Sonny squints at her. ‘Didn’t your fella die, too? Or was that someone else?’
Paula raises her eyebrows. ‘Er, no, I mean, yes. That was my . . . fella. My . . . John.’
Sonny clucks. ‘Oh, that’s a shame. He seemed . . .’ – he searches for a word – ‘all right.’
‘Thank you,’ Paula replies politely. ‘Er, can I pop through to see Gary? I need to get my name back on the schedule and get my pass reinstated.’
Sonny makes an awkward face. ‘I better see if he’s available, eh?’ He waves self-importantly at the visitor area in thecorner. ‘Have a seat. I’ll call through, see if he can squeeze you in.’
Paula nods, thinking how her boss, Gary, isalwaysavailable. He’s usually in that office playing Solitaire and delighted by any kind of interruption. As Sonny picks up the phone, Paula turns away. For a moment, the sight of this familiar, grey foyer takes her breath away. It all feels like it’s from a different time – a different life. She can picture John here, meeting her from work, turning up to surprise her. She can see him vividly, laughing with residents Vinnie and Floyd, then scolding Handsy Harry for getting, well,handsywith his wife.
‘Paula!’ Gary’s voice brings her back to the now, booming happily from across the foyer. He is as purple-faced and jovial as ever. He approaches her, his arms outstretched in greeting. ‘Sonny says you’re coming back, is it true?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘I thought there was no chance we’d ever see you again after your good fortune!’ He beams and Paula wonders if he remembers her husband also died. He continues, oblivious, ‘But if you’re sure, well, thank Christ for that! I don’t know how we’ve managed—’
He is interrupted by a loud bang behind them. The main double doors crash open and three men carrying equipment suddenly fill the small space.
‘Hey! Paula Sheldon!’ She starts at the sound of her name and is caught off guard by a flash in her face. It blinds her for a moment as the same voice shouts playfully, ‘Lend us a million quid!’
Another person yells, ‘Are you coming back to work despite your win, Paula?’ as a third asks, ‘Or are you here to donate a few quid to your old mates? Good headline either way, love!’ There is another flash, and then another.
They must’ve followed her here.
Paula’s heart gallops as Gary bundles her away into his office. He is shouting something to Sonny who is delightedly throwing himself in the way of the photographers. The voices fade as Gary slams his door. He regards her, his face even more purple. He looks angry. ‘For God’s sake,’ he blusters, taking a seat across from her. ‘Are those bastards following you around?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Paula murmurs, mortification flooding in as her vision returns. ‘I got on a bus. I don’t know how they . . . I didn’t realise . . . I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault, Paula,’ he sighs. ‘But you do understand we can’t have you back right now. Not with all this going on.’ She sees him swallow hard. ‘Of course, we can have a chat when it all calms down a bit, but we can’t have this media circus coming into the care home. It’s supposed to be a calm, peaceful place for our residents. Relatives would complain. Imagine if someone had seen that ruckus out there!’
Paula is nodding and she can’t stop.
‘I understand!’ she gulps. ‘Of course I do! I’m so sorry.’ She’s standing up and Gary’s expression flickers with guilt.
‘I’m sorry, Paula—’ he begins and she holds up a hand.
‘No, no, please!’ she says, backing away. She grabs for the door handle and makes a run for the exit. Thankfully, there’s no sign of the photographers, only Sonny, back behind reception looking very pleased with himself.
She speed-walks for the door, reaching it as Sonny calls out to her retreating back, ‘It’s great to have you back, Paula!’
Work isn’t a safe place. Her home isn’t a safe place. So where is?
8
When Paula gets back home, she sinks down into her regular chair at the kitchen table and stares across at the spot where John sits. Where he’s supposed to be sitting. She does that until her hands stop shaking and her breathing slows.
These last eight weeks – hearing the news, getting the money, waiting so long for John’s ashes, then having his funeral and the press conference – it’s all gone by so quickly. So much has happened and yet Paula feels like no time has passed. It’s too fast; it’s all moving too quickly. And she feels no further along.
She picks up her phone and opens the banking app Tilly downloaded on there. She logs in and looks at the money. It’s still sitting in her bog-standard current account – much to the chagrin of Tilly, and of the bank itself, who keep trying to get in touch. But even there, where the interest rate is nothing of note, the money is earning hundreds more each day – thousands every week. It is unfathomable. In a few months, Paula will earn more from just the interest than she ever has or probably ever could from her job at the care home. It makes her feel a little sick.
‘Hellooooo?’ A woman’s voice echoes around the small kitchen and Paula’s head jerks up at the sound. It is so unexpected – so wholly out of place and out of whack with Paula’s universe – that for a moment, she assumes she’s fallen asleep. But no, a tall, glamorous blonde woman with enormous sunglasses and a deep tan is really standing there, by the ajar door, smiling widely. She has big, white, Hollywood teeth, and there’s a tiny bit of lipstick on her incisor, but otherwise her make-up – thick as it is – is immaculate. She steps inside, moving forward with confidence to offer up a hand for Paula to shake. Her nails are long and pointy, and baby pink.
‘Hi, there! You must be Paula Sheldon? I’m Tina Edwina Fletcher. Call me Teddy for short, babe.’ The accent is thick with American vowels. Texan?
Paula gapes up at her, blinking at the outstretched hand. She hasn’t been called babe in – well, ever, probably. She’s the wrong generation for babe. The wrong sort of person. She has the wrong constitution for babe, if she’s being honest.
‘Are you . . .’ Paula swallows hard, a little afraid. ‘Are you a journalist? Because I’m not—’
The woman’s hand retreats as she shakes her head. ‘God, no!’ She looks horrified, grimacing and showing off those suspiciously straight teeth. Her statement earrings jangle with the movement. ‘It’s nothing like that. Though I saw all those jackals outside, ugh! They must be driving you mad, babe!’
Paula continues to stare, wondering if this is how she is to die. Murdered at the hands of a nice-haired lunatic, because her grown-up son didn’t shut the back door properly. Again.
