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‘Well, clearly you do.’ Mags’s voice takes on a snippy tone. ‘Not being funny, Emily, but you didn’t exactly have people beating down the door to take care of you when Harry treated you the way he did. It’s not like you had anywhere else to go, and your mum didn’t really rise to the occasion, did she? Too busy sunning herself.’
I squash down a sigh. It’s not the first time that Mags has thrown back in my face how she was the only one who helped me when I was literally on my knees, and once again, I wish I hadn’t revealed to Mags how I felt about my mum, after two bottles of wine in front of the telly one Friday night. ‘I know, Mags, and I do appreciate it, you know I do.’
And I do appreciate it, I’m not lying. I still remember the fear that gripped me every time the buzzer rang, or the neighbours banged on the wall, when I first arrived – how the blood would speed around my veins, making my breath come short in my throat, believing that Harry had found me. And I remember the way Mags didn’t mind me leaving the chain on twenty-four/seven, even when it meant that she missed her dealer dropping off her gear one Saturday evening. The way Mags would sit with me for hours, watching old movies with one arm looped over my shoulders, so I didn’t have to be alone, even though she probably had a thousand and one better things to be doing. But I don’t want to live like this anymore. I’m ready to get back to the old Emily.
‘Did I get any messages?’ I ask. I handed my CV to a recruitment company in Swindon town centre last week, and they’d said they’d call but they haven’t.
‘Nope.’
‘I might call them. I just think it’s time I got back out there, you know. Properly out there, working, not just taking Tiny out for a walk twice a day. I can’t hibernate in here forever.’ I move towards the clothes airer in the corner of the kitchen, even though there is barely any laundry on it and start to fold the few things that hang there.
‘You don’t have to, Em, you know that.’ Mags follows me, standing close behind me as I fold and smooth the fabric. I can feel her breath on the back of my neck, a grass-scented huff raising the wispy hairs that don’t reach my ponytail. ‘I like you being here, and it honestly doesn’t matter about the rent; you know my dad pays it anyway.’
I realized this not long after I moved into the flat. I had answered Mags’s Gumtree advert, taking the flat without even looking at it in my desperation to get away from Harry before he carried through the threats he hurled at me daily, and when after the third month of living there I had run out of money and couldn’t pay the rent, Mags had waved me away and said not to worry.
‘I think I need to look for a job though.’ I worked in IT before everything went so horribly wrong with Harry, but now I think I’d take any job, just to get back on my feet. ‘I don’t want to sponge off you forever, I have to be able to take care of myself,’ I say again gently, as Mags takes my hand and leads me through to the sitting room. She pulls me down next to her on the grubby couch, an overflowing ashtray on the ring-stained coffee table in front of three dirty mugs – one with a layer of mould sitting on the surface – and once again I have to resist the urge to sigh.
‘Listen. You don’t, Em, not if you don’t want to.’ Mags looks at me earnestly as she puts a fresh joint to her mouth, inhaling sharply as she lights it. ‘We can manage here, just the two of us. I like it being just the two of us.’
‘I do, too, I promise,’ I say, wanting to cross my fingers. ‘You’ve been so brilliant, Mags.’ I slide my phone out of my pocket. ‘Help me look for something suitable? You’ve always got such a good vibe about things; you’ll know if something feels wrong.’
Ego massaged; Mags nods her head slowly. ‘Yeah. You’re right. I got a good vibe about you, didn’t I?’ She nudges me and laughs. ‘And this place. I suppose… if you get a job, then we can maybe do something in here? Decorate, maybe. Get some fancy cushions or something.’
I paste a smile onto my face, but my heart sinks a little. I want to get a job so I can move on – much as I am grateful to Mags (and I am, God only knows what would have happened to me if Mags hadn’t let me move in), this place is stifling, and Mags, although she means well, is more than a little suffocating. ‘So, let’s see…’ I pull up Safari on my phone and type in the name of a local job search site. ‘Bar staff?’
‘Ugh, no,’ Mags shakes her head, ‘coming home stinking of booze every night?’ Despite smoking an immense amount of weed, Mags is completely teetotal. ‘And what about dealing with pissed-up losers every night? You had enough of that with Harry, didn’t you?’
She has a point. I swiftly move on, not wanting Mags to start talking about Harry again. It makes my stomach swoop when I think of him, and not in a good way.
