What was she doing?
In London? Living in this dodgy shared house? Working for Hugh?
Based on her current progress, in another month she would have paid off her credit card. Only another month of two jobs, rice, beans, two-minute noodles and tins of soup.
And then what?
Would she quit her night job? Start applying for jobs back in her own field—or at least her field of study? Eventually move out of this place to some place on her own?
She didn’t know.
If she did that she’d definitely need to shut down her social media profiles. There was no way she could continue to use them for the Molyneux Foundation all the way over here.
The idea felt unexpectedly uncomfortable.
Because, surely, her social media profile represented all that had been excessive in her life? Shouldn’t she be glad to be rid of it? Glad that she’d be leaving that version of herself behind?
But...
It also represented how successful she’d been—how well she’d connected with her followers and how seamlessly she’d incorporated her sponsors. It represented how much money she’d raised for the foundation by being social media savvy and putting all that Molyneux privilege to good use.
She had over a million followers, and she’d worked hard for every single one of them.
It was only logical reasoning to suppose that those followers were unlikely to care about her new, unglamorous life, but that didn’t make the idea of deleting her accounts seem any more appealing.
She wasn’t entirely sure what it said about her, but she wasn’t ready to give her followers up.
Not yet, anyway.
On Tuesday, April found more photos to add to the ‘Hugh’ box.
This time it was a bunch of birthday photos, all stuffed into a large white envelope that had become deeply creased and soft with years of handling.
She carried it downstairs to the kitchen, leaving it on the kitchen bench while she turned on the kettle for her morning tea break.
The photos she’d scanned with Hugh still remained in the ‘Hugh’ box, atop the benchtop. They hadn’t worked out the finer details after he’d left so abruptly, and she hadn’t seen him since. Was she supposed to keep on scanning the photos she found? Or would he? Or would he not even bother now and just keep the photos...?
She should just put them into the box and let Hugh decide.
Instead she found herself pulling up one of the bar stools and settling down with both her coffee and the envelope before her.
Even as she slid the photos out she questioned what she was doing. There was no need to look at the photos, really. And so to do so felt...not quite right. But that was silly, really. It was her job, after all, to go through everything in this house. That was what she was doing.
And so she did look.
Like the images from Hugh’s first days at school, these birthday shots were across all of Hugh’s birthdays. The envelope was chock-full of them—several from every year. The classic ‘blowing out the candles’ shot, breakfast in bed with unwrapped presents and always a photo of Hugh with his mum. The very early ones also featured his father.
His mum, of course, had been stunning. April had thought so when she’d first seen her in those school photos. She’d had dark hair and eyes, like Hugh, but her face had been rounder and her eyes and lips had looked as if they always smiled, not just in photos. She’d worn her long hair mostly loose, and had alternated year to year from having a fringe and growing it out.
These photos were different from the school ones, though, which had all been taken outside Hugh’s kindergarten or primary school. These were taken indoors. And not all in this house, which surprised April.
For some reason she’d assumed this was the house where Hugh had grown up, but the photos showed she was wrong. Silly of her, really, given she’d known his mum hadn’t had much money, and Islington was decidedly posh.
April took a sip from her coffee, and then shuffled back to the beginning again.
Outside, it had started raining, and the occasional fat droplet slapped against the kitchen window.
The first photo had a chubby Hugh sitting on his mother’s lap, reaching out with both hands for a birthday cake in the shape of a lime-green number one. Standing at his mother’s shoulder was—April assumed—his father. A tall man, but narrower in the shoulders than Hugh, he had dark blond hair. He was handsome, but his smile looked uncomfortable.
They sat at a dining table with a mid-nineteen-eighties swirly beige laminate top. Behind them was a sideboard with shelving above it, neatly filled with books, trinkets and brass-framed photographs.
For Hugh’s second birthday the cake photo was again taken at the same table. This time Hugh looked as if he was deliberately avoiding the camera, his gaze focused on something out of the picture. Again, he was with his mum and dad. There were more things now, on the shelves behind Hugh and his parents: more brass-framed photographs, more books. But still neat.
For his third birthday Hugh had had a cake in the shape of a lion, with skinny, long pieces of liquorice creating its eyes, nose and whiskers. There was no dad in this one, and while the table and sideboard were still the same the paint on the walls was now blue, not beige. There was less on the shelves—only a few photos. A new house? Or new paint?
April checked the other photos from his third birthday—yes, definitely a new house. His breakfast in bed was no longer beside a lovely double sash window, but instead one with a cheap-looking frame, probably aluminium.
His mum, though, still smiled her luminous smile.
When Hugh had turned four, the birthday parties had clearly begun.
There was Hugh playing pass the parcel, sitting on top of an oriental-style rug with his friends. Or playing pin the tail on the donkey. This photo was a wider shot, showing Hugh from the side, blindfolded and with his arm outstretched. Beyond him was a small kitchen, where a row of parents stood, some observing their kids, others chatting to each other.
The room was very neat, the kitchen bench clear but for trays of party food. In fact in all these early photos every room was tidy. April knew that careful angle selection could make the messiest room appear tidy, but she didn’t believe that was the case here. There wasn’t one cardboard box, or any pile of useless random things to put inside one, anywhere to be seen.
When had it started?
April flipped ahead through the photos, trying to work it out.
In the end it was that sideboard behind the dining table that told the story.
In front of that blue-painted wall it gained items year on year. At first neatly. More books, more photos, more trinkets, a small vase, a snow globe. But each item had definitely been carefully placed.
By the time Hugh had reached age seven the shelves were stuffed full. So many books jammed in horizontally and vertically. Photos in mismatched frames along the top. A few more trinkets...fat ivory candles. A carved wooden horse.
But still neat. Organised chaos.
By Hugh’s ninth birthday it was just chaos.
Books were randomly stacked with pages outwards. The vase had been knocked over and damaged, but it still remained on its side in multiple pieces. Paper had now appeared on the shelves: envelopes with plastic windows, sheets of paperwork...piles of magazines.
In the background of a blurry photo of kids dancing—musical statues?—April spotted a cardboard box. Just one. Beside