Summer With My Sister (46 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

With a huge hullabaloo and hoo-hah, Clare set off on holiday with Leila, Alex and Fred the following Monday and the house was plunged into silence.

Polly spent the next few days rather pleasantly. Once her shift at the pub was over, she revised her interview notes in the garden, met her parents for lunch one day, took herself off for long walks in the meadows and woods, and stretched out on the lumpy old sofa watching some excellent trashy television in the evenings. (The first thing she was going to buy for her sister, when she had a decent pay packet again, was a proper sofa that didn’t have springs poking out everywhere.) Secretly she was hoping she’d bump into Jay during her long walks – indeed, she found that she was accidentally-on-purpose steering her route so that it went quite near his house – but he must have been at work or busy elsewhere each time, because she didn’t glimpse so much as a hair on his head. The cold war between them showed no sign of thawing any time soon.

Better news came on Wednesday when the contracts for the sale of her flat dropped through the letterbox. She signed her name with a flourish and tried not to feel too sad when she posted them straight back to Vince. There. The last tie to her old life severed. Now it was time to throw herself into the new.

By Thursday Polly felt fully prepared to steam into the interview on full dazzle mode. Excitement beat through her as she caught the train to London, dressed for business in her smartest summer suit and shiniest shoes. She had her answers pat, knew the company history backwards and was fully prepared for the toughest of questions. If it went well – and it
would
go well, or her name wasn’t Polly Anne Johnson – then she’d already promised herself that she’d head straight to the Jo Malone shop near Bond Street and splash out on a new bottle of Pomegranate Noir. And hell, she might just treat herself to a late lunch at Carluccio’s too, with a celebratory glass of vino. Bring it on, she thought happily, as the train rattled over Waterloo Bridge and delivered her into the cavern of the station.

Two hours later she walked out of the boardroom feeling as if she was floating on air. It had been one hell of a grilling from a panel of six interviewers, but she’d barely faltered for a second. She’d kept her composure throughout, been able to reel off reams of data when they’d asked technical questions, and had even made them laugh a few times. The only unexpected thing had been her answer to their question about her personal interests. In the past, she’d often invented a list of imaginary hobbies that sounded suitably intellectual to answer this particular enquiry – she’d talked about how much she loved the theatre, for instance (even though she’d only been once, in the entire time she’d lived in London, to see
Mamma Mia
for an office night out) and opera (never been), and she’d always faked an interest in current affairs, even though she usually only read the business and financial pages in the newspapers. Today she’d been about to blurt out the usual tripe, but found herself coming out with something completely different instead.

‘I’m part of a close-knit family, so I love spending time with them,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve got the coolest niece and nephew, who’ve taught me roller-skating – really bad roller-skating, admittedly’ (this had made the panel smile), ‘trampolining, and the brilliance of Harry Potter. I love going for long walks in the countryside with my parents, and putting the world to rights. Oh, and I’ve been involved with my sister’s new business venture too – it’s a real family affair!’

‘Lovely,’ said the matriarch of the panel, whose eyes twinkled at Polly.

It was the only time Polly had felt remotely flummoxed. She didn’t usually appeal to the mumsy types. ‘I thought about giving you a much more highbrow answer,’ she confessed, ‘telling you about all the cultural hobbies and pursuits I have as well, but being made redundant has reminded me how important family is. Besides, I’m a firm believer that honesty tends to be the best policy.’

They’d loved that. Appreciation had practically shimmered visibly in the air above their heads. ‘A real pleasure to meet you,’ the matriarch had said, shaking hands with her at the end. ‘We’ll be in touch with the agency very soon – hopefully by the end of today.’

She’d not said anything more specific than that, but Polly could tell (she could just
tell
) that the woman had liked her. But had it been enough to swing her the job, or was there an even better candidate on the shortlist?

Sod it, she was going to Jo Malone anyway.
And
she was treating herself to that slap-up lunch. Sometimes you had to be optimistic about these things and take a chance, right?

It was when she was walking out of the office building onto Liverpool Street that she almost collided with two smartly dressed women in pencil skirts and high heels, both clutching laptop bags. ‘Polly? Is that you?’ said one, raising a cigarette to her mouth and taking two quick puffs in surprise. Oh hell. It was the blonde Sophie; the mean one who’d been so gloating about Polly’s downfall, who’d dropped her like the proverbial lump of rock once she’d lost her job. Damn, Polly had forgotten she worked for the Walkley Group as well. ‘Fancy seeing
you
here!’

Her voice wasn’t friendly, but her eyebrow was arched and her eyes gleamed; clearly she was dying to know the gossip.

‘Sabrina!’ Polly said, deliberately getting her name wrong. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

‘It’s Sophie,’ she snapped coldly. She eyed Polly with renewed curiosity, taking in the sun-kissed natural highlights in her hair, the tan and the freckles all over her nose, which even the last of her Clinique couldn’t quite hide. ‘You look different. Have you had some work done?’

