Monday, 3 October
Charlotte was struggling to keep her frustrations hidden from her client. The woman was only in her twenties, but she was one fifth of the latest girl-band phenomenon to sweep the music charts, and she’d used her new-found wealth to purchase a plush town house in Notting Hill. Despite it being mid-afternoon on a particularly dreary day in early October, Freya was dressed as if she was about to shoot an erotic video. Ripped fishnets adorned her legs, teamed with patent lace-up boots and a leather miniskirt that looked more like a large belt. Her make-up was thick, her eyelashes false, and she was chewing gum as she flicked through numerous interior design magazines, dismissing each image with a sneer.
Charlotte tried once again to focus her client’s attention. ‘Can I suggest we look through the mood boards I’ve prepared, and see if they meet your brief?’
Freya chucked the latest magazine onto the floor. ‘I know what I want, but it’s, like, hard to describe.’
Tell me about it, Charlotte thought, laying out her mood boards on the enormous stone coffee table. Freya ‘didn’t do chairs’ apparently, so they were sitting on beanbags, an uncomfortable experience that Charlotte wasn’t keen to repeat anytime soon. Lounging around on the floor, in an inelegant fashion, hardly helped to maintain a professional demeanour. The client’s brief had been a confusing mix of styles that would challenge the most experienced designer. It was probably why Lawrence had given her the job. He was testing her. Punishment for forcing him to rehire her.
Winning her tribunal case hadn’t been as rewarding as she’d imagined. The judge had given her two options: monetary compensation or overturning the dismissal. It was widely acknowledged that looking for another job was much easier if you were already employed, so she’d opted for returning to Quality Interiors, figuring this would tide her over until she found a new position. Big mistake. Aside from having to deal with the strain of damaged professional relationships, she’d discovered that she had no appetite for job hunting, and she wasn’t quite sure why.
She moved from a seated position to kneeling – which proved tricky when wearing her snug Karen Millen suit. She had to roll off the beanbag and shuffle across the rug to start her presentation. ‘The good news is that we have plenty of space to work in. The master bedroom is beautiful.’
Freya’s iPhone pinged with another message. The draw of social media was too enticing. The girl was popular, if nothing else.
Irritation itched beneath Charlotte’s skin. Her client had the attention span of a goldfish. Once around the bowl and she was onto something else … which made trying to present a sales pitch extremely difficult. All she could do was wait … and wait.
God, she was bored. Plus, her suit felt too tight. Had she put on weight over the summer? Or had she just got used to wearing more relaxed attire? Either way, she felt constricted and uncomfortable.
When Freya’s attention finally reverted to the task in hand, Charlotte angled the three mood boards for her client to peruse. ‘You mentioned Scandinavian, Romantic, and Moroccan styles in your brief.’ This confusing mixture was probably another factor in Lawrence lumbering her with the pitch. Anyone who could make three contrasting themes work together would certainly earn their commission. ‘I have three designs for you to look at. I’ve tried to keep a neutral colour palette, so we get that bright, clean Scandinavian look you’re after. I’ve done this by using a mixture of whites and soft greys for the walls and ceiling.’
Freya screwed up her nose. ‘I like colour.’
‘Which is why I’ve introduced splashes of mink, mushroom, and a hint of lime green to accent the room, with a collection of sheer fabrics for the soft furnishings. If we use silk and satin, it will give the room that romantic feel you’re looking for.’
Freya didn’t look impressed. ‘I dunno. It doesn’t look very Eastern.’
The client is always right, Charlotte told herself, and moved on to the last mood board. ‘I was thinking that we could use the alcoves in the room, building the arches into the design, and backlighting them to create warmth and give it a hint of Morocco.’ Plus, it would enable her to hide the client’s sixty-inch plasma TV, the curse of many a designer.
Freya’s phone rang. She answered it with lightning speed, like a modern-day gunslinger. ‘Babe!’ She was up and out the room without so much as an ‘excuse me’.
Don’t mind me, Charlotte thought, trying to stand up so she could stretch her legs.
She hobbled over to the large glass doors which led out to the garden. The house was currently of modern design, which suited the layout much better than the latest occupant’s suggestions. But who was she to question her client’s brief? As the professional, it was up to her to make the scheme work, no matter how conflicting it might be. After all, she’d always enjoyed a challenge. Trying to satisfy a client’s wishes whilst pushing the concept to incorporate her own sense of style had always been what had inspired her, what drove her on. So why was it no longer enough?
The view from the window was stunning. The grounds were landscaped and vast. Despite the miserable weather, the garden looked lush and green, a brief reminder of what she’d left behind in Cornwall. She felt another pang of longing.
Resting her hand on the window frame, she reasoned this was only to be expected. It was bound to take a while to readjust to city life. Five weeks really wasn’t that long. Her enthusiasm would return soon enough … wouldn’t it?
Her GP seemed to think so. When she’d visited him a couple of weeks ago, he’d assured her she was making good progress. Losing the desire to make everything ‘just so’ was a positive step, he’d said, an indication that she’d finally ‘dropped the stick’. The bad news was that this had allowed the grief she’d suppressed for so long to take its place. The sense of loss she was experiencing was only to be expected. But now that she’d ‘sunk to the bottom’, she’d be able to float back up to the top and sail away down the river stress-free and unbuttoned, ready to live a happy and relaxed life. God, she hoped he was right.
She watched a squirrel scurry across the grass and disappear into the undergrowth.
