Isabel got back from the town centre and slowly unloaded her shopping. Other women managed to do one shopping trip a week, but she found herself having to slink back several times. It wasn't so much that she ran out of food, more that she ran out of things she knew how to cook. And then there was the unaccustomed luxury of having so much choice. She would buy a head of fennel, excited by the bulbous shape, the elusive scent of aniseed, the wholesomeness, but then once home it would sit there, slowly liquefying in the vegetable rack. After all, what did you do with fennel? The children wouldn't eat it, and Neil had pulled a face and pushed it to the side of his plate when she tried braising it. It was like skate wings. A lovely idea that looked great in a recipe book but didn't quite work in practice.
Having stored the food, she thought she would eat something as it was lunchtime. It was strange, cooking for one after years of cooking lunch for both Neil and the children in the middle of the day. Now, most days she didn't bother with lunch, just picked at bits and pieces. It wasn't worth cooking properly just for herself. Today what she really wanted was a peanut butter sandwich, with squishy white bread, but she got out a low calorie instant soup instead. She scanned through the post while waiting for the kettle to boil. Neil sorted it before going to work and usually took out his letters for reading on the train. Isabel got left with catalogues and junk mail. She poured the hot water on the powdered soup. It looked thin. It tasted thin. Would it make her thin? Wistfully she thought of peanut butter sandwiches. Still, as she'd been so good, just having the soup, she could let herself have one biscuit.
She selected one of Katie's red felt pens, checked that the tip hadn't completely dried out, and sat down with the local paper. Pen in one hand, biscuit in the other, she turned to the recruitment section. Hundreds of jobs, it promised. Packers, salespersons, fork lift truck drivers. Nurses, welders, executive this and that. Trainers, FE lecturers, waste disposal operatives. So many jobs, none of which she could do. She munched another biscuit, scattering chocolate chip cookie crumbs over the ads. None of them seemed to want what she had to offer. They all wanted different things - HGV licence, NVQs, RSA HI. Two years' experience minimum in an administrative capacity.
She reached for another biscuit and realised she had eaten half a packet of chocolate chip cookies. Far worse than a peanut butter sandwich. Oh well, at least they had been two packets for the price of one so she hadn't wasted money. She'd start her diet properly tomorrow. The packet of biscuits could be a final fling.
Her weight had crept up over the last two years so she couldn't even put it down to having babies. Thinking about it, she realised that she could remember days spent at home in Syria, isolated and bored, comfort eating. She couldn't even get in a car and drive somewhere: for security reasons the company's staff and their families were forbidden to drive. But that was there, she thought to herself. We're in England now. No restrictions on women working. I'll get a job, and I'll lose the weight by Christmas she decided.
Isabel got out a piece of squared paper and began to draw up a chart, weeks running along the top, weight running down the side. She then drew a line marking a two-pounds-a-week weight loss. I could easily be back to the weight I was two years ago by Christmas, she thought. And if I exercised as well... She drew another line for three pounds a week. The line dropped steeply away off the page. Minuscule by Christmas, vanished by March. No more buttons bursting off, no more tight waistbands. She scrunched up the empty biscuit packet and chucked it in the bin. She felt energised, as if she had lost two stone already.
The phone rang and she went to answer it, tripping on a stray chunk of Lego and falling, wrenching her ankle. She struggled to her feet, propped herself up against the mantelpiece and picked up the phone.
'Ow. Hello?'
A man's voice asked, 'Is that Isabel?'
'Speaking.'
'You sound in pain.'
'I fell over.'
'I see.' The deep voice paused. 'My name's Patrick Sherwin. I hear you're looking for a job.'
'Yes.' Isabel stopped rubbing her ankle and grimaced. Fell over indeed. She must sound like a complete disaster area. Think "good telephone manner". She took a deep breath. 'Are you Justine's friend?' That sounded wrong, too like something she'd say to a child - are you Justine's little friend, dear? She stood up straight. Get a grip. Act normal, she told herself.
'Is that what she said? Yes, I suppose I am.' He sounded amused.
'That was quick. I only spoke to her this morning.'
'She moves fast.' Isabel thought his voice was wonderful, as rich and smooth as hand cream. 'I need someone to come and help out with my business. Nothing too alarming, keeping the paperwork in order and up to date, answering the phone. That sort of thing. Are you interested?'
'Absolutely.'
'Why don't you come round to my office and we could chat. How does tomorrow sound?'
'I'm not sure...' she said, thrown by the thought that something might actually happen.
'I'm flying to Rome late that evening, so...'
'No, no, tomorrow's fine,' she said, not bothering to look at the calendar, knowing that it was blank for weeks ahead beyond "collect Neil's suit from the dry cleaners" and "children to dentist".
'Good. I'm at number forty-five, Downton Street. Do you need directions?'
