Summer With My Sister (41 page)

It was a gruelling marathon of a day. She’d arranged five appointments – two in the West End, one in Chancery Lane and another two near Liverpool Street – so there was hardly time to draw breath, let alone meander around the shops or grab a decent coffee. Still, it had definitely been worth her while. And what a treat it had been too, just sitting in an office environment again, talking banking jargon and financial opportunities, slipping back into her native tongue as if she’d never left that world.

Polly knew she interviewed well – she was sharp-witted and articulate, she knew her stuff, she was precise and smart and polished. The only slightly precarious subject was the area of her CV that had been left fallow for the last few months. Every interviewer had, of course, asked what she’d been doing since being made redundant, as she’d expected them to. Luckily she had rehearsed her answer.

‘The redundancy came as a huge shock,’ she admitted briskly, ‘but I’m not one to panic or give up. I’ve taken some time out recently to help with the family business – I’ve advised them on financial matters, for example – and I’ve also taken the opportunity to pursue some research into banking law, an area that has always fascinated me.’

Funnily enough she didn’t mention her job at the pub, her new-found expertise in Ginger Ninja bubble-bath-making, or the long depressing afternoons in front of her laptop staring blankly at the complete dearth of job vacancies on the screen, with only Agatha and the mad chickens for company.

Her explanation seemed to pass muster, though, thank goodness. Finance Professionals had immediately come up with two possible vacancies for which they’d promised to put her details forward; the woman at Compass had told her there was a great maternity cover coming up at Arthur Andersen, which could lead to something permanent; and the other three agencies had all spoken of a new confidence and buoyancy about the current jobs market, and said that they were confident they could find her something within the next few weeks. It just went to show that it was all a matter of being in the right place at the right time. She doubted these vacancies would even get put on the website.

It was almost five o’clock now, and London was on the verge of swinging into Happy Hour. Computers would be powered down for the day, and out would pour the worker ants into the bars and restaurants, the buses and trains. Already there was a buzz in the air as the lucky few slunk away early with alcohol and freedom on their minds.

Polly’s day was not over yet, though. There was one more place she had to go. She plunged back into the sweating depths of the Underground towards the address she had in London Bridge. She hoped she wasn’t already too late.

The company’s name, Domestic Angels, might have suggested a heavenly address with Doric columns, harp-playing cherubs and fluffy clouds, but the reality was far more down-to-earth: a small, dingy office block with tinted windows and a reception area that sported a nicotine-stained ceiling and an old beige sofa. It was approaching six o’clock by the time Polly tracked the place down, her feet now hot and blistery in her heels after all the pavement-pounding she’d done.

‘Hi,’ she said to the sallow-faced girl on reception who was gawping at her Facebook page and blowing small pink gum-bubbles through pursed lips. ‘Have I missed Magda? Only I was meant to be meeting her here at half-five and I got stuck in traffic. We’re going to that new wine bar, but I thought I’d hang around for her, if she hasn’t already gone.’ She pulled a funny face. ‘I hate walking into those places on my own, don’t you? Always feel a right plonker.’

Blind the girl with unnecessary facts, that was Polly’s tactic, and hope she’d be taken in. It was a gamble, yes, but she’d already tried the polite telephone request and that had got her precisely nowhere.

The receptionist blinked at the information overload and shifted her gum to the side of her mouth. ‘Magda? She’s still at the Kipling Street job,’ she said.

‘Oh, my mistake,’ Polly said, pantomiming a silly-me reaction. ‘Lucky I checked. I’ll come back later, cheers.’

‘Who shall I say was looking for her?’ the girl called after her, but Polly pretended she hadn’t heard and went quickly out of the door again.

Her heart was racing. The gamble had actually paid off. Magda was still working for the agency and was somewhere on Kipling Street right now. Polly flicked through her
A–Z
and then went to find her.

As luck would have it, Kipling Street was only a short road. Polly perched on a wall where she could see all the way along the street, and waited. Twenty minutes later she saw Magda emerging from a terraced house. That slight, slim figure with the straight back and neat bobbed hair, carrying a yellow bucket of cleaning materials. ‘Magda,’ Polly called, jumping off the wall and waving. ‘Magda!’

The woman stopped and stared at her in surprise. Then her expression changed to one of suspicion. ‘Miss Johnson,’ she said coldly as Polly ran towards her. Her cat-like eyes had narrowed and her body language was unfriendly. ‘What are you doing here?’

Polly swallowed. ‘I came to say sorry,’ she replied. They were standing a few metres apart on the pavement and she felt hot and awkward, aware that her hair had worked its way loose from that morning’s elegant chignon, that there was sweat under her arms and in a line down her back, that her feet probably stank in the crippling heels she had on. ‘I’m really sorry. I was an idiot. I hope I didn’t get you into trouble.’

Magda exhaled slowly, her eyes giving nothing away. ‘I got in trouble, yes,’ she said, putting the bucket down. ‘Bad trouble. They want to sack me, I had to . . .’ Her vocabulary ran out, and she pressed her hands together as if praying.