It didn’t help that she was staying in a cheap B&B Lawrence had organised for her, or that she’d been lumbered with Dodgy Roger – whose building skills hadn’t improved over the summer – on three separate jobs. There was no doubt about it, Lawrence was paying her back for suing him. Whatever the reason, London life no longer held the same appeal.
‘Miss Hughes asked me to pass on a message.’ Charlotte turned to find Freya’s assistant standing in the lounge looking apologetic. ‘She’s unable to continue with the meeting, and will need to reschedule.’
‘That’s unfortunate. Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘No, madam.’ The resignation in her words indicated that running around after her demanding employer was a common occurrence. ‘I’ll show you out.’
Charlotte packed up her mood boards, cursing the thought of another difficult Tube journey with bulky hand luggage and nothing to show for her efforts. Lawrence wouldn’t be happy. Nothing she could do about that.
The rain was coming down harder. With no free hand to hold an umbrella, she accepted the inevitability of getting wet, and headed for the Tube station. The traffic was heavy, with vehicles hurtling past, splashing up water, their emissions an assault on her senses. That was another thing she missed about Cornwall, the fresh air.
The Tube was packed, even though it was barely the beginning of the rush hour. She squeezed into a seat, her large holdall banging against her leg every time someone moved past. The atmosphere was steamy and unpleasant, the combination of wet clothes and warm bodies adding to the rancid odour emanating from the gentleman next to her.
She closed her eyes, hoping to transport her mind back to a happy place. Penmullion in the sunshine. The crash of waves lapping the sandy beach filled with holidaymakers, fishing boats bobbing on the water, her niece and nephew building sandcastles. Barney out surfing on the water, his coal-black hair slicked back, his tanned chest unashamedly on display.
She sighed. Lovely as it was, it wasn’t enough to ease the stiffness creeping into her shoulders – something that had started almost as soon as she’d returned to London. Apart from the annoyance of physical pain, it served to remind her of Barney’s lovely shoulder massages, his dexterous fingers kneading her flesh, creating warmth, relaxing her muscles as his hands …
She opened her eyes. Thinking about Barney Hubble was not helpful. She’d never settle into London life if she kept allowing her mind to drift backwards.
By the time she’d changed trains at Victoria and navigated her way to South Croydon, it was gone six o’clock. She was tired, wet, and miserable. Rain lashed against her as she walked up the hill towards the B&B. Unlike the hill in Penmullion, it wasn’t winding and narrow, taking her past quaint cottages, set against a backdrop of lively seagulls and an impressive historic castle. This hill was lined with rows of bland terraced houses, which masked any kind of view, and littered with SUVs parked nose to tail.
She entered the B&B and made her way up to the single room where she’d been staying for the past month. She recalled the sinking feeling she’d felt on entering Lauren’s flat and seeing the tired décor and cramped conditions. Ironically, she’d give anything to be back there now, sleeping on the lumpy daybed, having to use a knife to open the kitchen drawer with no handle. Despite its shabbiness, it had been a place filled with love and happiness, a proper family home. Compared to her current abode, it had been a palace.
She dumped her holdall on the dark-red carpeted floor. There was no window in the room, the electric lighting gave it a dungeon-like quality, as though it was situated underground. The view of a snow-capped mountain, painted on the wall and framed with thick curtains, failed to dupe her into believing the room overlooked a pretty Austrian village.
She undid her suit jacket, only to find the top button already undone. She didn’t need her GP to tell her this wasn’t a good development. Having finally overcome her compulsive behaviour, she couldn’t bear the thought of her anxiety returning. But quite how she was going to keep it at bay when she was already fighting off neck pain, she wasn’t sure. Covering herself in a bathrobe, she headed into the hallway, only to find the communal bathroom occupied. She returned to her room, forced to use the toilet crammed into what could only be described as a cupboard. Lawrence had gone out of his way to find the most offensive dwelling possible.
Her phone rang. Talk of the devil. ‘Hello, Lawrence.’
‘Tell me you secured the deal?’
The days of preamble and niceties had gone. ‘The meeting was cut short. Something came up, and the client needed to reschedule.’
‘When for?’
‘We didn’t get a chance to discuss alternative dates.’
‘Disappointing, Saunders. We need this job.’ Another development was the calling of her by her surname. And to think she’d objected when he used to call her Charlie. Now, she’d prefer it. ‘If you’re not taking care of the customer, the competitor will.’
She rubbed her forehead, aware of a dull ache around her temples. ‘Not much I can do when the client cancels, Lawrence.’
‘We miss a hundred per cent of the sales we don’t ask for, Saunders. You know that.’
She really didn’t need a lecture. His endless sales quotes were painful at the best of times. As he prattled on about ‘success only occurring when your dreams get bigger than your excuses’, she flopped onto the single bed. She was tired, her headache was getting worse, and she was incredibly, heartbreakingly lonely.
She looked up at the stained ceiling. Why was she so unhappy?
But, deep down, she knew. She no longer wanted to strive towards achieving someone else’s dream. She wanted her own dream. Dusty had been right: she hadn’t been as happy in her old life as she’d imagined. It’d just been safe, a habit, something she’d worked so hard for that admitting it was stressful and challenging and not always rewarding would feel like failure. When her anger had eventually faded, she realised she’d used her argument with Barney as an excuse to run away. She’d been scared.
But Dusty hadn’t been right about everything. She’d said Barney would call her when he returned to London, and he never had.