‘What about this one? The money is a bit crap, but you probably get a discount on the clothes.’ Mags points to an advert for a shop assistant in a well-known clothes shop. I read through it, trying not to frown. I like the shop, wear their clothes even, but I’m not sure that that’s the kind of job I want. Plus, it’s right in the centre of Swindon.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, as Mags’s mouth curls at the corners into a tiny smile. ‘It’s right on the High Street… I’d feel a bit safer in an office somewhere, or at least somewhere where there isn’t so much traffic. What if Harry came in? What if he saw me?’ I blink, and Mags grabs my hand, her fingers crushing mine even though there aren’t any tears.
‘I told you, you don’t have to do this. I can… take care of you,’ Mags looks down at our joined hands, ‘you could be Tiny’s dog walker, I could pay you for that if you wanted.’
I shake my head, gently disentangling my fingers from hers. That would be my worst nightmare – people already cross the road when they see the two of us out walking, thanks to Tiny being an actual maniac. I turn back to my phone, scrolling on, my finger swiping gently at the screen when I see it.
‘Oh. What about this one?’ I turn the screen so Mags can see it. ‘Housekeeper wanted for large property in Somerville. Duties to include general housework, ironing, some garden maintenance, light cooking, plus some additional admin duties. Immediate start and competitive salary. Please send CV to…’ I feel my cheeks warm as a flush spreads across my skin from my neckline. This is just the kind of thing I was thinking of. ‘Mags, look, this could be perfect!’
‘Is it a live-in position?’
‘No, I don’t think so, but don’t you think something like that would be perfect?’ A flicker of excitement lights a spark in me, and I get to my feet, already thinking what I might wear if I get invited for interview. ‘Can I borrow your laptop?’
‘Are you sure you want to apply?’ Mags tucks her dirty bare feet up onto the couch, making no move to go to her room for her computer. ‘I mean… I’m not really feeling the vibe… and Somerville is far.’
‘Well, I am.’ I have to temper my tone as I resist the urge to snap the words at Mags. I’m not sure I buy into all this ‘vibe’ thing that Mags has going on, and now I’m so impatient to get my CV over for the job that I don’t have time to pretend I do. And Somerville isn’t that far. Half an hour maybe, if I jump on the train with my pushbike. ‘Come on, Mags, this is perfect. And it says the money is “competitive”, just think what we could do in here.’ Mags could probably get her dad to pay for redecorating, but I don’t want to remind her of that, not now. ‘We could get one of those massive, squashy sofas, and get rid of this old thing.’ I toe the stuffing that leaks out from the bottom of the couch, like some sort of grim, grey lava.
‘Hmmm.’ Mags gets slowly to her feet, and disappears into her room, emerging five minutes later with the battered Mac.
‘Thank you, you’re amazing.’ I grab the machine, giving Mags a huge smile that makes her cheeks flush pink. ‘Right, here goes.’
‘Are you really sure?’ Mags blurts out, one hand raised as if to take the laptop back from me. ‘I mean, think about it, Em, it’s really just a glorified wife. That’s all this guy wants. You’ll be doing all the cooking and cleaning, with none of the benefits.’
‘I’m pretty sure I’ll be OK without having sex with him,’ I say, raising an eyebrow as I turn away and place the laptop out of reach. ‘And anyway, he might already have a wife, the advert doesn’t say.’
‘I’m just saying, that’s all…’ Mags gestures to the flat around us, to the clutter that sits in piles in the corners, ‘it’s not like housework is your favourite thing to do, let’s be honest. Like I said, you’ll just be a wife – but doing all the shit bits but without getting any of the good stuff. And Somerville is far, you’d spend an hour every day commuting there and back. You’ll be exhausted.’
I open up my Hotmail account, noticing a message from the recruitment company. A quick read tells me they have called and left a message, and they are awaiting my response to a temp job they have. I look over at Mags, who is watching me closely, and there is a stutter in my chest. Maybe she missed their call. I open up a new email and attach my CV, blocking out Mags as I hit send on the email. ‘There, I’ve done it. We’ll just have to wait and see now – if it’s meant to be, then it’s meant to be.’