Polly laughed. ‘I
am
different,’ she said. ‘Thank God. See you around.’ And she smiled pleasantly before walking away, head high. But the exchange stayed with her, needling her under the skin. Having survived the traumas of the recent months and made amends with her family, she’d been feeling stronger than ever, full of confidence again. So how come the possibility of having to work in close proximity to Sophie was making her break out in a sweat all of a sudden?

She definitely needed a drink now, she decided. A long cold drink, and a long hard think . . .

Back at the cottage, Polly saw that the postman had delivered a red envelope for her. Recognizing Clare’s loopy scrawl on the front, she opened it while kicking her shoes off with relief. She could hardly believe she’d worn heels like that, day in, day out, for so many years. Blisters seemed to be popping out all over her feet in protest already.

The envelope contained a card with GOOD LUCK! printed in lurid colours on the front. Inside were messages from Clare, Leila and Alex.

Dear Polly, lots of luck on Thursday. You deserve this more than anyone, and they’d be lucky to have you! Love, Clare

Dear Aunty Polly, you
are
THE BEST, good luck, love from Leila xxx

Dear Aunty Polly, pleeease get the job so I can have my bedroom back, love Alex. PS Only joking.

Someone – Leila, she guessed – had drawn a doggy paw-print and written
WOOF LUCK from Fred
underneath. She smiled and held the card to her chest for a moment, her mind a tangle of emotions. And then the phone rang.

‘Hi, Mum. Have you got a minute?’

Karen beamed at the sight of her daughter on the doorstep, and pushed Sissy, who was yapping shrilly, back into the house. ‘Of course! Come on in. I’ve just taken some ginger muffins out of the oven; you can test one for me.’

‘Thanks,’ Polly said, stepping carefully over the dog, who was still in a frenzy of barking. Ever since the phone call she’d been desperate to talk to someone about what she should do. Of all the times for Clare to be away!

‘Hello, love,’ Graham said. He was just coming in from the garden as they entered the warm gingery-scented kitchen, a lumpy-looking carrier bag swinging from one hand. ‘I’ve been picking tomatoes; I was going to drop some off for you and Clare later on, and check how those strawberries of hers are doing. Have you remembered to water them? It’s been so dry lately.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ Polly said, smiling at him. ‘Yes, I’ve watered the strawberries. And the raspberries. And the blackcurrants.’

‘They’ve been lucky with the weather so far, haven’t they?’ Karen commented, filling the kettle at the sink. ‘Clare and the kids, I mean. Must be gorgeous on the beach this week.’

‘She sent me a text yesterday saying they were having a great time,’ Polly replied, reaching down three mugs from the cupboard without being asked. ‘Oh, and get this. She even said she’d been in the sea for her first swim in years!’

Karen swung round, her eyes suddenly wet. ‘Really? Oh, that
is
good news,’ she breathed. She and Polly exchanged a look that spoke volumes. Karen obviously knew what a significant event this was too.

Polly took a deep breath. ‘Listen, I’ve got a bit of a confession to make,’ she said baldly. ‘I haven’t been completely honest with you.’

‘Here we go. The secret family in London: those three love-children you’ve kept hidden in a swanky boarding school,’ her dad joked, coming to the sink and elbowing his wife aside. ‘Budge over while I wash my hands, will you.’

‘No, Dad, it’s—’

‘Ah, then it’s those five ex-husbands you’ve kept quiet all these years . . .’

‘No, I—’

‘Let the girl speak, for heaven’s sake, Graham!’ Karen said, elbowing him back impatiently. She flicked at him with a tea towel, then turned to face Polly. ‘Go on, love. I’m listening.’

‘When I said I’d like to come to Elderchurch for my sabbatical,’ Polly began haltingly. ‘It wasn’t true. I’d actually been made redundant.’

Her parents exchanged a look, but neither made any comment.

‘I was too proud to admit it to you, but as well as losing my job, I lost all my money too, and I had to sell my flat. That was why I needed a place to stay.’ She swallowed, staring down at the floor. She didn’t want to see the disappointment in their eyes, the look that said
You’ve let us down
. ‘I shouldn’t have lied, and I’m sorry. But I couldn’t bear for you to pity me.’

‘Oh, Polly,’ her mum clucked. She came over and hugged her. ‘Did you really think we hadn’t guessed?’

Polly stiffened in the warmth of her mum’s embrace. ‘You . . . knew?’

Her mum squeezed her. ‘Of course we knew. You’ve never chosen to stay here voluntarily before – we knew you must be in some kind of trouble. And then Stuart let slip something about you working at the pub, and . . .’

‘Oh God.’ Polly hid her face in her mum’s shoulder as the kettle began roaring its crescendo. Bloody Stuart and his big gob!

‘But you were always so defensive, we knew you didn’t want us to find out.’ Her mum let go of her and looked her full in the face. ‘Polly . . . You’re our daughter. Our clever, talented, beautiful daughter. We’re always going to be proud of you, whatever you do. But you could have told us you’d lost your job. We wouldn’t have judged you or thought any less of you. We only want you to be happy.’