Polly, my ex-debt counsellor’s brows shoot up when I walk into her office the following afternoon during my lunch hour. I’ve caught her topping up her lipstick. Attractive colour. A mix of light and dark reds. A touch racy for her but I like it.
‘Did we have an appointment?’ She sounds rattled, obviously doesn’t like being caught on the hop. As she tucks her lippy away, her upbeat counsellor routine slips back into gear. She’s the picture of manufactured summer happiness. I don’t mind; I’ll take a touch of any type of happiness I can find.
‘My letters,’ I remind her.
‘Yes. Of course. I wasn’t sure if you got my message about your paperwork.’
I’m also here counting the hours before meeting Keats later to find out what she knows about my mother. Staying in the basement office, thinking about the possibilities of what she might tell me, was sending me crazy. So here I am in a safe place to occupy my mind.
I close the door. Don’t take a seat as I start, ‘I wanted to personally thank you for all that you’ve done for me.’
Polly’s jolly cheeks pop with an uplifting smile. ‘I’m glad that family came through for you in the end.’
‘Yeah, my dad bailed me out.’ It’s an awkward sentence to say aloud. My dad, the conquering hero, feels as if it can only be the truth in an alternate universe.
I rummage inside my rucksack. What I take out I tentatively and shyly set on the table between us. ‘I didn’t know if you were a drinker or not…’ My explanation slides away.
I’m surprised that her smile appears to congeal as she looks at the high-end bottle of champagne with the shiny pink bow tied neatly at its neck. ‘This is very thoughtful of you and I thank you for thinking of me, but we don’t usually encourage gifts.’
That hadn’t even occurred to me. ‘I’m sorry—’
Polly gently waves away my apology. ‘Gifts are such lovely things but they also belong to what I term “the unnecessary”. Things you don’t have to spend your money on. You don’t want to start your road to financial health with one of those. It’s so easy to find yourself being sucked back under again. You’re going to hate my next two pieces of advice.’ The fingertips of my hand rub anxiously together by my side. ‘Firstly, I want you to watch every penny you spend. Every. And I want you to come back to see me in a month’s time. You took a leap of faith, in yourself, coming to see me, acknowledging you had a problem. Let’s keep that leap of faith going by ensuring your financial recovery continues.’
I don’t want to read between the lines of what I suspect she’s really saying – your debt was a symptom of something else and until you pinpoint what that is, you’re in danger of ending up in the cash-strapped crapper again.
Her voice, back to carefree, intrudes. ‘Let me get you that paperwork.’
I expect to be presented with it in a carrier bag, but Polly has it neatly packed in a black box file, which I take. The burden of my one-time debt feels heavy in my hands.
‘There was something…’ Polly says as she opens her desk drawer. No doubt the required ‘How do you rate our services?’ feedback form. But it isn’t. It’s a postcard. ‘I found this stuck to one of the envelopes at the bottom of the pile of your letters. I put it aside because I assumed you wouldn’t want something personal associated with the more challenging aspects of your life.’
I pick up the postcard, frowning. It’s from New York, a photo of the Chrysler Building lit up in all its art deco glory at night. I don’t know anyone in the Big Apple or remember any of my mates saying they were going on holiday there. It doesn’t surprise me that I missed it in the pile of mail that waited for me inside my front door because I’d gotten into the habit of stuffing unopened letters in the dreaded carrier bag without checking what each one was.
I wait until I’m outside to find out who sent it. When I turn over the card and read, I become numb to the high wind swirling and slapping around me.
Michael
I’m coming to Old Blighty for my sister’s wedding.
It’s been years, matie. Let’s hook up. Cruise some old
haunts. Touch base when I’m in town.
Benny
Michael. The word grows hideously large and dances off the postcard. Why would this ‘Benny’ be sending Michael a postcard to my house? But I’m making an assumption, aren’t I, that it’s Michael Barrington. What if…? My brain scuttles around for another explanation… What if one of the bastard tenants who ripped my home apart was called Michael? Could be… But what if it’s not? My head pounds as I rewind the years to when I got the house. I see Dad throwing the keys at me, laughing. And he had the key because he said the house had belonged to a friend who wanted to offload it. I factor in the new info I know about Michael – he was Danny’s son. Next logical step is that maybe Danny owned the house? And Michael… And Michael… The next part won’t let me capture it, like a fly playing ‘Dare’ in my face but buzzes off when I reach out to swot it.
Now not only am I freaked out about what Keats might tell me about my mother, I have another worry too.
Is Michael connected to my house?