together.' She glances vaguely in my direction and adds, 'Lisa Richards?'
The final piece of the puzzle in my brain locks into place and I realise who this person is. An acidic feeling suddenly erupts in my stomach and I try to play as well as Lisa in her game of amicable smiles.
What are the chances of her being here?
It is now that I notice she is wearing the exact same cable-knit jumper as me. I hope John and Ian can't see me flushing from their side of the table.