The Woman He Loved Before (21 page)

So nice to come home to my own place. Dawn was great, but towards the end she was just so unpredictable. She’d sleep all the time and then would be grouchy and grumpy when she got up. She seemed to have a permanent cold and was sniffing all the time, but thankfully I never caught it. She was always pale, too, and sickly looking.

My place is a flat on the main road in Caledonian Road, near King’s Cross. I was lucky because one of the people at work knew someone who needed to move really urgently but she couldn’t unless she found someone to move in. The rent is dead cheap considering I have a living room, a smallish bedroom, a little kitchen bit at the end of the living room and – get this – a bathroom with a bath and a shower over the bath. It’s not perfect, and a little damp, but it’s mine. The windows are huge and I can climb out of the bedroom window onto a small roof terrace with a railing around it where I can see for miles over London. It’s great because in the summer, when the mornings and evenings are light, I can walk to and from work. All the furniture is a bit old and lumpy or grubby, but I got some good cleaning stuff and the place scrubbed up a treat. The landlord was a bit unsure about having me as a tenant and he made it absolutely clear that he wouldn’t take anyone on benefits, but I had the deposit and a month’s rent in advance saved up so he said it was OK.

How many other sixteen year olds get to have a place to themselves in London? Not many, I bet.

Wrote to my mother again and told her. But haven’t heard anything back. Doesn’t mean I’ll give up, though. She has to talk to me sometime. In a way, it’s not such a bad thing that what happened happened. I’d never have moved down here and experienced all this if I hadn’t left when I did.

Love,

Eve

1
^st
June 1988

Lots of worry and gossip going on at work at the moment.

There are rumours going round that the partners are selling their business to a larger firm. No one knows for certain, but Ophelia and Dominic are out all the time ‘in meetings’ and Maggie is doing almost all the correspondence nowadays. I’m not allowed to see any of their letters or go to any of the meetings. ‘You’ll be all right,’ Beatrix said to me the other day. She’s one of the junior accountants. ‘They’ll always need admin doing. It’s people like me that have to worry; the bigger firms will have their own people they’re training up.’

Haven’t written to my mother for a while, don’t want to worry her. Saw Dawn the other day. She was getting into a car with a man who didn’t look like her boyfriend, Robbie. It was dead weird because the car pulled up a little away from her and she walked up to it then got in the back. He drove a little further away and then stopped. It looked like the man turned around in his seat to talk to her, then he drove off again. She looks so thin. I know she didn’t eat much before, but now it looks like she doesn’t eat at all. She didn’t see me and, in a way, I’m glad. I’m not sure she’d want me to see her looking like that.

Hope all the work stuff turns out to be a storm in a teacup, as Aunt Mavis used to say.

Eve

3
^rd
June 1988

Well, it’s happened. Ophelia and Dominic made the announcement yesterday.

They gathered us all around and Maggie had been out to buy us some sparkling wine – I was allowed a small glass – and they told us they’d sold the business to a large accountancy firm based in The
City. They call the place where all the businesses and money markets and the stock exchange is ‘The City’.

Everyone was shocked but not very surprised. We all clapped and smiled, but EVERYONE was worried about their jobs, you could tell. Despite what Beatrix said, I’m worried too. I think I’d be stupid not to be.

Ophelia told everyone it was a very exciting move and that we should all do our best to make the transition as smooth as possible because we would be moving to The City. She thanked us all for our hard work and said we should pat ourselves on the back for helping to make the company such a success that a company as prestigious as the one that bought us out wanted us.

I didn’t want to say anything but I wasn’t sure if anyone else had noticed that Ophelia didn’t tell us at any point that there wouldn’t be any job losses.

Please God, let me keep my job.

Eve

25
^th
June 1988

Why does everything go belly up just when you think it’s all going so well? We moved offices, and Maggie and I were really involved with it all. We had to do most of the organising because even though the company had been sold they still had to get on with every-day business. Lots of people were calling in ‘sick’ – meaning going for interviews – and we’d been picking up the slack, as Maggie called it.

Anyway, we got the move done and everything and we were all really pleased. Maggie and I had been trying to talk to Ophelia about our jobs but she just kept saying she’d look after us.

We had to apply for our jobs again. The big firm had their own office manager and lots of assistants, so Maggie was going to have
to take a demotion – which she had to apply for – and I was going to have to apply for a job that another girl on trial was also doing.

That was two weeks ago – Ophelia kept saying she’d done her best and her hands were tied when we managed to get to speak to her. Neither of us got our jobs. Maggie was so hurt because she’d worked for Ophelia for years. I didn’t think I’d get the job because everyone knew the other girl. I worked really hard and was always first in and last out, but it made no difference.

So there I was, with no job. Maggie was too upset to say anything much. I could tell she wanted to give Ophelia a piece of her mind but couldn’t because she needs a reference from her.

I’ve gone to a few job agencies and they’ve been more positive than last time now that I’ve got more experience and a nice reference – which is what I think Ophelia meant when she said she’d take care of us. But it’s not as if she had anything bad to say, is it? I mean, she couldn’t exactly write, ‘Sits on her bum all day eating chocolate and burping,’ could she? I ALWAYS worked hard. So did Maggie.

The thing is, everyone keeps telling me there’s a recession on and employers are making do without temps and aren’t really taking on new staff. I could go and sign on, but then I’d lose this flat because the landlord told me absolutely no benefits. I’ve got enough for next month’s rent but I need to get a job fast.

About the landlord: I am soooooo stupid! I rang to tell him that I’d lost my job but I could pay the rent and he was over here like a shot – literally, less than an hour later he was at the door. He wanted to check the place over, which was fine – I haven’t done anything to it. In fact, I’m quite proud of how nicely I’ve kept it. I’ve even cleaned away all the mould and painted the bathroom again. He looked around and didn’t say anything really. Then he sat down next to me on the sofa and asked me what happened with my job. I told him, like the idiot I am, pouring my heart out to him and he was so sympathetic.