'I'll look it up.'
'I'll see you there at, say, twelve thirty.'
'That's fine,' she repeated, hoping that her voice sounded as calm as his.
'Until tomorrow, then.'
She put the phone down and hugged herself. A job interview. She'd got a job interview.
- ooo -
Isabel could hardly wait until Neil came through the front door. The minute she heard his key in the lock she rushed up.
'Guess what? I've got a job interview.'
'Well done. What's the job?'
Isabel rubbed her nose. 'General office admin stuff, I think.'
Neil let his briefcase drop to the floor and stretched. 'Sounds good. I'm just going to pop upstairs and change, and then you can tell me all about it. Are the children already in bed?'
'Sorry. They were so tired after school that I put them to bed early.' Automatically she picked up his briefcase.
'Never mind. I'm late myself.'
'I've got supper waiting for you.'
'Great. I'll be down in a second.' Isabel watched his feet trudging upwards. Not so long ago he would have taken them two at a time. She put the briefcase into what he and the developer grandly called the study, a cupboard of a room by the front door. It niggled slightly that the hallway was spacious, giving a deceptive indication of the room sizes. The space would have been better added onto the kitchen in her opinion, but Neil had liked the hallway.
She went into the kitchen and took the fish pie out of the oven, settling it on a trivet next to the salad bowl. She sat down and waited, picking at the dry and crusty edges of the dish, till Neil came down. The kitchen units were new, blonde wood with stainless steel handles, but cheaply made. Already some of the doors were scratched and there was a grubby look around the edges that wouldn't shift, however hard she scrubbed away at them.
'So, what does the business do?'
Isabel doled some fish pie onto Neil's plate. 'Umm, I'm not sure. Help yourself to salad.'
'Thanks. What's the business called?'
'Not sure.' She mumbled deliberately, she'd replayed the conversation in her head so many times she knew she didn't know the answers to Neil's questions. But the tactic of incoherence failed as he asked her to repeat herself. Neil looked puzzled.
'What did it say in the ad? Show me.'
'It wasn't from an ad.' Isabel felt her excitement seep away like water in sand. 'Someone said that they knew someone who wanted someone and, well, he rang up and asked me to come for an interview. Networking. You know,' she said with a bright smile, hoping she looked confident.
'So who rang up?'
'His name's Patrick -' Sherman? Sherden? 'Patrick Sherwin, I think. He's a friend of a woman I met at the new parents' coffee morning. She suggested me.'
'And do you know her name?'
'Oh yes. Justine something. She's got a daughter in Katie's class.'
'It all sounds a bit dodgy to me. Where are you going for this interview?'
'Forty-five Downton Road.'
'Where's that?'
At least she knew the answer to that one, having looked it up.
'Close to the centre, on the far side of town. It's the bit that has loads of those Georgian artisan's cottages, painted in pastel colours. Terribly pretty.' She could see them quite clearly; they had window boxes, and slate roofs. Neil had dismissed them when they were house hunting as being too small, too expensive and too impractical. He had refused to waste his time by going inside.
Neil grunted. 'Is it an office address?'
'He said it was.'
'Doesn't sound like it.' She had to admit he was right; it didn't sound like an office address. She watched his face as he finished his meal, trying to gauge his mood.
Perhaps she could divert him away from office addresses. 'Guess what, I met someone from my old school at the coffee morning. It's a small world, isn't it? Her name's Helen, and her husband's called George Something-Smith. He commutes to London on the same train as you. They live just outside Milbridge and she asked us all over to Sunday lunch next weekend. She was three years above me at school. She seems very nice.' Her voice trailed off.
Neil pushed his plate back and sucked his moustache. 'I can't say I like it, Bel.'
'The fish pie? Oh dear. Sorry.'
'No, not the fish pie. This job.' He rested his elbows on the table, clasped his hands in front of his face and looked at her over them, rather like a kindly headmaster (firm but fair) about to admonish a small child sent to him for some minor misdemeanour. 'You don't know what the business is, what it's called, the name of the man who rang, or what you're going to be asked to do.'
'I do. It's typing and answering the phone and things,' she said quickly, hoping she was right.
'You think.' He was kind, but everything in his attitude said he knew she was making it up as she went along. And he was right, she didn't know anything about the job or the man or the business or anything but -
'Neil, don't spoil it. It's the only interview I've got so far. I thought you'd be pleased.'
'Pleased? Darling, England is not the place it was fifteen, ten years ago even. I really don't think it's safe. You don't know anything about these people. This man could be anyone.'
'He sounded all right on the phone.' He'd sounded gorgeous, in fact, but she didn't think Neil would be impressed with that.
