we live before we had phones in our pockets and bags?
she thought. After getting the lowest-cost phone possible and letting the phone experts transfer her contact list—the only bits of information that survived the crash—Pru thought she had time to stop off at home and check the post.
She’d be ecstatic with a job offer, but almost as happy if one of her clients paid a bill. Fortunately, she opened the bad news first and got it over with. Pru didn’t know how much more she could take of this. Well, she did know how much more—one look at the calendar and it was all too evident that she would need to find a position in less than a month or she would be on the first boat back to the States, so to speak.
Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that she’d forgotten all about Sir Frank Chesterton and his Victorian Gardens and Grottoes—ferneries and stumperies had never been her strong suit. But Primrose House, that felt different. Her hopes instantly swelled, and buoyant, happy images filled her mind. She wished it were as easy to steel herself for disappointment.
She phoned Primrose House in the afternoon, set up an interview for Thursday, and then checked the rail schedule. She’d take the train to Frant, just past Tunbridge Wells—only an hour’s journey—and get a cab from the station to the garden. Staring out a train window would keep her calmer than monitoring an unfamiliar bus route and worrying about the next roundabout and whether she had missed her stop.
In the meantime, she needed to get some real work done, something she could get paid for, but even before that she must take her passport in to the police station, as DCI Pearse had requested. Stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her, she glanced around and thought she saw someone ducking around the corner, but when she looked again, she realized it was a young mother bending down to her child in a pram.
Don’t get carried away, Pru,
she told herself,
no one is after you.
She had phoned Jo that morning, thinking that they could meet later in the day for a glass of wine. Pru wished it could be a more common occurrence;—it was one of the only social engagements she had, and it meant a great deal to her. But Jo had—Pru could think of no other way to describe it—brushed her off. Meetings, showing potential clients their potential office spaces, must finish the contract on so-and-so’s house let. Deserted, Pru walked up toward Fulham Road and the police station.
Preoccupied with her personal woes, she barely noticed the woman waving at her from across the road, until the second or third time she called. “Hello! Sorry, hello?”
Pru came out of her daze to see a woman dressed in tight jeans, spike heels, a purple cardigan, and stylish, small glasses with heavy black frames; she sported cherry-redlipstick on a kewpie-doll mouth.
She walked across to Pru. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m completely lost. Can you tell me where”—she glanced down at a crumpled scrap of paper in her hand—“Lecky Street is?” She looked up at Pru with a hopeful expression.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know where that would be. Are you trying to find a business?”
“No, I’m trying to find a flat, and I was supposed to view one there.” Her whole manner slumped. “God, this is a disaster. I don’t know anyone in London, and you’re the first person that’s stopped to talk to me.”
The woman didn’t move and continued to look at Pru, who didn’t have a remedy for her problem, although it seemed as if one were expected. “The police station isn’t far. I’m headed that way. Maybe you could ask there.”
“Police?” The woman looked left and right, and her shiny blond hair swirled around her face like a little girl twirling in a full skirt. “No, no, I don’t need that.” She smiled at Pru. “I have a map in my bag. I’ll just sit down somewhere and give it a look, shall I?” She hesitated and then said, “If you had just a
she thought. After getting the lowest-cost phone possible and letting the phone experts transfer her contact list—the only bits of information that survived the crash—Pru thought she had time to stop off at home and check the post.
She’d be ecstatic with a job offer, but almost as happy if one of her clients paid a bill. Fortunately, she opened the bad news first and got it over with. Pru didn’t know how much more she could take of this. Well, she did know how much more—one look at the calendar and it was all too evident that she would need to find a position in less than a month or she would be on the first boat back to the States, so to speak.
Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that she’d forgotten all about Sir Frank Chesterton and his Victorian Gardens and Grottoes—ferneries and stumperies had never been her strong suit. But Primrose House, that felt different. Her hopes instantly swelled, and buoyant, happy images filled her mind. She wished it were as easy to steel herself for disappointment.
She phoned Primrose House in the afternoon, set up an interview for Thursday, and then checked the rail schedule. She’d take the train to Frant, just past Tunbridge Wells—only an hour’s journey—and get a cab from the station to the garden. Staring out a train window would keep her calmer than monitoring an unfamiliar bus route and worrying about the next roundabout and whether she had missed her stop.
In the meantime, she needed to get some real work done, something she could get paid for, but even before that she must take her passport in to the police station, as DCI Pearse had requested. Stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her, she glanced around and thought she saw someone ducking around the corner, but when she looked again, she realized it was a young mother bending down to her child in a pram.
Don’t get carried away, Pru,
she told herself,
no one is after you.
She had phoned Jo that morning, thinking that they could meet later in the day for a glass of wine. Pru wished it could be a more common occurrence;—it was one of the only social engagements she had, and it meant a great deal to her. But Jo had—Pru could think of no other way to describe it—brushed her off. Meetings, showing potential clients their potential office spaces, must finish the contract on so-and-so’s house let. Deserted, Pru walked up toward Fulham Road and the police station.
Preoccupied with her personal woes, she barely noticed the woman waving at her from across the road, until the second or third time she called. “Hello! Sorry, hello?”
Pru came out of her daze to see a woman dressed in tight jeans, spike heels, a purple cardigan, and stylish, small glasses with heavy black frames; she sported cherry-redlipstick on a kewpie-doll mouth.
She walked across to Pru. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m completely lost. Can you tell me where”—she glanced down at a crumpled scrap of paper in her hand—“Lecky Street is?” She looked up at Pru with a hopeful expression.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know where that would be. Are you trying to find a business?”
“No, I’m trying to find a flat, and I was supposed to view one there.” Her whole manner slumped. “God, this is a disaster. I don’t know anyone in London, and you’re the first person that’s stopped to talk to me.”
The woman didn’t move and continued to look at Pru, who didn’t have a remedy for her problem, although it seemed as if one were expected. “The police station isn’t far. I’m headed that way. Maybe you could ask there.”
“Police?” The woman looked left and right, and her shiny blond hair swirled around her face like a little girl twirling in a full skirt. “No, no, I don’t need that.” She smiled at Pru. “I have a map in my bag. I’ll just sit down somewhere and give it a look, shall I?” She hesitated and then said, “If you had just a
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