‘You had to beg,’ Polly translated. ‘I’m sorry. But you kept your job at least – yes?’

Magda folded her arms across her chest. ‘I lost best clients,’ she said. ‘They tell me I am . . . not to trust. They give me shitty jobs instead.’

Polly bit her lip. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again. And then, all of a sudden, she wondered what on earth had possessed her to come and do this. What was the point? What could she possibly do to make it up to this woman whom she’d wronged in a fit of spite all those months ago? ‘I tried to phone, to give you a message, but they wouldn’t let me,’ she said weakly after a moment.

Magda stood there mute.
Big deal
, her eyes flashed scornfully.
So what
?

‘You know, I am a cleaner now,’ Polly began, ‘and . . .’

Magda started with shock. ‘You? You clean?’

Polly nodded. ‘I clean,’ she said. ‘And it’s really hard work. I never knew.’

‘Yes. Is hard work.’ Magda gave a snort suddenly, her eyes bright with amusement. ‘You really clean? You?’

‘Yes. I know it’s hard to believe,’ Polly replied. ‘And I know now how hard you worked for me all those weeks.’

‘Months.’

‘All those months,’ Polly corrected herself, eyes downcast. ‘I just came to say sorry anyway,’ she finished. ‘If you want, I can write to the manager at the agency, tell them I was wrong.’

Magda nodded. ‘Yes. You tell them. Tell them I good cleaner, you wrong.’

‘I’ll say I was unfair and that you don’t deserve the shitty jobs.’

‘Is true.’

‘And that they should give you a pay rise and lots of free holidays.’

Magda was at least smiling now. ‘Is true,’ she said again and punched Polly lightly on the arm. ‘Is okay. Thank you.’

Polly smiled back. ‘Thank
you
,’ she said. ‘You were so kind to me when everything got on top of me. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but . . . you are a good person. I didn’t deserve you.’

‘Is true,’ Magda said again. ‘All true.’ And then they were both laughing, and Magda had put her arms around Polly, patting her back, as if comforting a child. ‘You have new job now?’ she asked after they’d disentangled.

Polly shook her head. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘But I’m trying.’

‘I wish you good luck,’ Magda said.
‘Dobre szczęście
, as we say in Poland.’

‘Thank you,’ Polly said. ‘Thank you so much, and the same to you. It’s nice to see you again, Magda. Take care.’

‘You as well,’ said Magda. ‘You are different now, I think. Good-different.’ She held up a hand. ‘Goodbye.’

Polly watched her pick up the bucket of cleaning sprays and bottles (not dissimilar from her own white bucket of bleach and disinfectant that she used at the pub) and then walk away down the street.

You are different now, I think
, she’d said.
Good-different
. Polly found that she was nodding to herself, right there on the pavement like a nutter. She
was
different, she
had
changed since she’d acted so appallingly back then. And Magda had noticed – even better.

Mission accomplished, Polly thought, setting off to the Tube. With a bit of luck she could catch the 18.57 back to Amberley and be home for nine o’clock. It had been a long, tiring day, but her legs didn’t feel so heavy any more. She was going to make things right for Magda: she’d write the letter absolving her of any fault – why hadn’t it occurred to her before? – and everything would be okay.

Just at that moment her phone started ringing. An unfamiliar London number was on the screen. Her heart leapt. ‘Hello?’ she said, jabbing at the button to accept the call.

‘Is that Polly Johnson? It’s Anne-Marie from Finance Professionals here. Hi. Just to say I sent your details to the Walkley Group for the Risk Manager role, and they’ve come back already to say that they’d like to meet you. How are you set for next week?’

Polly’s mouth hung open and she stopped dead in the middle of the street. ‘You mean . . . I’ve got an interview?’

‘That’s right. They sounded very keen – said you were just what they were looking for.’

She wanted to laugh. The hours and weeks of fruitless searching, the times she’d ploughed through websites and newspapers, trying to stay optimistic as she emailed her CV and job applications, to no avail. She had begged and pleaded for a chance at times, making herself cringe. And now it turned out that all she’d needed was Magda’s blessing of good luck, and along came the very call she’d been waiting for, minutes later. It felt as if the universe was giving her another shot.

‘That’s wonderful,’ she replied, joy rising inside her like bubbles. ‘Oh, that’s really great news, Anne-Marie. And I’m free to come in for an interview any time. Any time at all.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

Polly was on the train thundering back to Amberley with a celebratory gin-in-a-tin when her phone rang again. Jay, this time. A frisson went through her as she remembered the conversation she’d had with Clare. Take a chance, she reminded herself. Be open to something happening. And don’t be afraid!

‘Hi there,’ she said cheerfully, swirling her ice cubes around the plastic cup and draining the last drops. ‘How are you?’

‘All right, thanks. Where are you? Sounds noisy.’

‘I’m on the train, been up in London for the day,’ she said, gazing out of the window as they rattled along the tracks. They’d already left the bustling terraced streets and looming council blocks behind and were now moving into the suburbs: Esher and Hersham with their bigger gardens and leafier streets.
Goodbye, big city. See you again next week. Looking forward to it already
.