Summer With My Sister (10 page)

Several days passed in this vein, although none in quite such a hungover, alcohol-laced vein, thankfully. Oh, she made a few token efforts to check her emails, just in case anyone had replied to her job-seeking attempts with an interview or a welcoming pair of golden handcuffs but, unfortunately, the only responses she had were pro-forma rejections, informing her there were no suitable vacancies at the present time.

She clicked on the FT website several times a day, desperate to stay in the loop – old habits died hard – but whenever she checked out her investment portfolio, its worth seemed to have shrunk even smaller.
You’ve got to play the long game
, she remembered telling clients time and again.
No such thing as a quick fix
. She was starting to doubt the wisdom of her own words, though. Since her bonus had been snatched away at the eleventh hour, she didn’t want to play a long game. She needed her shares to start rising again, fast. She needed a quick fix just as badly as a smackhead, damn it.

When she wasn’t on her PC, she spent the rest of her time stretched out on the sofa, feet up, glued to daytime television. Why had no one told her how brilliant daytime television was? She already felt like Phil and Holly were old friends, and the Loose Women were the funny, sympathetic best mates she’d never had. She was getting good at spotting the bargains on
Bargain Hunt
too. And wasn’t it cosy, just staying in her pyjamas all day? She felt as snug as an unemployed bug in a rug.

By the third day she’d wised up to planning ahead. She didn’t want to face the rest of the world yet, so she ordered a food delivery online, full of all her favourite treats. Well, why not? It was about time she took things easy, chilled out for a change. She deserved a break after almost twenty years of pressing her nose against the business grindstone, and she was one hundred per cent convinced that a job would have turned up by the end of next week.

On Friday, when she’d been in the same pyjamas for four solid days, had just eaten cornflakes for lunch again (that Ocado van really couldn’t come too soon) and was wondering if one o’clock in the afternoon was too early to have a tiny little glass of wine while she watched
Loose Women
, she heard a key in the door and nearly had a coronary in fright. What the hell?

She unswaddled herself from the duvet and leapt up from the sofa indignantly, heart pounding. ‘Excuse
me
,’ she began as her front door opened, ‘but . . .’

Then she stopped, as she realized who the intruder was. That effing cleaner again.

Magda recoiled at the sight of Polly standing there, lank-haired and barefoot in what appeared to be quite grimy pyjamas and a dressing gown. ‘Miss Johnson, you are here?’ she asked in confusion. ‘Again?’ She blinked, taking in the sight of empty cereal bowls stacked up on the coffee table, the cold cups of coffee, the plasma screen TV blaring the
Loose Women
titles. ‘You are ill?’

Polly hesitated. ‘Yes,’ she said after a moment.

‘You want me go? Or I clean?’

Again Polly hesitated. She didn’t want anyone else in the flat right now, she was enjoying wallowing on her own. She’d decided to take the rest of this week off, before throwing herself back into job-hunting again on Monday. Having the cleaner bustling about with the Hoover would break the spell, let the real world back into the bubble she’d created around herself.

On the other hand, the flat was kind of a tip.

‘You can stay,’ Polly said grandly, retreating to the sofa and pulling the duvet up under her chin again. If she didn’t look at the cleaner, she might be able to pretend she wasn’t there. She’d just concentrate on her programme, especially as an interview with Colin Firth was coming up.

‘You want I make you drink? Something to eat?’

The cleaner – Polly had forgotten her name – was standing in front of her, blocking the TV screen. Polly twitched irritably and was about to shoo her away again when she processed the questions. Did she want a drink or something to eat? Actually, she did. She was paying the woman after all. ‘A cup of tea would be great,’ she said. ‘I’m out of food unfortunately. Oh, and do make yourself one if you want,’ she added as the idea occurred to her. ‘I think the milk’s gone a bit lumpy, so you might prefer it black.’

The cleaner began stacking up the empty cereal bowls, some of which had become rather whiffy. ‘You have no one to look after you, eh? Is no good. I here now. Magda look after you, eh?’ she said, casting a sideways glance at Polly.

