Summer With My Sister Page 27

  Polly knew she interviewed well – she was sharp-witted and articulate, she knew her stuff, she was precise and smart and polished. The only slightly precarious subject was the area of her CV that had been left fallow for the last few months. Every interviewer had, of course, asked what she’d been doing since being made redundant, as she’d expected them to. Luckily she had rehearsed her answer.

  ‘The redundancy came as a huge shock,’ she admitted briskly, ‘but I’m not one to panic or give up. I’ve taken some time out recently to help with the family business – I’ve advised them on financial matters, for example – and I’ve also taken the opportunity to pursue some research into banking law, an area that has always fascinated me.’

  Funnily enough she didn’t mention her job at the pub, her new-found expertise in Ginger Ninja bubble-bath-making, or the long depressing afternoons in front of her laptop staring blankly at the complete dearth of job vacancies on the screen, with only Agatha and the mad chickens for company.

  Her explanation seemed to pass muster, though, thank goodness. Finance Professionals had immediately come up with two possible vacancies for which they’d promised to put her details forward; the woman at Compass had told her there was a great maternity cover coming up at Arthur Andersen, which could lead to something permanent; and the other three agencies had all spoken of a new confidence and buoyancy about the current jobs market, and said that they were confident they could find her something within the next few weeks. It just went to show that it was all a matter of being in the right place at the right time. She doubted these vacancies would even get put on the website.

  It was almost five o’clock now, and London was on the verge of swinging into Happy Hour. Computers would be powered down for the day, and out would pour the worker ants into the bars and restaurants, the buses and trains. Already there was a buzz in the air as the lucky few slunk away early with alcohol and freedom on their minds.

  Polly’s day was not over yet, though. There was one more place she had to go. She plunged back into the sweating depths of the Underground towards the address she had in London Bridge. She hoped she wasn’t already too late.

  The company’s name, Domestic Angels, might have suggested a heavenly address with Doric columns, harp-playing cherubs and fluffy clouds, but the reality was far more down-to-earth: a small, dingy office block with tinted windows and a reception area that sported a nicotine-stained ceiling and an old beige sofa. It was approaching six o’clock by the time Polly tracked the place down, her feet now hot and blistery in her heels after all the pavement-pounding she’d done.

  ‘Hi,’ she said to the sallow-faced girl on reception who was gawping at her Facebook page and blowing small pink gum-bubbles through pursed lips. ‘Have I missed Magda? Only I was meant to be meeting her here at half-five and I got stuck in traffic. We’re going to that new wine bar, but I thought I’d hang around for her, if she hasn’t already gone.’ She pulled a funny face. ‘I hate walking into those places on my own, don’t you? Always feel a right plonker.’

  Blind the girl with unnecessary facts, that was Polly’s tactic, and hope she’d be taken in. It was a gamble, yes, but she’d already tried the polite telephone request and that had got her precisely nowhere.

  The receptionist blinked at the information overload and shifted her gum to the side of her mouth. ‘Magda? She’s still at the Kipling Street job,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, my mistake,’ Polly said, pantomiming a silly-me reaction. ‘Lucky I checked. I’ll come back later, cheers.’

  ‘Who shall I say was looking for her?’ the girl called after her, but Polly pretended she hadn’t heard and went quickly out of the door again.

  Her heart was racing. The gamble had actually paid off. Magda was still working for the agency and was somewhere on Kipling Street right now. Polly flicked through her A–Z and then went to find her.

  As luck would have it, Kipling Street was only a short road. Polly perched on a wall where she could see all the way along the street, and waited. Twenty minutes later she saw Magda emerging from a terraced house. That slight, slim figure with the straight back and neat bobbed hair, carrying a yellow bucket of cleaning materials. ‘Magda,’ Polly called, jumping off the wall and waving. ‘Magda!’

