Summer With My Sister by Lucy Diamond

all right. She had to try harder. She had to set her sights lower. She looked in the Job Centre, exuding desperation from every pore, but they informed her she was overqualified for all their current vacancies. ‘Look, I don’t care, I’ll do anything – well, anything that pays over forty K, at least,’ she told the man behind the desk.
    He gave her an ‘are-you-for-real?’ kind of look and pressed some leaflets about claiming benefits into her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to even look at them though. Surely things weren’t that hopeless?
    No, she told herself. She would not go begging for handouts. Polly Johnson was made of tougher stuff. She redoubled her efforts. She wasn’t beaten yet.
    At the beginning of June she met her accountant, who told her, in no uncertain terms, that unless she got some money, and fast, the flat would be repossessed. The thought of potato-headed bailiffs with worrying biceps and merciless eyes sent a terrified shiver down her spine. ‘You’re going to have to sell up,’ he said. ‘Put the flat on the market and make a quick sale. Unfortunately, with the market having bottomed out, I doubt the value of the property has risen much since you bought it, but you should make just enough to clear your debts and keep the bank off your back.’
    She felt as if she’d been slapped. ‘So you’re saying, that even if I sell the flat, I’ll still basically have nothing until I get another job. Is that right?’
    ‘That’s about the size of it,’ he said. ‘Your investment portfolio is looking pretty sick right now; if you can avoid selling your shares, I would try to ride out the market. But you’ll have to act fast with the flat – like, now. Oh, and you’d better start kissing ass with the mortgage guys too, tell them you’re on the case and beg for more time. They should give you another month, at least, before they send the heavies round.’
    Polly had left his office in a numb trance. She still couldn’t quite get her head around the fact that her life had become so calamitous so quickly. Surely it hadn’t come to selling her flat already? Where would she go? She didn’t have enough money to stay anywhere; she would have to live on credit . . . but how long could she manage that?
    And so along came the estate agents, a parade of spotty blokes in nasty brown suits who left a foul stink of BO and cheap aftershave in their wake. With a last stab of hope, she asked the first how much rental she could expect from tenants, if she let the flat rather than sell it, but the figure he quoted didn’t go anywhere near covering the colossal monthly mortgage payment. The last dregs of her optimism leaked out like the final stale gasp of air from a punctured balloon. ‘Looks like I’m selling then,’ she said, her voice trembling.
    A life can fall apart surprisingly quickly, as it turned out. All those years of work, of building her career and a glitzy, luxurious life for herself in the capital . . . it took far less time for the whole lot to implode. She plumped for the estate agent who quoted the highest asking price, the one who assured her he had clients queuing round the block to see properties like hers. Vince, he was called, and he looked every bit a Vince with his wispy moustache and slightly too-close-together eyes. ‘I’ve got one cash buyer in mind who’s very keen to move into this area,’ he boasted, when she called him back to tell him that he could market the property. ‘Vacant possession might just seal the deal.’
    ‘Vacant possession . . . You mean, I should move out?’
    ‘If you’ve got somewhere to go, yes. Makes a property much more attractive, considerably reduces the buying chain.’
    If you’ve got somewhere to go . . . Oh God. But she didn’t have anywhere to go! This was all happening too fast. ‘I’ll let you know,’ she said guardedly.
    ‘No problemo. I’ll swing by again tomorrow with a contract, and take some photos. We’ll have that