Polly smiled thinly, wishing Magda would shut up and get out of the way of the television. She wasn’t exactly in the mood for chit-chat, let alone with a cleaner. She said nothing, just stared pointedly at the TV, and after a while Magda took the hint and vanished into the kitchen.

Magda boiled the kettle and opened the dishwasher to load in the dirty crockery. A dreadful smell arose from the machine as soon as she pulled open its door. There was one plate and a few cups inside that sported dark fringes of mould. How long had they been sitting in there?
‘Môj bože
’ she muttered. ‘My God, this woman is a disaster.’

She glanced around the upmarket white kitchen with its granite worktops, which had probably never seen a chopping board or fresh vegetables; its fridge, which was always empty, save for a pint of milk or maybe some champagne; the cupboards, which were largely bare. What a waste it all was, she thought, shaking her head. Maybe she’d got Miss Johnson wrong; maybe her apartment was often full of friends in the evenings – dinner parties, girls’ nights, a lover who cooked for her – but she’d never come across any evidence to support this. Instead there was the lone wine glass, plate, knife and fork occasionally left in the sink. The packaging of a ready-meal for one in the bin. If this place belonged to Magda – ah, it would be so different. It would be a home.

She thought of her own kitchen: small and cramped, but decorated with her children’s artwork and certificates from school, and full of good smells from the stews she cooked on cold days or the apple cakes the children liked to help her bake. Tomasz would sit at the small wooden table, dark head bent over his homework, while Kasia would perch on the worktop swinging her legs and chattering about her day.

Magda shut her eyes for a brief pleasurable moment, thinking of their smiling faces upturned like flowers, the warmth of their young bodies when they hugged her, their peaceful faces as they slept. This woman, Miss Johnson, she might have the fancy apartment that Magda’s small flat could fit into twenty times over, the money and the big important job, but these things were nothing when you had nobody to care for you when you were ill. Poor Miss Johnson. Magda would not swap lives with her in a heartbeat.
Wcale nie
. Not at all.

Chapter Six

It was Saturday afternoon and Leila’s party was in full swing. Earlier that day Clare had hung bunting around the kitchen, spread her nicest polka-dot oilcloth on the table, and set out mixing bowls and wooden spoons for Leila and her seven guests. The plan was to make bath-bombs and soap, and the girls were currently mixing sodium bicarbonate and citric acid together, white puffs of dust floating above their bowls as some of them stirred rather too vigorously. Clare went around spraying witch hazel into each bowl and got them to mix it in, then passed around a box full of scent bottles for the girls to smell.

‘I’ve got lots of different fragrances you can choose from,’ she said. ‘Chocolate, vanilla, raspberry, lavender, lemon, English rose, sea-spray . . . there should be something you like. Choose one each and I’ll add a few drops to your mixture. Be very careful with the bottles, though, as some scents are expensive.’

‘We’re watching you like hawks,’ Debbie joked, putting her hands on her hips and peering around beadily at them. ‘One spill, and you’re out.’

The girls began oohing and ahhing over the scents, wafting them under each other’s noses. Clare had been experimenting with bathtime goodies for a while, and really enjoyed making bath-bombs, bubble baths and soap. She’d got the idea last Christmas when she’d been stony broke and unable to afford proper presents for anyone but the children. She’d seen an article in one of the magazines at the surgery about easy crafts you could try at home, and had found the bath-bomb recipe there. They were so simple to make (and dirt cheap too) that she’d made her first batch that evening, adding lavender and dried rose petals to the mix, and wrapping them in colourful tissue paper tied with large bright ribbons.

She’d intended it to be a one-off, but then a few people had come back to her asking where she’d bought them, as they were so nice. When Clare had explained that she’d made them herself, they had promptly put in orders for more. Since then she had begun experimenting with bubble-bath mixture too, bars of soap and shea body-butter. She’d mainly given her products to friends and her mum to try out for free – she wasn’t a hard-nosed business woman like her sister, after all – but already Debbie, Tracey and some of the other girls had come back and ordered more: paid for, this time. It was never going to make her a fortune but she found it relaxing, making her potions and bath treats in the evening and filling the house with yummy fragrances.

