She leaves without saying goodbye to Cleo. Elena pats her on the arm sadly and then gives both her and Phoebe a hug.
‘Köszönöm,’ Phoebe says in perfectly accented Hungarian – she has been practising – and Elena beams and says, ‘Köszönöm,’ back and then follows it up with a whole string of other words that make no sense to anybody except her. Everybody cries again, Tara and Megan most noisily. Abi can still hear them sobbing theatrically as she and Phoebe set off for the tube station, rucksacks in hand.
When they step off the train in Deal, Abi breathes an audible sigh of relief. Back to safety and security. Back to predictability and the mundane but comforting ordinariness of her normal day-to-day life. They’re too early to pick up the keys so they stop by the library, where Abi is greeted like a prodigal family member, and ask if they can leave their belongings there for a couple of hours while they go round to the hardware store and stock up on paint and sugar soap and brushes and all the other things Abi needs to give both herself and her new flat a fresh start.
Abi tries to remember exactly what the flat is like as they argue over colours, which rooms get the light and which need lifting. She keeps changing her mind, but in the end she settles on a deep magenta for the wall behind where her bed will go and a soft sage green for one wall of the living room. She’s tempted by the wallpaper, but she knows that if she buys it then it will only live in the spare room – Phoebe’s room – for months while she waits for someone to take pity on her and help her hang it. And she wants Phoebe’s room to be perfect, ready and waiting for her any time she decides she wants to come home.
In the end they buy so much stuff – because white paint is on special offer so Abi picks up more than she thinks she needs, just in case – that they can’t carry it all. They spend the next hour or so ferrying things from the shop to the library and then the library to the flat once they are given the word that the purchase has finally gone through.
The estate agent is standing on the doorstep waiting for them when they arrive with their first load, sweaty and out of breath. He hands over the keys with a flourish and Abi tries to give the act of unlocking the door for the first time some kind of ceremonial weight, but she feels numb. Inside, the flat is a little dingier than she remembers, a little smaller, a little rougher round the edges. She’s immensely grateful that Phoebe and the agent are there because otherwise she thinks she would probably burst into tears.
‘So, everything OK?’ the agent says, not really caring now.
Abi takes a cursory look around. The vendors have left everything they said they’d leave – basically just the well-worn carpets and curtains, which she’ll keep until she can afford new ones – and they have cleaned up after themselves, but there’s something sad about the imprint of their heavy furniture still carving troughs out of the pile. The weight of someone else’s life. It’s depressing.
‘Fine.’ She forces a smile, keen for the agent to go and leave them to it. She feels overwhelmed by the amount there is to do.
‘Right,’ Phoebe says as soon as he’s gone. ‘I’m going to pick up another load of stuff from the library and I’ll get some coffees on the way back then we can get down to it.’
Abi doesn’t move, doesn’t know where to start, doesn’t want to be here.
‘Mum!’ Phoebe says, trying to shock her out of her torpor. ‘Tell you what, we’ll start in the living room. God, that carpet’s awful. I wonder what’s underneath.’ She lifts up a corner of the threadbare carpet to reveal a scruffy but altogether more palatable parquet floor.
‘Wow. Shall we?’ She gives Abi a smile that says, ‘I dare you,’ and Abi feels a rush of love and gratitude. She needs to pull herself together for her daughter’s sake. These are her last three days with Phoebe before she goes off again, and she owes it to her to make them enjoyable.
‘Definitely.’
Once they’ve ripped up the carpet, which is so old that it practically comes apart in their hands, and revealed a floor that’s worn and a bit patchy but definitely a thing of beauty compared to what was there before, the room starts to look entirely more welcoming and Abi is feeling like a new person. They do the same in the bedrooms and the hall, revealing more parquet and some passable 1970s wood-effect vinyl that has a certain retro charm. Abi has no idea how they are going to get rid of the carpet mountain that has sprung up in her bedroom but she doesn’t care. By the time they lock up for the night and stagger, exhausted, round to the B ’n’ B clutching a takeaway from the Indian restaurant on the corner, the living room is finished and Abi feels as if she must have lost at least five pounds. She’s so tired that she falls asleep almost as soon as her (paper) plate is cleared, only vaguely aware of her daughter pulling the covers over her and kissing her goodnight.
When she wakes up, she doesn’t know where she is or why she is pinned up against the wall, until she turns over and sees Phoebe sprawled out across the whole width of the double bed, just like she used to do when she was small and crawled into Abi’s bed after she had nightmares. Abi lies back and savours the moment.
By the time Monday evening comes round the flat is transformed, one of Phoebe’s friends has been round with his van and carted all the debris away, all of Abi’s belongings have been brought out of storage and arranged neatly, and it’s starting to feel like home. Primrose Hill feels both a long way away and a long time ago. Her first meal in her new home – at least the first one she cooks and doesn’t eat out of a carton – is also Phoebe’s last before she sets off again.
In the morning Abi sees her off at the train station, manages not to cry until she’s left and feels inordinately proud of herself.
‘Let me know what happens at the audition,’ Phoebe says to her on the walk to the station.
‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll bother going. It’s a stupid idea,’ Abi says. Now she is home she isn’t sure she is ever going up to London again.
‘You have to otherwise Auntie Cleo will have got her own way all over again.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Abi says. ‘Now you’re sure you have your passport and the address of where your friends are staying?’
