Don't Get Me Wrong (31 page)

Never in her wildest imaginings could she have seen herself opening the door to Jake.

“Oh,” she said, staring.

He looked exactly the same—fair hair sticking out like thatch on a roof, an intense gaze, and an expression of studious superiority. But the jeans had gone. He was wearing a baggy dark suit with a faint stripe, a white shirt, and a navy blue tie.
Tatty but conservative. You could almost imagine him on the floor of the House of Commons. Maybe he is, she thought. A lot can happen in eighteen months.

“I was just passing,” he said.

Liar. No one ever just passes Sydenham. What do you want?

Upstairs in the flat, Kim fought the urge to rush round and pick up newspapers, bits of Legos, and dirty coffee cups. “Would you like something to drink?” Not that I have anything, she thought. “A cup of tea?”

“Chamomile?”

Kim shook her head.

“Shame. So health-giving.” Jake smiled. It took Kim a moment to realize that something had changed. His front teeth—which had once stuck out slightly, as if thrown forward by the volume of words—were now straight. Braces? Crowns? “So tell me everything. Life must be so different as a single parent. And my spies tell me you disappeared up north for a year. Where are you working now?”

Kim would have liked to have steered the conversation to somewhere less personal. But this was Jake. Somehow not answering his questions was impossible. “I work in a hardware store.”

Jake looked shocked, like a Victorian lady who's just found mouse droppings in her seed cake.

“It's local. And they're very understanding if I need time off,” said Kim defensively.

“And do you?”

“What?”

“Need time off?”

“Only if I can't afford child care over half term.”

“So they don't pay well.”

“Not particularly.” Desperate to switch topics before he annihilated her completely, she said, “What about you?”

“Me? Oh, you know.” Jake wandered over to the bay window and stood with his back to her, his hands in his trouser pockets. “Bit of a career change. Working in health these days. Still championing the physical and emotional well-being of the British public. But in a slightly different way.”

“What kind of way?”

“A sort of government adviser,” said Jake, turning round. Oh, thought Kim, I recognize that smirk. He's intensely proud of this. “Providing a framework for the reassessment of hospital care. As it moves, if you like, from local generalism to regional specialism. Investing for the long term.”

Kim frowned. “Closing hospitals?”

“That's a little simplistic. There will of course be some closures during the program of rationalization. But the ultimate aim is to commit to excellent service for all UK customers going forward.”

I might have tried to argue years ago, thought Kim. But I don't think I've got the energy anymore. Maybe that's the secret to becoming less hotheaded. Work long hours and look after a child.

“Are you still living in Stockwell?”

Jake looked surprised. “Oh no. Moved some time ago. Wandsworth. Between the commons.”

“How lovely.”

“Quite a lot of work remodeling the house. Not in a bad state when I bought it, of course. But a bit tired.”

I know the feeling.

Jake looked at her directly. Those pale blue eyes, thought Kim. I'd forgotten how they pin you to the spot. “I don't want to rush this conversation. It would be delightful if we could talk all night. But I recognize that you are fully committed time-wise on a number of different fronts. So let me come to the point. I came here to find out whether you might consider a career shift.”

“A what?”

Jake sighed. “Do you want a job, Kim?”

She stared.

“I have never met someone quite so good at firing people. My plans involve massive redundancies. When I was asked to cost them more fully, I thought of you.”

“I've already got a job.”

“Oh, come on, Kim. Not this kind of job. Six-figure salary, two-year contract, five weeks' holiday, private medical insurance?”

The numbers pinged about in her brain like balls in a squash court. “So this isn't working for the NHS?”

“The NHS, Kim,” said Jake, “but not as we know it.”

•  •  •

For the next few days, Kim wandered round in a dream. She'd pick up a T-shirt shrunk in the wash, the seams so stretched you could see the ladders of stitches, and think, If I took that job I could throw this away. She'd open a kitchen cupboard, stare at the packets of chickpeas and lentils, and think, If I took that job I could fill a whole supermarket trolley with impulse buys—smoked salmon, asparagus, aubergines, mangoes—and
not even think about the cost. She imagined hailing a black cab, splashing out on a bunch of flowers, ordering an iPhone, buying a car.