It takes me a long while to fall asleep that night, my mind returning over and over to the job advert, as I try to picture the house, whoever placed the advert and what this could mean for me. I think if I get an interview, I’ll print the advert and add it to my scrapbook to document the next stage of my journey. I tuck my hand between the mattress and bed frame, my fingers searching out the comforting feel of the book’s spine, and I imagine myself smoothing the advert into place, before dressing to impress at interview. Smiling, I roll over in an attempt to get comfortable. I can hear Mags’s music through the wall – something slow and turgid that really should help me fall asleep – and I finally doze off around two o’clock in the morning.
I’ve barely begun to dream when something jolts me from sleep, an unknown noise breaking into my conscience. Keeping my eyes closed, I count to ten under my breath before I open them, my heart thudding painfully in my chest as I try to get my bearings and I listen hard to figure out what it is that has woken me. Breathing. That’s what has dragged me from sleep. The sound of another person breathing in my room.
‘Fuck.’ Whispering the word, I push myself up on shaky arms, frantically casting my mind over what is on the bedside table that I could use as a weapon, stifling a shriek as I see the figure standing at the end of my bed, illuminated by the thin shaft of moonlight that streaks through the gap in the curtains. For one moment I think my heart has stopped dead in my chest before the figure takes a step towards me and I realize that it is my flatmate. It’s only Mags.
‘Shit, you scared me. Shhh, Mags, come on, back to bed.’ I push back the duvet cover and gently take Mags by the arm, shivering slightly as the night air meets the sweat on my body. Mags mumbles something, something about not letting go, and I shush her again before guiding her back to her room on legs that feel like jelly, making sure the door is firmly closed when I leave. I pad silently back to bed, taking deep breaths to get my heart rate back to normal. It’s been a while since Mags has sleepwalked, and she’s never actually walked into my room before. I let out a shaky laugh of relief at it being Mags, and not someone more sinister – feeling foolish now I know I’m not under any threat. I won’t miss this part of living with Mags when I leave. If I manage to leave.
The job floats into my mind again as I climb into bed and I hug myself tightly, sending up a prayer to whoever is up there that I get called for an interview. I turn the pillow over to the cool side, Mags’s voice sniping in my ear, ‘you’ll just be a glorified wife’, and as I drop off the edge into sleep, my last thought is that perhaps that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
Chapter Three
I try not to gawp as I hop off my pushbike and wheel it up the path to the house, making out as though houses this huge, this imposing, are part of my world. There is a sweeping gravel drive, leading to the front of a huge, double-fronted house, with a double – maybe even triple – garage nestled to the side. I try to keep my eyes on the front door ahead of me, two stone lions flanking the porch, and take a deep breath.
Although the house is imposing, and clearly my potential employer is doing OK for himself, there are tiny signs of neglect. Weeds sprout up in the tubs that house straggly-looking topiary bushes on either side of the windows, there is a recycling box in front of the garage that looks as if it is about to overflow with empty bottles, and the window sills look as though they could do with a scrub. Despite what Mags says, I am actually very house-proud, having been brought up with a mother who couldn’t abide dirt. I’ve just given up in the flat, because Mags doesn’t have the same outlook. I could take a picture, I think, once it’s all clean and tidy. I’ll stick it next to the job advert in my book. I finger the outline of my phone in my pocket, resisting the urge to take a ‘before’ picture.
Smoothing my hair down, I make sure the waistband of my skirt hasn’t twisted round – after what happened with Harry, I lost nearly a stone that I haven’t put back on yet – before taking a deep breath and lifting the brass knocker, letting it fall with a loud bang. There is a long pause, where I think for a moment that perhaps there is no one home; that the guy, Rupert, has forgotten I’m coming, before the door is wrenched open.
‘Yes?’ The man in front of me is tall, over six feet, with floppy dark hair in a style that reminds me of old Hugh Grant movies. Even though it is Saturday morning, he is wearing jeans with a smart shirt, as if he is about to go to work. That is, if he’d actually tucked it in and he had shoes on his feet. My stomach gives a tiny flip.
‘Hi,’ I smile, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Emily Belrose. I’m here for an interview?’
‘Oh. Of course.’ He runs his hand through his hair before standing to one side and ushering me in. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m running a bit behind this morning. You can see why I need a housekeeper.’ His mouth tugs up into a small smile and I let out a laugh.
‘It happens to the best of us.’ I follow him along a light, airy hallway into the kitchen, and have to resist the urge to let my mouth hang open. It is huge. It’s also untidy, with mugs and dishes in the sink, a dying houseplant on top of the fridge and an overflowing bin.