‘Okay, so we’re aiming for a wet-sand feel, guys,’ she said now, coming around to check how their mixing was progressing. She added in fragrances for each girl, then opened jars of dried petals that they could sprinkle into the mix. ‘Try squeezing a bit in your palm to see if it sticks together – when it does, you’re ready to put it into the mould.’

‘This is cool,’ said Anna, Leila’s closest friend, sniffing her mixture. ‘Mine smells so chocolatey, it’s making me hungry. Yum!’

Clare beamed, thankful that Leila’s friends all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Some of the girls in her class had really over-the-top parties – hiring out Amberley Pool, for example, or taking everyone pony-trekking – and she’d worried that a home-based party might be too low-key. Hopefully this one would meet with peer approval. But then Carly Prince went and opened her big mouth.

‘I’m not sure my mum will like this,’ she said, peering disdainfully into her bowl. ‘She only gets, like, really expensive stuff. The
proper
stuff?’

Meow. Clare exchanged a glance with Debbie. Carly Prince was the snobbiest girl in the class, and spiteful with it. If she wasn’t showing off wildly, she was crushing somebody else. Why Leila wanted to be friends with her was beyond Clare, but the girl seemed to exude a powerful, irresistible magnetism that held her classmates in thrall.

Ignoring her, Clare passed around paper pill-cups so that the girls could press handfuls of their mixture into them. ‘I thought bath-bombs were meant to be
round
?’ Carly said, turning up her nose. ‘Like,
bomb
-shaped?’

‘Ahh, these are special ones,’ Debbie put in quickly before Clare had to explain that the spherical moulds were quite fiddly to use.

‘Yeah, these are going to look really cute,’ said Anna – lovely loyal Anna – in the next breath, smoothing over Carly’s abrasiveness.

Carly pinched her mouth together, annoyance flashing in her eyes. She dumped her mixture carelessly into the pill-cups, then glanced around the room for a new target. Her eyes fell on Leila, and Clare felt a shudder go through her.

‘I can’t wait until it’s
my
birthday next month,’ Carly sighed, tossing back her long, honey-coloured hair. ‘Daddy said he’s going to get me a new pony. I’m so excited.’

A chorus of envious ‘Oooh’s went around the table. Carly was the only child in the local school with that kind of wealth; nobody else could compete. Only a year and a half left of primary school, Clare kept telling herself through gritted teeth, and then no doubt Carly’s parents would ship her off to a posh private school somewhere, leaving all the normal kids to go on to secondary school together. It couldn’t come soon enough.

‘So, what did
you
get for your birthday, Leila?’ Carly went on, as Clare had known she would.

‘I got this really cool bike,’ Leila replied, half-turning to grin at Clare. ‘Mum personalized it for me and put a furry saddle on; it’s fab.’

Clare’s heart seemed to swell at the pride in her daughter’s voice. So there, Carly Prince, she thought. Money might buy you a pony, but it can’t buy you a cool customized bike with a furry saddle stitched by your own loving mum.

‘Awesome, where is it? Can we see it?’ asked India, a tall vivacious girl with long red hair and a frenzy of freckles.

‘It’s outside. Can I get it, Mum?’ Leila asked, wiping her dusty hands on her jeans.

Clare smiled. ‘Of course you can, love,’ she replied, and Leila darted out of the back door, blonde ponytail swinging. ‘Now, who needs me to help them? I think we’re nearly there.’

Clare was just squidging the last crumbs of Martha Stringer’s rose-tastic bath-bomb into its paper cup when Leila reappeared, wheeling in her bike. It was a bit of a sight, Clare had to admit, with the tinsel Leila had insisted on leaving wrapped around the handlebars, and stickers now adorning it, but Leila was beaming gappily, so she didn’t care what the others thought.