Here we go.
‘With the restaurant at full staff capacity now . . .’ He paused and she waited for the axe to fall, wondered what wording he might choose to soften the blow. ‘We were wondering if you might like to try a different role in another department?’
‘Another department?’ She sat up straight; this was great news!
‘Yes, we were thinking you might like to try your hand at working on reception?’
‘Reception? Yes!’ Her enthusiasm and relief were evident. When Merrin had worked as a cleaner or behind the bar at the Port Charles Hotel, she had itched to have a go at working on reception, wanting to do things differently, better. Having pored through enough glossy magazines, usually left behind by residents, she knew that it was the small touches that could make a difference to a place: bowls of sweets on the countertop; fresh, not fake, flowers on tables; and never, ever letting a stinky old dog like Ernie, who lived at the Port Charles, wander the restaurant floor, shedding his coat and farting while people were trying to enjoy their morning coffee . . . ‘I would really like that. It’s something I’ve thought about before.’
‘Well, that’s marvellous news. So all that remains is for HR to switch your department codes for payroll and to get you trained on the computer system, which, to be honest, Merrin’ – he spoke from the side of his mouth – ‘if I can master it, then anyone can.’ He stood to indicate the meeting was over.
‘Thank you, Lionel, for the opportunity. I hope I don’t let you down.’
‘I have no doubt you’ll do a sterling job.’ He clapped.
‘I’ll do my best.’
She left the room walking a little straighter than she had in a while. It was wins like this that helped dilute the thick, gloopy feeling of inadequacy in her veins. It wasn’t only that Digby didn’t love her and that their whole relationship had probably been some kind of elaborate game to him, but also that her judgement had been so off. It was, even now, a surprise that he had done such a thing, been capable of doing such a thing.
During the day when she was busy, her time filled and her thoughts occupied, it was easy not to dwell on it. However, when she kicked off her shoes at the end of her shift and climbed between the freshly laundered sheets of her bed, settling down in a room that was not where she longed to be, her mind would conjure images of looking over the gap towards her sister with the sound of stays knocking on the masts in the breeze . . . that was when loneliness bit and she gave in to tears. No matter that in her head she could tell herself she was better off, it seemed that her broken heart had not quite got the message. Not yet.
She missed her family and friends with a depth that mirrored her pain; thinking of them before she fell asleep, sending silent apologies out into the night sky and hoping her words might fall into their ears as they slept. Trying and failing to bury the guilt of what she had put them through, the money they had needlessly spent and their hurt that she had all but abandoned them. But abandon them she must if she had any hope of recovering the pieces of her heart and her dignity.
In these quieter moments before sleep, she was reminded that her world had been cleaved open and her dream of building a life in Port Charles with her very own family, hand in hand with the man she loved, was no more than just that: a dream. Unbidden, she replayed the day of her ‘almost’ wedding over and over, knowing that if things had been different, she would right now be a newly-wed, making food for her husband, learning the lie of her new home, sitting in front of a fire with him of an evening. Nipping back to Kellow Cottages each day to catch up on the gossip with the women who had shaped her and happy, so happy, to know that each night she got to sleep in the arms of Digby. She missed him with a physical ache. This new life at Milbury Court felt very much like starting from scratch.
But, oh, how her bones mourned for home! Equally, she missed the crisp Cornish air, the view out over the cove, sitting on the harbour wall with her bare legs dangling in the sun, the rickety wooden stairs of Kellow Cottages, a cup of tea in front of the range and bickering with Ruby. She missed all of it – not that she would ever confess as much to her parents, knowing this information would only make them fret.
‘Hey, Mum.’ Merrin lay back on her bed and held her phone to her ear. Closing her eyes, she pictured falling into one of her mother’s enveloping hugs and felt the chill of loneliness shiver through her.
‘Hello, my darlin’! How lovely to hear your voice!’
‘And yours. I’ve got some news,’ she began.
‘You’re coming home?’ her mum interjected with such excitement it was enough to fold Merrin’s gut with longing and guilt.
‘No, Mum, I can’t.’
‘I know.’ There was a drawn-out pause. ‘It feels a shame that you let the likes of the Mortimers or some petty gossip keep you away.’
Merrin rubbed her temples, unwilling to have the conversation yet again. ‘I can’t face it. I’m not ready.’ She closed her eyes again, feeling her heart beat a little too fast. ‘What’s it like when you see the Mortimers? How has it been between you and Loretta?’ She managed to say the woman’s name now with ease; gone was any consideration of what might be polite or prudent.
Heather drew breath. ‘I don’t really see her too much, love. I mean, no more than to wave at or nod good morning to. And it’s a little awkward, but it’s fine. We always got on well, really. Friends in our own way. And we live in a small place, so . . .’ Merrin refrained from adding that she didn’t have to tell her that. ‘Plus, I don’t work for her any more. I handed in my notice.’
‘You gave up your job? Oh, Mum.’ She hung her head, knowing this had been kept from her and smarting with the realisation that her mum and dad had lost a large chunk of income. ‘It’s all my fault.’
‘No, it isn’t, it’s Digby’s fault.’