‘Sorry about the mess.’ Rupert looks a bit sheepish, and I smother another smile.
‘Well, isn’t that what I’m here for?’ I discreetly run my eyes over the kitchen, over the thin layer of dust that sits on the counter top, the pile of post that has been shoved to one side.
‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ Rupert is already rummaging in the cupboard above the kettle for mugs. ‘Milk? Sugar?’ I say yes to both, and wait as he fills the kettle, water splashing over his shirt as he turns the tap on too high.
‘Can I get the milk?’ I ask, as he swipes ineffectually at the damp patches with a tea towel, but when I open the fridge, the shelf is bare. ‘Black is fine,’ I say with a smile, my nerves dissipating as I see that Rupert is possibly just as nervous as I am. ‘Here, shall I finish this off while you get dry?’ I reach for the now boiling kettle as Rupert scrubs at the fabric of his shirt.
‘So, Emily, I suppose I should actually interview you, not just let you make me tea.’ Rupert smiles as I pass him a mug. ‘Why did you apply for this job? You’re not really what I was expecting.’
‘Really?’ I turn to him. ‘What were you expecting?’
‘Well, someone more… Mrs Danvers, I suppose. Or Mrs Doubtfire.’
My heart skips in my chest. Not only is Rupert easy on the eye, but he reads too. I choose to ignore the reference to Mrs Doubtfire. ‘I’m definitely not Mrs Danvers. I suppose I’m just looking for something different. I’ve had a bit of… bad luck, I guess you could say, so I’m trying to turn things around.’ I wrap my cold fingers around the warm mug, staring at the dark tannin patches left on the china by the black tea, buying myself a few seconds. ‘This seemed like the perfect job for me, right now.’
‘You’re certainly making a good impression,’ Rupert says, with a quirk of his eyebrows. ‘Can I show you the rest of the house?’
‘Yes, please.’ I dry my hands and he leads me through double doors from the kitchen towards a large orangery, where sunshine streams in through big windows, onto the stylish Italian-tiled floor. I pause in the doorway. Two huge sofas fill the space, and bi-fold glass doors open out onto what must have been an immaculate garden at some point, although now the lawn needs mowing, and the shrubs are looking a little wild. Despite the cosy, comfortable vibe this space gives off, there is something slightly dead about it – a thin layer of dust sits atop the small glass table next to one of the sofas, and the air is thick and stale, as though the doors haven’t been opened for a long time.
‘Wow. This space is incredible.’ I venture closer to the window to peer out into the garden. What I’d do for a garden this size – you don’t get a lot of outside space with a flat over a takeaway in the centre of Swindon.
‘I, er… I don’t really use this room much,’ Rupert says stiffly, appearing beside me and taking my arm to walk me through the rest of the house. ‘Let me show you upstairs.’
We go upstairs via the living room, another huge space, occupied by a large open fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line one wall, and a piano is strategically placed, giving that whole part of the room a calm, quiet feel, like a library. ‘Do you play?’ I ask Rupert, but he shakes his head.
‘No, not me.’ He doesn’t elaborate and I wonder who does play – his wife, maybe? He hasn’t mentioned anyone else living here yet, and I have to squash down the question on the tip of my tongue. I follow him up to the first floor, where he quickly shows me the bathroom (huge, freestanding claw-footed tub, dusty Jo Malone bottles of bath oil on the window sill), first one small spare room, the master bedroom and en suite and then into another, larger spare room, where his phone starts ringing. Rupert sighs as he glances at the screen.
‘I’m so sorry, I need to take this… Will you excuse me for just a second?’
There is no time to answer before he steps out of the room, pulling the door gently closed behind him. I wait a moment, his voice a low mumble along the corridor, feeling the slight sink of the lush, thick-piled carpet under my feet. There are a couple of prints on the walls, arty-looking pictures that give me the feeling I should probably know who they are by, but I don’t. A heavy French oak wardrobe sits in the corner, a slip of peacock blue fabric peeping out from between a small gap in the doors. I step forward, the rumble of Rupert’s voice in the background, letting my fingers brush over the silky fabric, and before I know what I am doing, the wardrobe door is open, just enough for me to see it is filled with clothes – a woman’s clothes, dresses, jackets, trousers, all hanging neatly on wooden hangers – the expensive ones that I can never afford. Some are covered in plastic, as if just back from the dry cleaners, others – expensive-looking gowns, something sparkly with sequins – hang uncovered, so many of them that the hangers are rammed tightly together. The slip of fabric belongs to the sleeve of a silk jacket in a vibrant blue, and I stroke it gently, the feel of it like cold water under my fingers, wondering who the clothes belong to and more importantly why are they in here, instead of the master bedroom. Before I get a chance to let my imagination run riot, Rupert’s voice gets louder as he approaches the bedroom, saying his goodbyes to whoever was on the other end of the phone. The buzz of curiosity dies away, and I close the wardrobe door, moving to the middle of the room, as if I have done nothing but wait patiently for him to return.
