Summer With My Sister (12 page)

Two hours later she was slumped in front of the television with the
Bargain Hunt
music playing. God, looking for a job was soul-destroying. There was simply nothing out there. Nothing! Her CV was with at least fifty people by now and she hadn’t had even the slightest spark of encouragement in return. What was she meant to do, run along Bishopsgate naked, prostrating herself to Mammon? What would it take for someone to give her a break?

She was starting to sound desperate on the phone; she could hear it seeping through her voice. And every time she was fobbed off with those dreaded words, ‘There’s nothing at the moment, but we’ll keep your details on file.’ It was like some kind of dismal purgatory. It was starting to grind her down. One interview, one call back, that wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

She heard the key in the door and felt like screaming as Magda came in, glancing warily over at the sofa. ‘You are still ill, Miss Johnson?’ she asked. ‘Is bad, yes?’

Polly opened her mouth to say yes, but didn’t even have the energy to lie any more. ‘I lost my job,’ she said bluntly. The words sounded awful said out loud; it was the first time she’d heard them from her own mouth.

Magda bit her lip. ‘Is bad,’ she confirmed. ‘Sorry. My husband – the same.’

It was on the tip of Polly’s tongue to say that actually, Magda, it probably wasn’t the same. She doubted Magda’s husband had commanded a six-figure salary like her, or was responsible for the humongous mortgage she had. It wasn’t the same at all. The pained look on Magda’s face stopped her at the last second, though. ‘Sorry to hear that,’ she mumbled.

‘Yes,’ Magda said. ‘He is builder. No building work needed now. Is hard.’

‘Mmm,’ Polly said. ‘Very hard. Not many jobs out there.’

Magda nodded sagely, removing her denim jacket. ‘Something good come soon,’ she said. ‘I know it. Something good. Oh, Miss Johnson, you crying? Don’t cry, Miss Johnson. Don’t cry. Something good come soon.’

It was truly a new low, sobbing on the cleaner’s shoulder like that. A hideous, unspeakable low. Magda had actually put her arms around Polly and held her while she wept. Talk about embarrassing.

After Magda had left, hot shame burned through Polly like a forest fire. This was unacceptable, she told herself. This was not on. She, Polly Johnson, did not indulge in this sort of pathetic behaviour. She hated herself almost as much as she hated Magda for the pitying expression on her face. How could Polly have fallen apart like that? In front of a
cleaner
, of all people?

Smarting, she phoned the cleaning agency immediately and made a complaint that Magda hadn’t been respectful towards her. It was very unprofessional behaviour, she said, her voice trembling, and she simply couldn’t put up with it any more.

‘We’re so sorry,’ the lady on the other end of the line said. ‘We’ll send a different cleaner next week.’

Polly hesitated. Could she bear the thought of anyone else coming in, snooping about, seeing her in her hour of desperation? She couldn’t. She’d actually rather wallow in her own stinking chaos and mess than suffer another sympathetic look from someone on the minimum wage. ‘No, don’t bother, I’m closing the account,’ she said briskly. She’d hire someone else once she’d got a new position and was back with the high-fliers, she vowed.

If
she got a new position, that was.

Six weeks passed, with little change. As the days went by, one after another after another, with still no job offer, Polly began to feel as if she were sliding down a hole, deeper and deeper, further and further away from the surface. It was getting harder to fake the smile, harder to make the effort. Nobody was returning her calls. Nobody wanted her. News that she’d phoned Henry Curtis after a particularly alcoholic afternoon and called him an arsehole seemed to have spread through the industry like wildfire. She was becoming a joke. She couldn’t bear it.

Credit-card bills dropped through the letterbox like hand-grenades. Ouch. They were eye-wateringly,
how-much
? astronomical. She received a rude letter from the mortgage division at the bank, saying she’d defaulted on that month’s payment and needed to arrange payment within the next seven days, or else. Then her car was towed away after she’d parked on double yellows in central London, and when she went to pay for its release, her first two credit cards were declined. Thank goodness she had three others that still worked.

More bills arrived. She stopped opening the envelopes. If she couldn’t see how bad the debt was, she wouldn’t have to worry about what she owed. She stuffed them in a drawer and shut it. Out of sight, out of mind. She had given up looking at the stock market too. Two of the companies she’d invested heavily in had gone to the wall. The others were looking similarly precarious. If only she’d been given her bonus, none of this would have happened. But ‘if onlys’ counted for nothing.

