‘’Cause we don’t have any money in the bank.’ Her daughter looked like a typical eight-year-old, swinging her legs, rubbing her tiny hands on the kitchen towel, but her words made her sound a lot older. ‘I saw the thingy.’ She pointed to the top of the fridge where the bank statement poked out from under the treat jar – a jar that was currently devoid of sweets.
‘Oh, darling. Of course we can afford ice cream,’ Lauren lied, wishing for once that her daughter wasn’t quite so advanced for her age. ‘I just forgot to buy some this week.’ She bent down and kissed Flo’s cheek. ‘Now, I don’t want you to worry about what a silly bank statement says. They’ve probably added it up wrong.’
Florence frowned. ‘Like Freddie does in maths class?’
‘I do not!’ Freddie looked indignant. ‘You do.’
‘Do not.’
‘Do too …’
‘Hey, no bickering. Be nice to each other, please. I’ll get some ice cream at the weekend.’ When I have some money. ‘Now, what would you like?’
They settled on yoghurt. Lauren busied herself clearing the table and picking at the leftovers, trying to stem the surge of shame. She’d tried so hard to keep her money worries from her kids. In future, she’d ensure paperwork was filed away. But that was the least of her concerns. With her sister visiting, and another mouth to feed, her finances weren’t going to improve. And if Charlotte had lost her job, then money would be an issue for her too. Somehow Lauren was going to have to make her income stretch even further.
The kids finished their dessert and ran into the lounge.
‘No jumping about until your dinners have gone down,’ she called after them.
‘Yes, Mummy!’ Their sing-song reply made her laugh. Thank God for her kids.
Unlike Charlotte, Lauren had never really known what she wanted to be when she grew up. She’d done okay at school, but she hadn’t wanted to continue studying. She was too excited by what the world had to offer … and then their mum had died and the world no longer seemed like such a wonderful place. But she’d never been lazy and, after leaving school, had tried numerous jobs in the hope of finding her calling. She’d worked in a bar, trained as a nursery assistant, and worked as an usher at the local theatre. She’d always loved drama at school, and getting to watch plays for free every night was the best job ever.
At nineteen, she’d met a boy called Joe and thought she was in love. When she fell pregnant, Joe broke things off, making her realise that she wasn’t in love, and neither was he. His interest steadily decreased as her belly size increased. Six months after she gave birth, he disappeared from their lives completely. She grew tired of chasing him for child-maintenance payments. His refusal to have any contact with the kids led her to accepting her dad’s offer to move to Cornwall with him. She’d hoped that an idyllic setting, and help from her dad, would make life a little easier. And, for the most part, it had.
Lauren ran the hot tap, swishing it around the washing-up liquid bottle, trying to make the meagre contents stretch a bit further.
Moving to Penmullion had definitely been the right decision. She was happy; so were her kids. And even though her dad didn’t help out as much as she’d hoped he would, it was still good to be together as a family.
A loud crack from the lounge was followed by a squeal. Lauren dropped the wok into the sink, splashing suds everywhere, and ran into the living-room area. Florence was sitting on the floor, rubbing her arm. Freddie was patting her head, his red cheeks clashing with his hair. ‘Sorry, Florence. Didn’t mean it.’
Next to them, the ancient carpet-sweeper was bent at an angle, missing its handle.
Brilliant. Her pedantic sister was coming to stay, and Lauren couldn’t even vacuum.
Florence looked up, her blue eyes tearful. ‘Are you mad, Mummy?’
Lauren shook her head. ‘Of course not, sweetie. Accidents happen.’
She sat down next to her daughter.
Freddie jumped onto the sofa and resumed waving his sword about.
Yep, moving to Cornwall had been the right thing to do … even if it did still have its challenges.
Friday, 27 May
Charlotte battled her way out of the loos and queued up for a hot drink, needing something to calm her agitation. It was only ten a.m., but the motorway service station at Leigh Delamere East was full of people heading down to the coast for the May bank holiday weekend. She hadn’t realised quite how busy the roads would be. She’d been driving for three hours, and still had another hundred and twenty miles to go. At this rate, it would be dark before she reached her destination.
Collecting her takeaway cup from the counter, she headed outside, trying to remember what her GP had said about focusing on the positives of her situation, instead of dwelling on the negatives – which wasn’t easy. The grief she’d felt at leaving her old life behind was indescribable. But, much to her surprise, her visit to the GP had been extremely helpful. Far from dismissing her tearful ramblings, he’d listened patiently and had diagnosed a mild anxiety disorder. At first, she’d been reluctant to accept any failing in her mental health, but as he’d spoken about the impact of stress, and its ability to exacerbate physical pain, she’d realised that denying her condition was foolhardy. He’d said battling to keep things ‘just so’ was like clinging hold of a stick under water, the effort of not dropping it was so exhausting that, in the end, you’d drown trying to keep afloat. Sometimes you just had to let the stick sink to the bottom and trust that, eventually, it would float back up to the surface and continue its journey down the river. A nice analogy.
Ethan’s decision to leave was out of her control, he’d said. As was losing her job. The best thing she could do was stop beating herself up for not being able to control everything, try to relax, and take the opportunity of an impromptu holiday.
The spring weather had been steadily improving all week, so a spell at the seaside might improve her spirits. It would be good to spend some time with her family, and it’d been over a year since she’d seen her niece and nephew, so really, this trip was a blessing … even if it had been forced upon her.
She sipped her latte. It didn’t taste great, but it was warm and sweet and gave her energy levels a boost. She managed another few mouthfuls before binning it.
It was hard to believe that, up until a few weeks ago, her life had been going to plan. Her career was flying high, her finances were stable, and the five-year plan for achieving the ‘perfect life’, which she’d drawn up with Ethan, was on schedule. They’d planned that, within the next two years, they’d move to a town house with a good resale value, and they’d up their pension pots with additional contributions. It wasn’t the most dynamic of plans, and perhaps, on reflection, it lacked a certain sense of romance, but it was pragmatic and considered, and it’d been what they’d both wanted. Or at least, what she’d thought they’d both wanted.
Unbuttoning her purple suede jacket, she climbed into her car, gearing herself up for rejoining the M4.
It felt a lot longer than three weeks since Ethan had dropped his bombshell. The initial shock had subsided, but the confusion hadn’t. Why hadn’t she seen it coming? There must have been signs, clues to suggest Ethan wasn’t happy, and yet she’d been oblivious. While she’d been working long hours, carrying out the renovations on the apartment, adhering to their five-year plan, he’d been plotting his relocation to bloody Paris.
How had she got things so wrong?
His words still haunted her, how he’d described their relationship as a ‘business