‘Call me Cynthia, and yes, I’d be delighted.’
While Cynthia led Greg into the conservatory, Sarah took the stairs two at a time, racing to remove the photo of her and Mark before Greg reached her bedroom. She peeled it from the wall and ripped the photograph in two. Had she been such an awful partner that she had put Mark off women for life? Sarah leaned against the door frame, wondering if her life could get much worse.
Chapter 7
Thehousewasasit had always been, but it no longer felt like a home. The furniture was the same, the kitchen smelled of twenty-five years of roast dinners, the bathroom door still squeaked on its hinge. And yet, everything was unfamiliar. There was no sound of her dad whistling, no nagging from Cynthia. The house was making unfamiliar noises that sent Sarah’s imagination running wild.
Sarah checked the locks again. It felt different when her parents had gone on holiday and left her in the house alone. Knowing they were coming back made the house feel safe. Now all traces of them were gone. Cynthia had swept all the lotions and potions she used to hold back the advancing years from her nightstand and into her wash bag. Only winter clothes remained in the wardrobe, with the instruction that Sarah was to take them to the charity shop first thing the next morning.
There had been a brisk goodbye on the doorstep earlier that evening. The taxi driver had baulked at the amount of luggage Cynthia expected him to lift into his car. She’d been fidgety, excited, and the last thing she had wanted was an emotional goodbye with her daughter. There had been a vague suggestion Sarah should fly over and visit, but they had set no firm plans.
Sarah walked to the fridge and pulled off the list her mother had left for her. Greg had been certain that in a buoyant housing market, the nineteen-thirties semi with its high ceilings and well-proportioned rooms would sell in no time. Sarah’s tasks included organising a removal van for the furniture, to be held in storage until Colin made contact, cleaning the house from top to bottom, and being Greg’s contact should any problems arise with the sale.
Sarah wanted none of those jobs. Her home was being sold from under her and in a matter of weeks, she’d be homeless and unemployed. It wasn’t as though she could stay with her father. He’d vanished off the face of the earth and even changed his phone number.
Colin would have to come out of the woodwork to deal with the legalities of his divorce and the splitting of profits from the house sale. But given Cynthia had inherited the house from her parents, she was free to sell it from under them without a second thought, or so she claimed.
The doorbell rang, and Sarah screamed. Her phone flashed with a text from a delivery company informing her food was at the door. She peered through the spyhole. Reassured the caller was indeed a delivery boy, Sarah opened the door a crack and exchanged cash for two boxes of pizza.
Not wanting to be reminded of her parent’s absence, Sarah took the pizza to her bed and climbed under the duvet. She flicked on the TV and poured herself a glass of wine from the bottle beside her bed. With no one around to question her dietary choices, Sarah ate until she felt sick, took a ten-minute break, then started again until she had consumed both pepperoni pizzas.
The self-recriminations started as soon as she’d swallowed the last bite. Sarah turned up the TV, trying to drown out the voices in her head that were screaming with words such asfat, loser, useless, spinster.
The TV wasn’t doing its job, so she opened her phone and began scrolling through social media. All the people she’d known at school seemed successful, with shiny lives, shiny partners, and shiny cars.Just got my first promotion! She said yes! New house, new baby. Sarah swallowed down bile as she read the chirpy captions accompanying photos of slender women and muscular men.
Against her better judgement, Sarah searched for Mark’s name. She’d un-friended him the second he left her, but with his profile public, he was easy to spy on. At first, she didn’t recognise him. He’d grown a beard, filled out. He may not be conventionally handsome, but Sarah felt a glimmer of attraction.It’s just the new clothes his partner’s got him wearing, she told herself.
Sarah scrolled down to another post. Mark and his partner Gary were in the centre of a large family group. A fluffy cockapoo snuggled into Gary’s neck, Mark’s arm draped across his shoulder, tickling the dog’s fur. The smiling faces around the couple suggested they’d met Mark’s sexuality bombshell with acceptance and love. Sarah wondered how Cynthia would react should she make a similar announcement. She couldn’t imagine many smiles being involved.
It was gone midnight when Sarah fell asleep, phone in her hand, a piece of pepperoni stuck to her cheek. Playground bullies filled her dreams, and handsome Spanish men dancing Cynthia off into the sunset. She woke before the sun rose, feeling like she’d not slept at all.
*
Sarah sighed as the bus crept past the high street for the third time that day. The ache of her feet was nothing compared to the deep aching in her heart. Going cap in hand to local businesses with her CV and no reference had been a humiliating experience.
Sorry, we’re not looking to take on any new staff.
Thanks for dropping by, but you don’t have the skills we’re looking for.
No, we’re not hiring.
We don’t employ anyone without references.
Have you tried the job centre?
Sarah thought back to conversations with Cynthia about the people they saw loitering outside the job centre.Scroungers, wasters, spending all their money on fags. No way was she letting herself become one of those people. Sarah reached across and rang the bus bell. The bus squeaked to a stop, and she climbed down the steps.
The high street was bleak. Only a handful of people shuffled along its depressing pavements, heads down, thick coats wrapped around themselves, avoiding each other’s eye.
‘Watch it,’ said a scruffy man as he staggered to avoid Sarah. He wove along the pavement in unsteady lurches, a can of cider clamped between his fingers.
Sarah squared her shoulders and walked towards the last place on her list. ‘What are you doing?’ She muttered to herself. ‘You’re worth more than this.’
The faded sign of the burger restaurant was missing a few screws, and several letters drooped, as though about to fall into a deep sleep. Through the windows Sarah saw tables of youths, as greasy as the burgers in their mouths. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
‘Hello, what can I get for you today?’ The boy behind the counter looked like he was twelve years old. A failed attempt at a moustache clung to his top lip, his puckered acne-prone skin shimmered with oil and his hair hung in a replica of a 1980s mullet.
‘Good afternoon. I was wondering if you are looking for staff?’