'Isabel.' He leant back in his chair and raised his eyes to the ceiling. He looked so pompous and sure of himself, Isabel felt she could hit him. And she'd cooked him his favourite treacle tart too. She took it out of the oven and started cutting it up, stabbing at the pastry. Unfair, unfair. She flipped a slice onto a plate and plonked it in front of him.
'Are you saying I can't go?'
'I'm only concerned for your safety.' He calmly picked up his spoon, then paused. 'Aren't you eating any?'
'I'm on a diet.'
'Since when?'
'This afternoon.' She folded her arms and watched him eat, tracking each mouthful. Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. It was unfair. She'd been so excited and now Neil was ruining everything.
'You just don't want me to work, do you?' she blurted out.
'That's nothing to do with it.'
'Isn't it?'
'I'm simply concerned -' he started, but she cut him off.
'You make it sound so reasonable and I look in the wrong, but I know I'm not. You don't want me to go out. All you want me to do is look after you and the children. Just washing and cooking and cleaning for ever and ever.'
'Don't be ridiculous.' He sounded almost bored as he stood up.
'And don't go off. This is important to me, I want to talk about it.'
'Perhaps when you've calmed down.'
'I am calm,' Isabel shouted.
'Thank you for supper.' He pushed his chair in and smiled at a spot just above her head, a tight smile that left his face untouched and his eyes shielded. 'I'm going to watch the News.'
'I'm more important than the News,' she cried, but he was gone. I am more important, she thought. I am. But I always end up in the wrong and feeling stupid. She cleared the plates into the dishwasher then, slowly and deliberately, she cut herself a large slice of treacle tart and drowned it in cream.
- ooo -
The next day Isabel couldn't decide what to wear. A job interview meant a suit, which she didn't have, so it would have to be a skirt. Although it hadn't sounded like a formal sort of set-up. She shied away from thinking about Neil's questions yesterday and their row. She opened the wardrobe gingerly - one of the wardrobe doors had already started to hang crookedly on its hinges, too flimsy to take the weight - and started to rifle through the tightly packed clothes, ticking them off in her mind. Too tight, too short, too old-fashioned - how could she have worn all those pleats like an Austrian hausfrau? She knew she should throw it out, but she found it hard to discard clothes, and instead moved on. The corporate wife stuff was shrouded in dry cleaning bags, obviously wrong. Her hand paused on her favourite dress, white splashed with pink hibiscus. Too bright. Too girlie. No, the only possibility was a long, straight, dark navy skirt, which she hoped would make her look taller and slimmer. It was all very well to say that men preferred a cosy armful, but when it came to clothes it was definitely better to be a size ten.
She sucked her tummy in as she pulled the zip up and looked in the mirror, arching round to check the rear view. No excessive bulges, although her legs looked ridiculous, protruding from the bottom hem, two inches of solid white flesh then black ankle socks. Her feet looked enormous, and strangely flat. She slipped the socks off. The elasticated tops had left a ring of vertical red lines around her fat calves. It didn't look very attractive.
She stood on tiptoes to see if the skirt might look any better with high-heels, squinting in an effort to imagine opaque tights. It would work but she didn't have the right sort of shoes. Back to jeans then. Perhaps black ones, with a jacket over them, long enough to cover her rear. The problem then shifted to her middle. Unless she sucked her stomach in, it spread over the waistband. Realistically she was going to have to breathe at some point so that meant wearing a cardigan or sweater under the jacket to hide the bulge. She knew even without trying on the combination that it would make the jacket sleeves too tight plus today was the hottest day they'd had since they'd been back.
So what if she was a bit overweight? She was a mother, not a model. She made a face at herself in the mirror for minding about how she looked. She was a respectable married woman who was meeting someone about a job possibility, not heading for a casting couch session. Neil's words flashed through her mind but she pushed them away. Why should it matter what she looked like? Why should she have to starve herself in an effort to look young and sexy? Her abilities were what counted, surely. She looked at her reflection, pushing her hair away from her face and wishing that just once it would lie sleekly like Justine's instead of frizzing out. Why would someone employ me? she thought. What can I do? What can I offer?
I've got O levels and A levels and a TEFL certificate. I've taught children in schools where the nearest clean water was two kilometres away. I can whistle and hum at the same time. I can drive a jeep up sand dunes and I'm better than Neil at wadi bashing. I've read the whole of War and Peace, even the boring bits, and I find Anthony Trollope funny. I love nineteenth-century literature and baroque music.
None of which seemed to be relevant attributes for a woman looking for an office job. But I want to be useful, she thought. I want to do something beyond sitting around drinking coffee and playing the occasional game of tennis. She sniffed, then picked up the discarded skirt lying crumpled on the floor and briskly shook it out. She would wear it with flat shoes if need be, she decided, but if she got a move on there might be time to pop into town and hunt for a new outfit. After all, it was about time she treated herself to something other than doughnuts.