apartment sold before you know it, Miss Johnson.’
‘Right. Thanks.’
So it was really happening. The dream was over. Practically penniless and soon to be homeless, she was too depressed and scared to cry any more. Her luck had run out, as well as her money. Now what?
Well, there was one last avenue left open to her, if she could stand it. The nuclear option. She took a deep, sighing breath, then dialled another number. ‘Mum?’ she said. ‘It’s me, Polly. I need a favour . . .’
This was never part of the life plan, Polly thought as, just two days later, she heaved the last box of her belongings out of the apartment and down to the van below. This was not even Plan B. This was Plan Z, the very last resort. She’d arranged to have most of her furniture and non-essential possessions put in storage, not wanting to think about when she might see them again.
‘That the lot, love?’ asked her dad, taking the box from her and shoving it into the back of the van he’d hired.
‘Yeah,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s the lot.’
He slammed the van doors shut and put his arms around her. It was a hot, soupy day and she could smell his sweat, mingling with the quick ciggy he’d had when he first got there. He wasn’t a man for cologne, Graham Johnson, just as he had no truck with moisturizer, or shaving enhancers, or any of the other male grooming products that regularly baffled him on the shelves in Boots. Soap, deodorant and a slick of pomade, that was all a man needed.
He clapped Polly on the back now, trying not to show how alarmed he was to see her in such a state. He’d always been so proud of his eldest daughter, had revelled vicariously in her career triumphs, boasting to all his mates about her vast salary and high-end lifestyle. True, she wasn’t exactly the most daughterly of daughters. Karen phoned her every Sunday to see how she was, but apparently it was like pulling teeth, trying to engage Polly in conversation. He knew Karen and Clare minded that she had turned her back on them when she got her first City job, but he understood that she was ambitious. Secretly he admired her for it.
Now, though . . . now she looked pale, scrawny and limp, as if the life had been squeezed out of her. Her hair was greasy, she had spots round her mouth, and the spark was missing from her eyes. She looked defeated. Beaten. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and look after her. Well, he’d drive her back to Elderchurch and she could have the spare room for a while anyway.
‘I’ll just check I’ve not missed anything,’ she said, wheeling away before he could give her that sympathetic look again. She couldn’t bear her own dad thinking she was a loser.
Upstairs in the empty echoing flat, it already felt like some kind of dream, her having lived there at all. She’d actually had this incredible Thames view and cavernous living space, but she’d barely appreciated it. When she’d moved in she’d pictured herself throwing fabulous parties and swanky dinner dos, had imagined a lover throwing her onto her gigantic bed and rumpling the sheets with her. None of it had happened. Somehow she’d just been too damn busy, and now it was too late. The apartment’s particulars were already up on the estate agent’s website, and Vince had arranged an open day there this Saturday when hordes of interested buyers would tramp through, marvelling at the light and airy rooms.
She leaned against the cool cream wall, staring around unseeingly. Was this it, then? Would she ever return to London, or would she have to make do with the spare room in her parents’ bungalow for the rest of her life?
A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I blew it,’ she whispered into the hushed room. ‘I totally blew it.’ And then, because being here any longer was just going to make her cry and cry so hard that she didn’t know if she’d be able to stop, she took a deep breath and walked out.
‘Goodbye,’ she murmured, pulling the door
‘Right. Thanks.’
So it was really happening. The dream was over. Practically penniless and soon to be homeless, she was too depressed and scared to cry any more. Her luck had run out, as well as her money. Now what?
Well, there was one last avenue left open to her, if she could stand it. The nuclear option. She took a deep, sighing breath, then dialled another number. ‘Mum?’ she said. ‘It’s me, Polly. I need a favour . . .’
This was never part of the life plan, Polly thought as, just two days later, she heaved the last box of her belongings out of the apartment and down to the van below. This was not even Plan B. This was Plan Z, the very last resort. She’d arranged to have most of her furniture and non-essential possessions put in storage, not wanting to think about when she might see them again.
‘That the lot, love?’ asked her dad, taking the box from her and shoving it into the back of the van he’d hired.
‘Yeah,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s the lot.’
He slammed the van doors shut and put his arms around her. It was a hot, soupy day and she could smell his sweat, mingling with the quick ciggy he’d had when he first got there. He wasn’t a man for cologne, Graham Johnson, just as he had no truck with moisturizer, or shaving enhancers, or any of the other male grooming products that regularly baffled him on the shelves in Boots. Soap, deodorant and a slick of pomade, that was all a man needed.
He clapped Polly on the back now, trying not to show how alarmed he was to see her in such a state. He’d always been so proud of his eldest daughter, had revelled vicariously in her career triumphs, boasting to all his mates about her vast salary and high-end lifestyle. True, she wasn’t exactly the most daughterly of daughters. Karen phoned her every Sunday to see how she was, but apparently it was like pulling teeth, trying to engage Polly in conversation. He knew Karen and Clare minded that she had turned her back on them when she got her first City job, but he understood that she was ambitious. Secretly he admired her for it.
Now, though . . . now she looked pale, scrawny and limp, as if the life had been squeezed out of her. Her hair was greasy, she had spots round her mouth, and the spark was missing from her eyes. She looked defeated. Beaten. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and look after her. Well, he’d drive her back to Elderchurch and she could have the spare room for a while anyway.
‘I’ll just check I’ve not missed anything,’ she said, wheeling away before he could give her that sympathetic look again. She couldn’t bear her own dad thinking she was a loser.
Upstairs in the empty echoing flat, it already felt like some kind of dream, her having lived there at all. She’d actually had this incredible Thames view and cavernous living space, but she’d barely appreciated it. When she’d moved in she’d pictured herself throwing fabulous parties and swanky dinner dos, had imagined a lover throwing her onto her gigantic bed and rumpling the sheets with her. None of it had happened. Somehow she’d just been too damn busy, and now it was too late. The apartment’s particulars were already up on the estate agent’s website, and Vince had arranged an open day there this Saturday when hordes of interested buyers would tramp through, marvelling at the light and airy rooms.
She leaned against the cool cream wall, staring around unseeingly. Was this it, then? Would she ever return to London, or would she have to make do with the spare room in her parents’ bungalow for the rest of her life?
A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I blew it,’ she whispered into the hushed room. ‘I totally blew it.’ And then, because being here any longer was just going to make her cry and cry so hard that she didn’t know if she’d be able to stop, she took a deep breath and walked out.
‘Goodbye,’ she murmured, pulling the door
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