‘Sorry about that.’ He stands by the door, waiting for me to slip past him. ‘I think that’s just about it for the grand tour.’
‘Very impressive,’ I say, before wincing on the inside, hoping I haven’t come across as a bit crass. ‘It’s a lovely house, Rupert. A lovely home.’
A look I can’t quite read crosses his face. ‘Yes, well. You can see that it needs a bit of sprucing up here and there. That’s why I’m on the lookout for a housekeeper. It’s a big house for me to take care of, especially with the hours that I work.’
I take that as an opportunity to learn a bit more about him. ‘What is it that you do?’
‘I’m the Contracts Director for a construction company. It’s quite intense – the hours are long, especially if I have to go out and visit sites, and it’s quite stressful. I’m mostly based at the Swindon office, but I commute into Paddington several times a month. That’s why I need a bit of help here.’
I follow him down the stairs, back into the vast sitting room. ‘Is it…’ I pause for a moment, not wanting to appear rude. ‘Is it just you living here? I mean… will I just be looking after you, or is there anyone else who might need me to do things?’
‘No, er… it’s just me.’ Rupert swallows, and rocks back on his heels a little. ‘I lost my wife just over a year ago.’ The words creak out, as though they are too big for his throat and he gives a tiny cough. ‘Hence the reason why things have gone to pot a bit.’
That explains why there aren’t any perfumes or fancy shampoo in the en suite. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, looking down. I hope I haven’t offended him – the more I’ve seen of this place, the more convinced I am that this could be just what I’m looking for. The perfect escape route from Mags’s weed-ridden flat, and back to standing on my own two feet again.
‘Look, Emily, I’m not going to beat about the bush.’ Rupert’s cheeks colour slightly, and my heart does another little flip. ‘If you want the job, I’d love for you to come and work for me, if the state of the place hasn’t put you off. We can even just do a trial period for a month or so, if that would work better for you?’
‘Oh, no,’ I exclaim, before putting my hand over my mouth, ‘I mean, yes, please. But don’t worry about a trial period… unless you want one, I mean. I’m quite happy to come and work for you.’ I stop talking before I make a complete idiot of myself. ‘Thank you.’
‘Brilliant.’ The stress melts away from Rupert’s face, his shoulders lowering, and I realize that he really was more nervous than me about the whole job interview scenario. ‘When could you start?’
I have to resist the urge to squeal as I hop on my pushbike and ride down the driveway, before turning onto the main road. I got the job! And yes, it does seem a little daunting, putting that huge house back to its rightful state, but I am in no doubt that I can do it. Plus, I’m pretty sure I didn’t imagine that fiery spark that shot through my skin when Rupert shook my hand to say goodbye – and I’m ninety-nine per cent sure he felt it too. Now, all I need to do is tell Mags. My raised spirits dampen slightly at the thought of breaking the news to her. I know she’s going to make some snippy comments about being a glorified wife, that the village is too far for me to go there and back every day, and she’ll try to make me feel guilty about leaving her in the flat on her own all day, but we can’t all live off our father’s money. I don’t even know where my dad is, and I doubt my mum does either. I let myself turn back at the end of the road, to glance towards the house, a shiver of excitement running through me. Yes, this is definitely the start of something big.
Chapter Four
Humming under my breath I breathe in the scent of laundry detergent and softener as I fold Rupert’s pyjamas and tuck them carefully under his pillow, pushing away the thought of him lying in bed wearing them, his hair tousled and rumpled from sleep. Not that I’ve seen him like that, of course. Pressing my lips together, I neatly fold his socks into a ball, praising myself for thinking about him wearing the pyjamas, instead of lying in bed not wearing the pyjamas. I feel my cheeks flush and I shake my head, picturing instead the dishes that wait to be stacked in the dishwasher downstairs.