The idea of meeting a nice girl conjured up another image of Charlotte Saunders. Why, he wasn’t sure. ‘Nice’ wasn’t a word that immediately sprang to mind when thinking about her. And why was he thinking about her? ‘I wish more than anything I shared your commitment to medicine, really I do. But I don’t think it’s for me.’
‘Then work harder,’ his mother barked. ‘You don’t just give up on seven years of medical training.’ She lowered her voice when she realised people were looking. ‘I blame your mother,’ she said, directing her comment at Henry. ‘I knew encouraging him to play around with non-academic interests was a bad idea. But would you listen? Now look where it’s led!’ She pointed at her son. ‘A wasted talent. Letting everybody down.’
A mist of red fog descended. He knew his mother didn’t mean it. She was just worried he’d go off the rails like his cousin had done, ending up unemployed and alcohol dependent. But he wasn’t about to make the same mistake. They just needed to get off his case. He was twenty-seven, for fuck’s sake. He could make his own decisions. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You don’t need to tell me I’m letting you down, I see it on your faces every time I look at you.’
‘Your mother doesn’t mean—’
‘Yes, she does. She means every bloody word, and she’s right. I am a let-down. But you couldn’t be more disappointed in me than I am in myself.’ He dug out ten quid from his wallet and threw it on the table. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my shift starts in half an hour. Have a safe journey back to London. I’m sorry you didn’t get the outcome you were hoping for.’
He stormed off, ignoring his parents’ protests and curious glances from the other punters. He didn’t need anyone telling him he was inadequate. Not some snooty designer from London, or his mum and dad. He was perfectly aware he was a screw-up.
Thursday, 16 June
Lauren glanced at the kitchen clock, wishing time would slow down this morning. She’d yet to brush her hair, or put the bins out – and it was recycling day.
The toaster popped, sending a burnt slice of bread flying into the air like a clay pigeon being released from an automated trap. She tried to catch it, but it bounced off the fridge, landing on the disgusting linoleum flooring. Thankfully, her housework-obsessed sister had mopped the floor yesterday, so she felt safe in applying the ‘five-second rule’ and picked it up.
Blowing on it, she dropped it onto the breadboard, making a mental note to add ‘new toaster’ to the list of things to buy once her loan had been cleared later on today. She’d circled the date on the calendar, the last instalment. It was the only thing keeping her sane this morning.
‘Breakfast is ready!’ She used the last of the cheap margarine on the toast, relishing the prospect of buying proper butter next week, when she’d be twenty-five quid better off.
‘How far away is Looe?’ Her sister looked up from the newspaper.
Lauren wiped her hands on a tea towel. ‘It’s on the other side of the coast.’ Her children had yet to appear from their bedrooms. ‘Freddie! Florence! Breakfast is getting cold.’
Charlotte tucked her straightened hair behind her ears – a lack of grooming time in the mornings clearly wasn’t an issue for her. ‘Too far to commute?’
Lauren plated up the toast, catching sight of her reflection in the fridge. Next to her perfectly presented sister, she looked like she’d slept rough. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Looe? Could you get there for work?’ Charlotte had been studying the jobs section in the Penmullion Gazette, highlighting the positions she felt Lauren should apply for to ‘better her situation’.
Her sister meant well, but Lauren wasn’t interested in working in a building society, a call centre, or trying to sell social media space to online retailers – she could barely understand the apps on her phone. ‘No, Charlotte, I could not get to Looe for work. Apart from the fact that I have school-age children, I’m not looking to change jobs. I’m happy working at the café.’ As she’d told her sister on countless occasions. ‘Kids! I’m not going to ask again!’
Florence appeared in the kitchen wearing her Princess Fiona nightie.
‘Sweetie, why aren’t you dressed?’ Lauren glanced at the clock. ‘It’s twenty past eight. We need to leave in ten minutes, and you haven’t eaten breakfast.’
‘I’ve got tummy ache.’ Florence rubbed her stomach, emphasising the point.
Charlotte wasn’t done with her career advice. ‘I know you say you’re happy working at the café, but do you really want to spend the rest of your days serving stewed tea and limp sandwiches?’
‘What sort of tummy ache?’ Lauren knelt down, assessing whether her daughter had a genuine ailment, or whether it was a lame excuse to stay home and watch TV. ‘Where does it hurt?’
Florence pulled her sad face. ‘All over, Mummy.’
Charlotte picked up the kitchen scissors. ‘I’m sure we can find something much more fulfilling. I’m cutting out the jobs I think are suitable.’
Lauren felt her daughter’s forehead. ‘You don’t have a temperature.’
‘I’m very hot,’ Flo said, in a slightly dramatic fashion. ‘And cold too.’
Lauren kissed her daughter’s cheek, which showed no evidence of being too hot or too cold. ‘You might feel better once you’ve had something to eat.’ She eased her onto a kitchen chair. ‘Eat a slice of toast, and then we’ll reassess.’ She marched over to Freddie’s bedroom door. ‘How many times do I have to call you for breakfast?’
He was sitting on the floor playing with his Lego. At least he was dressed for school. Well, of sorts. His shirt was buttoned up wrong. It would have to do. She didn’t have time to correct it.
‘Kitchen, now, please.’ She folded her arms, a feeble attempt at being stern.
Grinning, he got up from the floor and went into the kitchen, carrying his partially built truck. ‘Can I stay home with Florence today?’
‘No, and Florence isn’t staying home, she’s going to school.’ Lauren ushered him onto a chair. ‘Please put the truck down. We haven’t got time to mess about this morning.’
Before Lauren had even collected his toast from the counter, Charlotte was unbuttoning his shirt. ‘We can’t have you going to school looking scruffy, can we?’
Lauren supressed a sigh. Normally, she’d count to ten in a bid to calm her agitation but, with the clock rapidly ticking down, she didn’t even have time for that this morning.
Charlotte realigned the buttons. ‘Is this shirt ironed?’
Lauren loved her sister, really, she did. But right at that moment, she had an overwhelming urge to pour Charlotte’s specially selected, loose-leaf, two-minute-brewed English breakfast tea over her head. ‘No, Charlotte, it’s not. Funnily enough, I don’t have time to iron school shirts, which last a day before being covered in mud and require washing again.’
Lauren was subjected to a slow shake of the head. Her sister was not impressed.
Well, tough. She didn’t have the time or inclination to pander to Charlotte’s