  The woman stopped and stared at her in surprise. Then her expression changed to one of suspicion. ‘Miss Johnson,’ she said coldly as Polly ran towards her. Her cat-like eyes had narrowed and her body language was unfriendly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Polly swallowed. ‘I came to say sorry,’ she replied. They were standing a few metres apart on the pavement and she felt hot and awkward, aware that her hair had worked its way loose from that morning’s elegant chignon, that there was sweat under her arms and in a line down her back, that her feet probably stank in the crippling heels she had on. ‘I’m really sorry. I was an idiot. I hope I didn’t get you into trouble.’

  Magda exhaled slowly, her eyes giving nothing away. ‘I got in trouble, yes,’ she said, putting the bucket down. ‘Bad trouble. They want to sack me, I had to …’ Her vocabulary ran out, and she pressed her hands together as if praying.

  ‘You had to beg,’ Polly translated. ‘I’m sorry. But you kept your job at least – yes?’

  Magda folded her arms across her chest. ‘I lost best clients,’ she said. ‘They tell me I am … not to trust. They give me shitty jobs instead.’

  Polly bit her lip. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again. And then, all of a sudden, she wondered what on earth had possessed her to come and do this. What was the point? What could she possibly do to make it up to this woman whom she’d wronged in a fit of spite all those months ago? ‘I tried to phone, to give you a message, but they wouldn’t let me,’ she said weakly after a moment.

  Magda stood there mute. Big deal, her eyes flashed scornfully. So what?

  ‘You know, I am a cleaner now,’ Polly began, ‘and …’

  Magda started with shock. ‘You? You clean?’

  Polly nodded. ‘I clean,’ she said. ‘And it’s really hard work. I never knew.’

  ‘Yes. Is hard work.’ Magda gave a snort suddenly, her eyes bright with amusement. ‘You really clean? You?’

  ‘Yes. I know it’s hard to believe,’ Polly replied. ‘And I know now how hard you worked for me all those weeks.’

  ‘Months.’

  ‘All those months,’ Polly corrected herself, eyes downcast. ‘I just came to say sorry anyway,’ she finished. ‘If you want, I can write to the manager at the agency, tell them I was wrong.’

  Magda nodded. ‘Yes. You tell them. Tell them I good cleaner, you wrong.’

  ‘I’ll say I was unfair and that you don’t deserve the shitty jobs.’

  ‘Is true.’

  ‘And that they should give you a pay rise and lots of free holidays.’

  Magda was at least smiling now. ‘Is true,’ she said again and punched Polly lightly on the arm. ‘Is okay. Thank you.’

  Polly smiled back. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You were so kind to me when everything got on top of me. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but … you are a good person. I didn’t deserve you.’

  ‘Is true,’ Magda said again. ‘All true.’ And then they were both laughing, and Magda had put her arms around Polly, patting her back, as if comforting a child. ‘You have new job now?’ she asked after they’d disentangled.

  Polly shook her head. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘But I’m trying.’

  ‘I wish you good luck,’ Magda said. ‘Dobre szczęście, as we say in Poland.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Polly said. ‘Thank you so much, and the same to you. It’s nice to see you again, Magda. Take care.’

  ‘You as well,’ said Magda. ‘You are different now, I think. Good-different.’ She held up a hand. ‘Goodbye.’

  Polly watched her pick up the bucket of cleaning sprays and bottles (not dissimilar from her own white bucket of bleach and disinfectant that she used at the pub) and then walk away down the street.


  You are different now, I think, she’d said. Good-different. Polly found that she was nodding to herself, right there on the pavement like a nutter. She was different, she had changed since she’d acted so appallingly back then. And Magda had noticed – even better.

  Mission accomplished, Polly thought, setting off to the Tube. With a bit of luck she could catch the 18.57 back to Amberley and be home for nine o’clock. It had been a long, tiring day, but her legs didn’t feel so heavy any more. She was going to make things right for Magda: she’d write the letter absolving her of any fault – why hadn’t it occurred to her before? – and everything would be okay.

  Just at that moment her phone started ringing. An unfamiliar London number was on the screen. Her heart leapt. ‘Hello?’ she said, jabbing at the button to accept the call.