Meanwhile she was still chasing up the recruitment agencies, trying to keep the fear from her voice as she felt the wolf coming ever nearer to her door. The bank phoned her several times and she had to pretend she was out. The mortgage people phoned and wrote again, telling her that she needed to contact them urgently about when she was going to make a payment. The flat began to collect dust and fluff in Magda’s absence. Surfaces became sticky. And Polly dreamed that she could feel the wolf’s hot breath on her face as it lay in wait, scenting fresh blood.

If she could just get a job, an interview, a short-term contract,
anything
, she might still be all right. She had to try harder. She had to set her sights lower. She looked in the Job Centre, exuding desperation from every pore, but they informed her she was overqualified for all their current vacancies. ‘Look, I don’t care, I’ll do anything – well, anything that pays over forty K, at least,’ she told the man behind the desk.

He gave her an ‘are-you-for-real?’ kind of look and pressed some leaflets about claiming benefits into her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to even look at them though. Surely things weren’t that hopeless?

No, she told herself. She would not go begging for handouts. Polly Johnson was made of tougher stuff. She redoubled her efforts. She wasn’t beaten yet.

At the beginning of June she met her accountant, who told her, in no uncertain terms, that unless she got some money, and fast, the flat would be repossessed. The thought of potato-headed bailiffs with worrying biceps and merciless eyes sent a terrified shiver down her spine. ‘You’re going to have to sell up,’ he said. ‘Put the flat on the market and make a quick sale. Unfortunately, with the market having bottomed out, I doubt the value of the property has risen much since you bought it, but you should make just enough to clear your debts and keep the bank off your back.’

She felt as if she’d been slapped. ‘So you’re saying, that even if I sell the flat, I’ll still basically have nothing until I get another job. Is that right?’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ he said. ‘Your investment portfolio is looking pretty sick right now; if you can avoid selling your shares, I would try to ride out the market. But you’ll have to act fast with the flat – like, now. Oh, and you’d better start kissing ass with the mortgage guys too, tell them you’re on the case and beg for more time. They should give you another month, at least, before they send the heavies round.’

Polly had left his office in a numb trance. She still couldn’t quite get her head around the fact that her life had become so calamitous so quickly. Surely it hadn’t come to selling her flat already? Where would she go? She didn’t have enough money to stay anywhere; she would have to live on credit . . . but how long could she manage that?

And so along came the estate agents, a parade of spotty blokes in nasty brown suits who left a foul stink of BO and cheap aftershave in their wake. With a last stab of hope, she asked the first how much rental she could expect from tenants, if she let the flat rather than sell it, but the figure he quoted didn’t go anywhere near covering the colossal monthly mortgage payment. The last dregs of her optimism leaked out like the final stale gasp of air from a punctured balloon. ‘Looks like I’m selling then,’ she said, her voice trembling.

A life can fall apart surprisingly quickly, as it turned out. All those years of work, of building her career and a glitzy, luxurious life for herself in the capital . . . it took far less time for the whole lot to implode. She plumped for the estate agent who quoted the highest asking price, the one who assured her he had clients queuing round the block to see properties like hers. Vince, he was called, and he looked every bit a Vince with his wispy moustache and slightly too-close-together eyes. ‘I’ve got one cash buyer in mind who’s very keen to move into this area,’ he boasted, when she called him back to tell him that he could market the property. ‘Vacant possession might just seal the deal.’

‘Vacant possession . . . You mean, I should move out?’

‘If you’ve got somewhere to go, yes. Makes a property much more attractive, considerably reduces the buying chain.’

If you’ve got somewhere to go . . .
Oh God. But she didn’t have anywhere to go! This was all happening too fast. ‘I’ll let you know,’ she said guardedly.

‘No problemo. I’ll swing by again tomorrow with a contract, and take some photos. We’ll have that apartment sold before you know it, Miss Johnson.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

So it was really happening. The dream was over. Practically penniless and soon to be homeless, she was too depressed and scared to cry any more. Her luck had run out, as well as her money. Now what?

Well, there was one last avenue left open to her, if she could stand it. The nuclear option. She took a deep, sighing breath, then dialled another number. ‘Mum?’ she said. ‘It’s me, Polly. I need a favour . . .’

This was never part of the life plan, Polly thought as, just two days later, she heaved the last box of her belongings out of the apartment and down to the van below. This was not even Plan B. This was Plan Z, the very last resort. She’d arranged to have most of her furniture and non-essential possessions put in storage, not wanting to think about when she might see them again.

‘That the lot, love?’ asked her dad, taking the box from her and shoving it into the back of the van he’d hired.