‘I’m marvellous. I’m calling from the tarmac!’ trilled Ginny. ‘Just leaving the Caymans by helicopter!’
Ginny had spoken to Sarah from the Caymans three weeks ago. An impromptu Skype interview had been conducted from her sun lounger, framed by an infinity pool and a magnificent sunset, from what Sarah could see, whilst Sarah had struggled to unearth a non-messy corner of her house for a backdrop, plumping for the front door of the fridge … after she had hastily slung some random and far-from-aesthetic fridge magnets to the sticky floor.
Boredom was why she’d done it. Why she’d sent the CV. Sarah was bored, bored, bored. Bored of wellies, of picturesque sunrises across the fields, of tractors, of puddles, of her cottage and the view from her bedroom window. Of the village she had been brought up in. Of the organized chaos. Of dressing up as Elsa or Belle or Spiderman and serving plates of jam sandwiches and cheesy footballs at children’s parties. And the twins no longer needed her, not really – they were nineteen, Olivia had nearly completed her gap year and was off to university in the autumn and Connor had his little local job, hopefully progressing to something decent later on (at least she sincerely hoped so). The pair of them now just bellowed ‘Mum!’ at her from far corners of the house, when she was on the loo, out of habit.
Sarah also wanted to do something for herself. Get her life back, somehow, however temporary. Get herself back. So, yes, indeed, it had been a moment of madness. What woman ever manages that, really – after children, motherhood and a soul-destroying marriage … even if that was a million years ago.
The exciting, transatlantic Cayman Islands to Tipperton-Mallet-in-Suffolk interview had gone fairly well, Sarah supposed, although Ginny kept getting distracted by ‘Bertrand’, a young man who hovered behind her in budgie smugglers and constantly interrupted to ask if she was coming to the beach and what time was lunch. Sarah answered all Ginny’s questions as best she could and had even made her laugh a shrill, tinkly laugh a couple of times, but Sarah had heard nothing from Ginny since. She had assumed her old company, House Events, were just going through the motions in interviewing her at all – fulfilling their positive discrimination quota whatnots in being seen to not exclude late forty-something women who had seen better days. She’d assumed she hadn’t got the job.
‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ trilled Ginny, ‘as I’m being called to board. We’d like to offer you the job.’
‘Sorry?’ Sarah felt like she may pass out. What?
‘I said I’d like to offer you the job!’
‘Really?’
Sarah was flabbergasted. She was also, suddenly, not bored, or feeling redundant, or like she wanted to get her life back, but petrified. She was forty-eight. She wouldn’t know the Tube map now if it came up and bit her on the backside. The only thing she’d organized herself in twenty years was Tipperton Mallet’s weekly art class and the tiny village phone box library. She didn’t own a pair of heels, or even a smart jacket. She wore wellies and cagoules. She had ‘it’ll-be-all-right’, short Mum hair and a face devoid of make-up because she long since couldn’t be arsed …
How could she do this job? How could she scrub up for London, both literally and figuratively? Sarah Oxbury had let herself go and it had all gone on other people … What on earth made her think she could do a glamorous, important job in London and return to something resembling her old life?
Because she once had done a glamorous and important job in London, a little voice inside her head told her. Because that life once was hers! Why not do something for her? Why not take this chance?
‘Are you sure?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yes!’ shouted Ginny. ‘Bertrand! Watch the Vuittons! Sorry, Sarah, between me and you he’s going to be dumped once we get back to Miami. Absolutely hopeless, although fabulous quadriceps … So, what do you say?’
‘Well …’ Sarah said.
‘You need to be quick,’ said Ginny merrily. ‘I’ve got approximately thirty seconds!’
‘I’d like to accept the job.’ Sarah began to shake.
‘Wonderful,’ said Ginny. ‘You remember I said it would be a very short-notice start?’ Had Ginny said that? Sarah had only skim read the finer details, but she did remember the job was a two-month post covering part of an employee’s maternity leave, with a possible chance for permanent employment.
‘It starts on Monday.’
‘Monday!’
‘Monday morning, yes. Blame HR – I always do. Is Monday morning a problem?’
‘No, absolutely not, it’s not a problem,’ stammered Sarah. Bloody hell. Monday morning?
‘Nine o’clock sharp then, please, in the office. I won’t be there for at least a couple of months. I’m off on the Mayor of Guadeloupe’s boat. Another interminable Caribbean cruise.’ She yawned. ‘So, all good?’
‘All good,’ said Sarah unsteadily. She’d applied for it – albeit on a digestive-fuelled, crazy whim – and now she’d got it.
‘Fantastic,’ said Ginny and, like people on telly, she hung up without saying goodbye.
‘Bye, Ginny,’ said Sarah, into the ether. She slid her feet into her sticky flip-flops and tried not to hyperventilate. She’d got the job! No more wellies, no more Elsa, no more cheesy footballs. She was going to be in London, on Monday morning, for nine o’clock sharp, back in her old job …
She was totally insane … Apart from everything else, how the hell was she going to start a new job on Monday morning, in London? When it was a two-hour commute, she had an old banger of a Fiesta that was barely guaranteed to make it to the next village, and there had been intermittent train strikes for the past god knows when? How the blazes was she going to get there every day? She needed to stay in a hotel or something, during the week, Sarah thought, but she knew her salary, despite being good, wouldn’t run to that.
Sarah left the orchard and walked to the back door of the cottage, picking up various Connor and Olivia discarded paraphernalia as she went: a Converse trainer, a broken shuttlecock, a pair of headphones. Her head felt fried. She had to think, she had to think very carefully about who she knew in London. And then she might have to – very, very reluctantly – call somebody she hadn’t spoken to for a very long time.
Meg
‘Hello, Sarah.’
Meg sat on the white swivel chair in the far corner of her studio flat’s tiny living room, and spun a half-turn on it. She waggled one foot, which had ruby red nail varnish drying on its toes, in the air, and hoped the familiar gesture would settle both her nerves and her frustration. She’d been cursing as she’d tapped in her sister’s number. Bloody high blood pressure. Bloody Dr Field. Even Lilith – who Meg had called last night, once she got out of hospital, to relay the awful news she was being signed off for two months – had betrayed her. She had almost sounded relieved Meg was taking some time off. She’d said, in an infuriatingly gentle voice, that she could tell Meg had been heading for a crash, which Meg had been, frankly, incensed by. She hadn’t been heading for a crash! She’d been flying high, soaring. Firing on all cylinders. It wasn’t her fault her stupid blood pressure had decided to play up. Apart from that minuscule medical issue, she was fine.
Meg had reluctantly signed all