  ‘Is that Polly Johnson? It’s Anne-Marie from Finance Professionals here. Hi. Just to say I sent your details to the Walkley Group for the Risk Manager role, and they’ve come back already to say that they’d like to meet you. How are you set for next week?’

  Polly’s mouth hung open and she stopped dead in the middle of the street. ‘You mean … I’ve got an interview?’

  ‘That’s right. They sounded very keen – said you were just what they were looking for.’

  She wanted to laugh. The hours and weeks of fruitless searching, the times she’d ploughed through websites and newspapers, trying to stay optimistic as she emailed her CV and job applications, to no avail. She had begged and pleaded for a chance at times, making herself cringe. And now it turned out that all she’d needed was Magda’s blessing of good luck, and along came the very call she’d been waiting for, minutes later. It felt as if the universe was giving her another shot.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ she replied, joy rising inside her like bubbles. ‘Oh, that’s really great news, Anne-Marie. And I’m free to come in for an interview any time. Any time at all.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Polly was on the train thundering back to Amberley with a celebratory gin-in-a-tin when her phone rang again. Jay, this time. A frisson went through her as she remembered the conversation she’d had with Clare. Take a chance, she reminded herself. Be open to something happening. And don’t be afraid!

  ‘Hi there,’ she said cheerfully, swirling her ice cubes around the plastic cup and draining the last drops. ‘How are you?’

  ‘All right, thanks. Where are you? Sounds noisy.’

  ‘I’m on the train, been up in London for the day,’ she said, gazing out of the window as they rattled along the tracks. They’d already left the bustling terraced streets and looming council blocks behind and were now moving into the suburbs: Esher and Hersham with their bigger gardens and leafier streets. Goodbye, big city. See you again next week. Looking forward to it already.

  ‘Oh yeah? Wheeling and dealing?’

  She hesitated for a second. ‘Just catching up with some old mates,’ she said in the end. What a lie. She didn’t even have any old mates to speak of. But something had stopped her from telling him the truth nonetheless. It was almost as if by speaking about the interview, she might jinx this brand-new seam of luck she’d just struck.

  ‘Sounds good. What time are you due back?’

  ‘Um …’ Her brain was already pleasantly addled by the gin; she frowned at her watch, trying to remember. ‘About half-eight, I think. Why?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up. We could go for a drink maybe.’

  ‘That would be great. Although …’ She remembered, too late, her stickiness, the grime in her pores, her collapsing hairdo.

  ‘Although … ?’ he prompted.

  ‘Well, I’m a bit scruffy and dirty,’ she admitted, wincing as the words came out before she could stop them. Telling a man you were ‘a bit dirty’ was practically asking for trouble. Damn that gin for being so delicious that she’d necked a double already.

  He laughed softly. ‘Even better,’ he said. And before she could think of any witty comeback to that, he’d added, ‘See you later, then’ and had hung up.

  Hmmm. Time to check out the train loos and hope that she could make herself look halfway presentable before they crossed the Hampshire border. She also had to hope that Jay wouldn’t wonder why she’d got all dressed up in a suit merely to hook up with her imaginary ‘old mates’. She was smiling, though, as she picked her way along the swaying compartment. Somehow having the prospect of her job interview floating tantalizingly ahead of her made things with Jay seem less important. She’d be out of Elderchurch before she knew it anyway; what was the point of getting her knickers in a twist over him? They could have some fun together without any need for emotional dramas.

  At last it seemed as if everything was falling perfectly into place.

  Jay did a loud, embarrassing wolf-whistle when he saw her. Which was ridiculous, seeing as her patch-up attempts in the Ladies hadn’t been quite as successful as she’d hoped; her hair felt too dirty to style as perfectly as she’d managed that morning, and there was no disguising the grit and grime on her clothes after her long day in the capital. But she had managed a stripdown wash in the tiny cubicle, so that she smelled clean at least, and she’d put on fresh lipstick and mascara and had tidied her hair as best she could.

