Cherry had been living there four weeks now and showed very little sign of getting a new job and moving out. The truth was, she didn’t know what to do. She would spend her days walking, down past Reeves Corner, where the ground was still flattened by the fire started in the riots, past the nail bars, the betting shops and the ninety-nine-pence stores with their tartan plastic holdalls dangling overhead as you walked in. In the heat, the pavements themselves seemed to sweat, giving off a sour, sticky aroma. She walked incessantly, waiting to be inspired. An idea, a plan, something to tell her what to do. She wanted to feel driven again, to regain the focus and ambition she’d had eighteen months ago, when she’d started out at the estate agency. She walked until her mind went round in circles, past boards outside recruitment offices taunting her with offerings such as administrator at eight pounds an hour. Dull, dead-end, menial jobs.
Even Central Library couldn’t motivate her. It seemed to be full of the unemployed and loafing students with big ideas but no willpower. She shouldn’t be here with these freaks, these failures; she should be in a flat in SW3, planning an engagement party. She burned with the unfairness of it all, the waste, the lost opportunity.
She left the library and stood hopelessly outside, watching the buses accelerate past her. It depressed her, being aimless. She considered going further, across George Street and down towards East Croydon Station, but then what? She couldn’t afford to go anywhere, and where would she go, anyway? She was trying to escape from herself. She turned back and started a slow walk back to the flat.
Cherry tried to be home before her mother returned from work. Not to welcome her but because she felt she should earn her keep as she wasn’t paying anything and she needed the free board and lodging. She’d scour the fridge full of her mother’s markdowns from the supermarket and make something for tea. Wendy was always overly complimentary, something that annoyed Cherry as she knew it was an attempt to buoy her up.
‘Ooh, what have you made today?’ she’d say, opening the oven door and sniffing dramatically. ‘You do spoil me. You’ve no idea how nice it is to have something cooked when you’ve been on your feet all day.’
They sat down and Cherry made sure the conversation was geared around her mother’s day at work: how many staff had turned up sick, what Holly’s daughter was recording on YouTube (a ballad on guitar apparently) and whether the saucepan promotion had brought in more customers. Usually after this Cherry washed the dishes while her mum watched EastEnders. Cherry hated to be in the room while it was on – it was another thing to drag her down to the lowest common denominator – and she preferred to be alone.
Tonight, however, Wendy came into the kitchen.
Cherry looked up in surprise. She could hear the theme tune coming from the living room.
‘Aren’t you going to watch your programme?’
‘In a minute, love.’ Wendy looked awkward and alarm bells rang loudly in Cherry’s ears. Was her mum going to ask her to leave?
‘I was thinking . . . you spending all day here, alone. Can’t be good for you. Especially with, you know . . . so recently gone.’
Cherry stiffened and her mother hurried on.
‘I hope you don’t mind but I took the liberty of speaking to my manager, told him a bit about you, how clever you was and all that, and well, there’s an opening coming up at work. In the technology and gaming department.’ She said this last bit as if it were a real coup.
Cherry recoiled. Work in a supermarket? Is that all her mother thought of her?
Wendy spotted her face. ‘I know it’s a bit different to what you was doing before, but you don’t have to stay there for long. It could be a stopgap.’
She was supposed to be engaged to a doctor with a trust fund and heir to a multimillion-pound fortune and a villa in the South of France.
Wendy took her silence as encouragement. ‘Or you could work your way up, you know. They recognize talent and promote people pretty quickly.’
She’d rather die than work in that supermarket. Her confidence knocked to an all-time low, she dried her hands. She had to remain calm and civil or living here would become intolerable.
‘Cup of tea, Mum?’
‘Lovely. So . . . what do you think?’
Cherry pretended to think it over. ‘Maybe. But I want to try some other avenues first.’
Wendy smiled. ‘Course. But if you want to talk to him, I can set you up a meeting’ – she clicked her fingers – ‘like that.’
‘Thanks, Mum. Why don’t I bring your tea in? You’re missing your programme.’
Wendy did as she was bid, and as soon as she left the room, a tear rolled down Cherry’s cheek. She quickly brushed it away – red eyes would only prompt questions – and taking the tea in, feigned a headache and said she was going for a lie-down in her room.
She lay on her bed and realized she’d reached rock bottom. Maybe you had to get this low to get your fighting spirit back, because she knew now she had to get out of there. The first stage was to forget about what might have been. Stop looking back and thinking about where she’d be now if Daniel were still alive. A vision of his flat came into her mind again, but angrily she pushed it out. She was done with it. It was time to forget about Daniel once and for all. He was gone. What she needed was closure.
THIRTY-FOUR
Wednesday 12 August
The more time passed, the safer Laura felt. She was even starting to forget. A day or two would go by and she’d realize she hadn’t once thought about what she’d done. Sometimes, on a particularly good day, she could convince herself it hadn’t happened. Distant, like a dream.
And time was continually moving on. Why, if this came out in ten, twenty years, their lives would have all changed so much – new jobs, new girlfriends – that they’d laugh. Maybe. But it would certainly have lost its razor-sharp edge, which was getting dulled with every passing day, even if it wasn’t quite quick enough for Laura.
She’d gone onto the agency website two days after she’d posted the message and seen that Cherry’s profile had been taken down. So she’d risked a call. She’d asked to speak to her and had been told she no longer worked there. The relief was intoxicating. Even Isabella had noticed a difference in her.
‘You look, I don’t know, lighter, happier,’ she said at lunch, and took her hand. ‘You’ve had a hell of a year. Can’t imagine what you’ve been through and now look – he’s back at home, healthy, recovered. No wonder you look so well.’
Laura smiled and allowed Izzy to attribute her new well-being solely to Daniel’s recovery.
‘So, can I tempt you to a bit of shopping now to celebrate?’
‘Iz, I have a job.’
‘Darling, I know.’ She waved a regretful hand in the air. ‘I just think of all those afternoons wasted. Now you’re in a better place . . .’ She paused and Laura looked at her suspiciously. ‘He’s early fifties, divorced, all his own hair and his own business. Does triathlons for fun.’ She shuddered. ‘I feel like sponsoring the poor lamb just to make it seem worthwhile.’
Laura tapped her on the hand with her teaspoon. ‘I’ve told you before – Howard and I are fine rattling along, albeit in our own dysfunctional way.’
Isabella snorted. ‘He’s all right. Sorry, I’m just protective of you.’
‘I sort of need him. I don’t know why – maybe it’s habit.’
All this elicited was a sympathetic squeeze of the hand, and knowing she’d pushed it far enough, Isabella changed the subject. ‘So what else is new with you?’
‘Well, other than the new series with ITV . . .’
‘I don’t think I’ve congratulated you on that properly yet. You and Daniel.’