‘It tough out there, Eve,’ he said. ‘I no envy you trying to find a
job. But I sure you get something.’ I don’t know where he’s from but my favourite thing about him is his accent and broken English.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

Then, the next thing I know, he’s only got his hand on my knee, hasn’t he? I mean, really! And then he says, ‘In meantime, we come to some kind of arrangement?’

And I said, like the idiot I am sometimes, ‘What sort of arrangement?’ while trying to get his hand off my knee without offending him.

And he goes, ‘Bunk-up or two once a month – rent sorted.’

Honest to goodness, that’s exactly what he said! Well, I wanted to tell him where to stick his bunk-ups but I couldn’t, could I? I need a place to live, so I said, ‘That’s very nice of you, but I’ve got a couple of interviews lined up for tomorrow’ – I hadn’t at all – ‘so I wouldn’t want to put you out.’

‘Ahh, well,’ he said, not at all bothered, ‘you change mind or want extra cash, let me know.’

He seriously expected me to call him for a ‘bunk-up’ so I could pay my rent. I’d rather live on the street.

Why is it all so hard sometimes? Everything was ticking along really well and now this. Which means my home’s in danger. And the landlord expects me to – urgh!

OK, I’m going to be more positive. I’m sure it’ll all turn out all right if I get out there every day and look for a job. I don’t for one second want to be in a situation where I start thinking about his offer.

I wonder, though, how many of his other tenants have taken him up on it? Urgh, the thought of his belly jiggling away and his fat hands on your skin … I’ve only ever done it with Peter, and that’s because I loved him.

It’s weird to think that some people not only do it when they’re not in love with someone but they do it to make money or to pay their rent. Weird and sad. I could
never
do that.

Might ring Dawn and see if she can get me any cleaning shifts at her place.

Eve

PS With everything that’s been going on, I’d completely forgotten it was my birthday today. My mother forgot as well, it’d seem, and you’d think if there was one person who’d remember it’d be her. Happy Birthday to me.

libby

Butch, who has been sitting patiently beside me on the floor of the cellar, suddenly cocks his head then scampers to his feet, as he does every evening when Jack comes home.

Is it really that late?
I think as Butch bounds up the stairs to go and wait for Jack to come in. I don’t have time to tie the diaries back up in the ribbon, only to wrap them in their velvet cloth, return them to the plastic bag and then to replace them in the fireplace. I need to be careful because if I don’t put them on the ledge in the fireplace and they fall onto the floor I won’t be able to get them again without having the whole surround removed.

From upstairs the sounds of Butch’s happy barking floats down and I pull the fireplace plate into place. Then, thinking quickly, I grab a bottle of wine and start to climb the stairs.

Jack’s waiting for me at the top with Butch happily running in circles around his feet.

‘Are you OK?’ Jack asks.

‘Yeah, fine, why do you ask?’ I reply, avoiding eye contact and moving away from the cellar door.

‘You don’t usually go down to the cellar unless absolutely necessary,’ he says, still puzzled.

I hold up the bottle of red I’d grabbed. ‘I thought I’d get us a bottle of wine to go with dinner.’

‘Can you drink with your tablets?’ he asks.

‘Probably not,’ I say, ‘but I can watch you.’

Jack stares at me and I stare at him. My heart is racing in my chest. I’ve never really kept anything from him before; I’ve always been honest and open. This doesn’t feel right, but it’s necessary because Jack won’t tell me anything about her. And with each night that we spend in the same bed, with him thrashing about and calling for Eve, the more I believe that he is hiding something about what happened during or directly after the crash. Actually, the more I
know
deep inside that it isn’t trauma that is giving him nightmares: it’s guilt.

We continue to stare at each other, both of us obviously with something to hide.

libby

I wake up in my bed upstairs, and for the first time in months, I am not in pain. It doesn’t hurt to shift even a little in bed. Stretching my arm out, I can feel the normal, natural pull of muscles reordering themselves after a night of sleep.

I throw back the covers and smile to myself as again there is no pain. The months have flown by and my body is healing itself. A funny fluttering on my forehead reminds me that my hair has grown back. Yesterday, Angela straightened it for me and it reaches my ears now, and covers the scar. I don’t need to look in the mirror to be reminded that the scar across my face looks like nothing more than a faint thread vein, and is virtually invisible to anyone who isn’t looking.

The radio or television is on downstairs and as the delicious, intoxicating smell of cooking bacon and eggs wafts up to me, I remember that Benji and Butch are here to stay. The smells and the chatter draw me towards the kitchen.

At the big range cooker, a woman is cooking my porridge with the berries and apple pieces. On the wooden worktop beside the cooker, the empty porridge box gapes open and the last packet is half-crumpled. There’s none left for me. Jack and Benji are leaning over the open paper, checking the football news.

I go to the woman at the cooker. ‘That’s my porridge,’ I say to her. ‘And you’ve used it all.’

She turns to me, the large waves of her dark hair moving like a whisper as she smiles with her perfect mouth and unusual blue eyes. She is wearing my black pyjamas with the floro-pink piping and ‘I AM DIVINE’ emblazoned in clear rhinestones across the front. Jack bought me those pyjamas on our first Christmas together. ‘Sorry, Liberty,’ she says regretfully. ‘This is my porridge.’

‘No it’s not, it’s mine. No one else likes it, only me.’

‘Liberty, stop fighting it,’ Eve says to me. ‘This is my porridge, just like this is my house, and that is my husband and my nephew. You don’t have anything any more because you died, remember? You need to let go now. You’ll be much happier on the other side.’