  Still, the way Jay was looking at her so appreciatively made her feel as if her efforts had been rewarded. In fact she was quite tempted to wolf-whistle back at him, seeing him there in a gleaming white shirt and jeans, his face smooth-shaven and tanned.

  ‘Evening,’ she said, smiling shyly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you again,’ he said and pulled her to him for a second. The fresh, lime-scented cologne he had on made the hairs on her arms prickle, and something flipped over inside her. God, she shouldn’t have drunk that second gin; it had made her feel alarmingly carefree. Stay in control, Polly, she thought desperately.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked as he let her go.

  ‘Um …’ She was kind of hungry, now that he asked. The buffet car on the train hadn’t had the most appetizing array of food, and she’d only eaten a bag of crisps since midday. No wonder the alcohol had gone straight to her head. ‘Not really,’ she confessed. ‘I might have to swing by the chippy on the High Street, if it’s still there.’

  ‘Oh, I think we can do better than that,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come back to mine? I’ll make you something there.’

  Back to mine? Eek. ‘Sounds perfect,’ she said, with faux casualness. ‘I hope you’re a better cook than you are a driver, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t killed anyone yet,’ he replied. ‘Although there’s a first time for everything, I suppose. The car’s just round the corner.’

  As Jay started the Land Rover, she realized that she had no idea where he lived, or what sort of home he would have made for himself. Growing up, his family had lived in one of the modern semi-detached houses near the primary school with the bog-standard rectangle of lawn outside, but where had the adult Jay chosen to hang his hat? She tried to picture him in a bungalow like her parents, but couldn’t see it somehow. Would he have plumped for one of the houses on the new estate just outside the village? Polly hadn’t been inside them, but she remembered her parents muttering about them being eyesores and a blight on the village, some Christmases ago. She was curious to see his taste, his style, she realized. What if she got there and it was a hideous bachelor pad, decorated throughout in black and chrome, with leopardskin throws on the leather sofas, like you saw in footballers’ houses in Hello! magazine? She stifled a laugh at the thought, and Jay looked over quizzically.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’ll just send Clare a text, so she knows where I am,’ she added, getting her mobile out of her bag. ‘Don’t want her staying up worrying about me.’

  Hiya, she typed. Hope all okay. Gr8 day – interview next week! Just nipping to Jay’s 4 drink. See you later.

  A reply pinged back seconds later. WEL
L DONE! PS Don’t 4get our deal, will you? TAKE A RISK. SNOG HIM FFS!

  She gave a snort and stuffed her phone back in her bag.

  ‘Now what?’ Jay asked. ‘You can’t keep sniggering like that. It’s the sort of thing that makes a bloke anxious.’

  She laughed again, partly at the thought of laidback Jay being anxious about anything. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Ignore me.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Like I’ve ever been able to do that.’

  He was joking, of course, but his words made her feel hot all over. ‘Jay Holmes, you’re not flirting with me, are you?’ she said primly.

  He glanced across at her and winked. ‘You think that’s flirting? I haven’t even started yet,’ he said, slowing to thirty as they approached the ‘Welcome to Elderchurch’ sign.

  ‘Is that so,’ she bantered, trying to keep her cool. ‘Well, I hope you’re up to the job. I hate to see a grown man in tears.’

  ‘You know me, I love a challenge,’ he replied, then turned off the main street and into a small lane lined with banks of lush, long grass and leggy, looming cow parsley. ‘Nearly there,’ he said.

  ‘Mill Lane – is this where you live?’ Polly asked in surprise. Well, she hadn’t been expecting that. Mill Lane was the oldest part of the village, where the original farm and grain mill had once stood. The farm had been sold off long ago and the mill-house converted to a gorgeous five-bedroom property, she seemed to remember, bought by an eccentric businessman who’d upset the locals by shooting the rooks out of the rookery at the bottom of his garden with an air-rifle. ‘Bally things kept waking me up in the morning,’ he’d explained, as if this made it acceptable.

  ‘Yep,’ Jay said. ‘Not the mill-house, before you get excited, though. I bought one of the outbuildings from the farm, turned it into a house.’