“Such as?” She sounds unconvinced so I have to prove it.
“Well…home design for a start. The cottage will soon be ready for painting and decorating and I haven’t the first clue how to make it look nice.”
She turns, letting her gaze sweep slowly around the old-fashioned kitchen, the stripped window frames, the mismatched chairs. “You have a wonderful space here, a blank canvass to make something beautiful. If you don’t mind help from a woman with too many opinions, I could work with you on this.”
“Yes, please.” I answer before I can stop myself.
Chapter Thirteen
Lessa
This was a mistake. I can’t stay here.
Anything is better than this slow death.
Optimistically, I’d imagined myself finding online work as a researcher for think tanks or advocacy groups, even charities.
But no one wants me.
They might want Alice Trapper, highly skilled and highly experienced. But Alice Trapper isn’t the one applying. She’s disappeared off the radar, hasn’t she?
Lessa Hazelwood (the name I’m using) has no credentials, no references, no recommendations. The only jobs I can get are mostly tele-sales, calling strangers, trying to charm them into buying things. Even if I were any good at it, I’d rather stick needles under my fingernails. Otherwise it’s jobs collecting databases that make watching paint dry seem like a carnival of excitement.
Is this a lesson for me to learn? Seeing first-hand what it’s like for the people my Phoenix Bill was trying to help. How impossible it is to start from scratch after an injury has put an end to someone’s normal career. Or a divorced woman, who spent years bringing up a family, now she needs a job but finds her skills are out of date?
It’s so much harder than I ever imagined.
Most days, I grin and get on with it, grateful for what I already have. But some days, like today, my courage runs low. When all I can find is a job collecting phone numbers for supermarket transport companies, the world starts to look very dark.
On days like this, I want to call Clive. I want to be back in London in my normal life.
I’m fourteen weeks pregnant. The local mother and baby clinic has given me an ultrasound, and everything looks good. It’s just the hiding out on this God-forsaken tiny isle.
Call Clive.
Call him now!
People should never be too embarrassed to admit when they’ve made a mistake and change direction. My hand moves the mouse to the search bar to find a ticket back to London.
There’s a flight tomorrow at 9:45am from Jersey. I can pack, thank Brandon for his kindness, then go home.
I’m halfway through booking when my eyes fall on my stomach. Nothing showing yet, but not for much longer. Sooner or later, my condition will become obvious.
Slowly, my thoughts settle and I remember all the rational reasons I can’t move back to London. Soon enough the press will know it’s Clive’s baby, and they’ll go after his career.
But I want to go home. I could go for a month, re-establish myself, then in the new year find a job I can do as myself, as Alice Trapper. Something I can do online, then it’ll be easy enough to move somewhere new, out of sight.
My hand hovers over my phone.
To stop myself calling Clive, I close my laptop and go downstairs.
Brandon is not in the house. I open the fridge looking for something to eat then see the berries. Whenever the boring mind-numbing job hunting gets me down, I go out and pick little red, black, orange, and even purple berries.
By now, we have several containers full, and I’ve sorted them by colour. Some are definitely blackberries. Others are less recognisable. Brandon decided to show his dominant side and insisted I don’t even taste them in case they’re poisonous.
Perhaps the greengrocer in the village can help; he’s bound to recognise them. Besides, if I go out for a walk, then the impulse to book a flight or call Clive will just fade away.
“Brandon?” I call out of the kitchen window.