The last of her father's money had disappeared a few weeks ago, swallowed up by the gas bill. She had cleared her overdraft. But she was back to the daily struggle of trying to make ends meet.

I resent the time it takes, she thought. Every waking moment is a calculation. Should I walk or take the bus? Buy shampoo or a bunch of bananas? Can I afford a new pair of shoes for Otis? Tea bags? A newspaper?

Otis is the one who would benefit most. If I took the job, I could start saving for his future. For university fees. So he won't be strangled by debt all his life. I'd be a proper role model. Someone with a career. Someone going out every day and making a difference.

Then she'd remember Jake's penetrating stare and shiver. Why am I even considering working for him again after the way he's treated me?

She was tired of thinking about it. At least, she thought, scouring burnt egg from the bottom of a saucepan, he's the devil I know. I won't be shocked if he tricks me, outwits me, lands me in it, fires me. He's indestructible. One of life's survivors. There's no self-serving, double-crossing maneuver he can come up with that would surprise me at all.

And I don't imagine, she thought, as she stared at the chipped tiles behind the kitchen sink, her hands motionless in the soapy, scummy water, that he has designs on my body anymore.

I am thirty years old. I'm broke. I live in a rented flat with a
badly paid job. I'm responsible for the well-being of my sister's child. What choice do I have?

•  •  •

They could hear the crowd from the dressing room. Restless. Talking. Laughing.

“They've sold out,” said Izzie. “Not a seat in the house.”

“That's what happens when you go viral.” Hannah was sprawled on one of the swivel chairs. She was wearing black army boots, fishnet tights, a pink glittery leotard, and a white tutu. They are so well suited, thought Kim. Every day is a costume drama.

“I haven't forgiven you.” Izzie's reflection was framed by old-fashioned lightbulbs all round the edge of the mirror. “I was only mucking about. You weren't supposed to be filming it.”

Hannah raised her eyebrows.

“I'm serious. What if Mam sees it?” Izzie dabbed at her cheeks with blusher, her face tragic. “She's got very peculiar since Otis left. Into social media. Using Flickr and Facebook and putting chintz on Pinterest.”

“I read somewhere,” said Hannah, “that twenty-five percent of the over-fifty-fives are on tablets.”

“High blood pressure?”

“Ha ha. Have you ever thought of going into comedy?”

They heard a knock. Hannah stood up and opened the door. A draft of air wafted the smell of old dust into the room. “Two minutes,” said a disembodied voice in the corridor.

Kim wasn't the one performing. But her heart skipped a beat all the same. This was a big venue. The biggest so far.

“Right.” Izzie stepped back from the mirror. “How do I look?”

She was wearing royal-blue bloomers, a red velvet top, and a huge white lace collar. Her hair fell in tangled curls round her shoulders. She looked like an early-twentieth-century lady cyclist who's just discovered the joys of trousers. Or perhaps a seventeenth-century Cavalier.

“Beautiful,” said Hannah.

Izzie and Hannah looked at each other. There was a moment of stillness as if time had stopped. Then Izzie said, “You know what's so strange? I've spent my whole life worrying about the way I look. And I didn't realize the answer until now. If you want an opinion about your looks, or your character, or your career, or the way you live your life, you should always ask someone completely biased in your favor. It's the only truth worth having.”

“Well you know what they say,” said Hannah. “Love is blind.”

They knew when Izzie had reached the stage. The crowd roared, like a lion.

•  •  •

The final argument with Harry was bad. It came from nowhere, a sudden storm.

Harry had brought Otis back as usual in time for tea on Saturday. Kim, who hadn't been into work that day, opened the front door looking self-conscious. Harry did a double take.

“I know, I know,” said Kim. “It's a bit drastic.”

Otis looked at her, his eyes anxious.

“It'll grow,” said Kim. “In a couple of months' time, it'll be back the way it was.”

“It suits you,” said Harry. But there was something in his expression she didn't understand.

Otis was still staring. Kim put up her hand to the nape of her neck. She still felt a bit exposed.

“And a new shirt,” said Harry. “Special occasion?”

“I was just fed up of wearing black.”

But she looked down to avoid his eyes.

Upstairs in the flat, Otis showed her the program from the Cambridge Theatre and talked about how they'd gone to Chinatown to eat dim sum. Then he pottered off to watch TV, and Kim put the kettle on. I don't want Harry to stay too long, she thought. But I can't be unfriendly. There's time for a cup of tea.

Harry said, “He keeps talking about playing guitar.”

“Yes.”

Neither of them mentioned Eva.

Harry hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I just wondered if you'd thought about getting someone to teach him. I'd be happy to pay.”

Her head shot up.

“I hoped you'd think it was a reasonable suggestion.”

The fact that Harry was being so calm and logical made Kim want to behave completely irrationally. “I'm already asking around. At school. For a teacher.”

“Oh, right.”

“And it's no problem. I can pay.”

“Can you?”

His surprise irritated her. “I've got a new job.”

“Congratulations.” Harry looked genuinely pleased. “What is it?”

“It's in health.”

Harry waited for more. The trouble was that Kim was still quite hazy about what she'd actually be doing. So after a while she said vaguely, “Administration.”

“Locally?”

“No,” said Kim, squirming. “Central London.”

Eventually Harry said, “Sounds like a new departure.”

“It's Jake,” said Kim, angry that he was pushing her. “He wants me to work for him again.”

Harry nodded. “Are you sure?”

“Sure about what?”

“Sure about working for Jake.”

“Why shouldn't I?”

“Because he wrote you a letter telling you how shit you were when he dumped you.”

She shot him a furious look. “That's all in the past.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

The kettle had boiled. Kim found mugs and tea bags, banging around with unnecessary noise.

“You don't have to take the job.”

Kim took a deep breath. “I want to. It's a good job. It means that Otis and I can finally afford to eat properly.”

“You could have eaten properly a long time ago if you'd let me help.”

“I didn't want your help.”

“I know. You told me. Often.”

The atmosphere was ugly, as if the particles in the air were plumping with rage, ready to burst.

Kim tried to keep her voice calm. “I think we should get this straight. I'm happy for you to see Otis. I've made that clear. But you have absolutely no right to make any comment about anything I choose to do or not do. Either now or in the future.” She turned her back to get milk from the fridge. Her hands were shaking. Her heart was beating fast. I knew it couldn't last. I knew the old opinionated Harry was lurking about, just waiting for an opportunity to spring back into action. He's like malaria. Lies dormant for months and then reemerges stronger than ever.

When she next stole a glance in his direction, she caught her breath. He looked angry. She'd never seen Harry look angry before. It shocked her. She carried on making the tea, avoiding looking at him at all, and put both mugs onto the table with immense care.

Harry said, “You're right.”

She looked up.

He said, “Really. You're right. I'm sorry.”

She swallowed hard. He had that blank look in his eyes again, as if someone had pulled down a blackout blind.

“Very sorry. And I hope you'll forget it happened.” Then he said, in a completely different voice, “So does that explain the haircut? And the clothes? Getting ready for a new job?”

She nodded. Her legs felt unsteady, as if she'd been running for miles.

Otis came into the kitchen. “Can I have a drink?”

Kim glanced up at the clock.

“I'd better go in a minute,” said Harry, picking up his mug of tea.

The doorbell rang.

“Oh, that'll be Layla,” said Kim.

“Girls' night in?”

“Babysitter.”

Harry looked up, a question in his eyes.

Kim, flustered, said, “I haven't been out for ages.”

“You could have asked me to stay on,” said Harry. “I wouldn't have minded.”

“You've already done so much.”

“Can I let her in?” said Otis.

“Leave both doors open,” said Kim, “so I can see you.”