Walking back now, trying to think about anything other than Phoebe, she thinks instead about the casting for the commercial. She decides to leave it to fate. Jon hasn’t let her know what time the meeting would be. She has no intention of reminding him. If he gets in touch, she’ll go; if not, she’ll just forget all about it. As if she’s willed it to, her phone beeps and there’s a message from Tara:
Say by 2 Phebe from us, Tara and Megan xxx Oh and dad says the casting is at 3 on thurs at his office. Is that ok? Love u xxx
Abi’s heart flips. She is going to see Jon again. He wants her to come up to London. OK, so he didn’t get in touch himself, but he has specifically asked Tara to text her. He thought about her. She was in his head. Before she allows herself to really think about it, she texts back:
Tell dad that’s fine.
She presses send before she can stop herself, and then remembers that she should reply to the rest of Tara’s message. She texts:
Phoebe says she’ll miss you. Love you both too xxx
The girls don’t need to know they’ve missed their cousin by a few minutes.
The library is the same as ever. It’s as if she’s never been away. All the regulars come in and sit at their usual seats and read the newspapers. Juliet fills her in with what has been happening, which isn’t much. Abi’s glad to see her. An uncomplicated work friendship is probably exactly what she needs right now.
After work they go to the local pub for a quick glass of wine before Juliet has to leave to go home and cook the dinner. Abi takes a detour on the way back to the flat so she can walk along the front, which is near deserted, all the tourists having already left to get back to normality. She passes the end of her old street and doesn’t even feel the faintest pull back towards the house and all its years of memories. It feels like so much has happened since she lived there that it’s no longer a real part of her life. She knows she should be glad to be home, but she feels on edge, uneasy, dissatisfied with the smallness of her life. It’s not enough. It probably never was, but at least before she had motherhood and Phoebe to hide behind.
Thursday comes round too quickly and before she knows where she is she’s standing by her open wardrobe agonizing about what to wear. She runs through the necessary attributes in her head: attractive, approachable, friendly young mum. Then she pushes those aside and thinks about the fact that Jon will be there. It’s ridiculous, but she wants to look nice for him. While she would still never even contemplate trying to take him away from her sister (who is she kidding? Of course she would contemplate it – she thinks about it all the time. What she would never do is act on it; there’s a difference), she wants him to think she looks good. She doesn’t want him to ever look at her and wonder, What was I thinking?
In the end she settles on her most flattering but everyday outfit, a flowery print dress from Hobbs that is now a little loose on her – she has definitely lost weight over the summer and thinks she looks all the better for it – and ballet flats. Feminine but practical. Trying just enough, but not too hard.
As the train gets closer to Charing Cross, she starts to feel a bit sick. It’s too soon to be coming back. Luckily Jon’s office is in Holborn so she doesn’t have to venture anywhere near Primrose Hill. She finds it easily, tucked in an alley behind the tube station, a kitschy swirly neon sign announcing ‘MacMahon Fairchild’ in the window. Inside it’s a stylish but intimidating space, part office, part warehouse. Behind the ornate high-gloss white reception desk sits the equally stylish but intimidating receptionist: part human, part mannequin. She looks achingly cool in clothes and thick-framed glasses that on most normal people would be read as frumpy. Abi introduces herself, feeling ridiculous when she says she has come for a casting. The receptionist smiles, instantly transforming into something less frightening.
‘Take a seat. There’s coffee or mint tea if you want it. They’ll call you when they’re ready.’
Abi can tell that every piece of furniture has been carefully thought out. No job lot from Ikea here. There are four white Barcelona chairs round a low glass coffee table. All of them taken by women who could be described as attractive, approachable, friendly young mums. In the middle of the table are several retro-chic flasks and a handful of cute mismatched flowery china cups and saucers. It looks a bit like a sale in a Cath Kidston shop, but the effect is homely and fun. Just enough to take the edge off all the hard shiny surfaces.
Abi lurks on the periphery, feeling self-conscious because she’s standing while everyone else is sitting. She’d kill for a strong coffee but, despite what the receptionist said, she’s not entirely convinced the flasks are practical and not just part of a design feature, so she decides not to risk it.
None of the women are chatting. Two are reading newspapers, one is knitting and the other playing with her phone. From time to time they give one another sidelong glances, checking out the competition. Abi wonders if this is their life: they go from casting to casting hoping to win the Holy Grail that is a TV advertising campaign. It’s a way to pass time, she supposes, although hardly stimulating.
After about two minutes a door opens and another attractive, approachable, friendly young mum is shown out by a woman in her fifties. One of the candidates waiting in reception is called in and Abi takes her seat, prepared for a long wait. It can’t be more than another two or three minutes later, though, that the whole process happens again and another one of the seated women moves on through the door. Meanwhile several more attractive, approachable, friendly young mum types have arrived. It’s a bit like a production line for The Stepford Wives.
Abi’s not sure what she was expecting but it wasn’t this. It’s a long way to come for such a swift meeting. Still, she comforts herself with the fact that Jon is through that doorway somewhere. Even if she is only in the room for thirty seconds, it will be thirty seconds with Jon. Long enough to assess how he is, whether anything has changed, whether he has found out that his wife has been cheating on him. Long enough to take him all in.
Eventually it’s her turn. She follows the older woman through the door and all the way across a huge open-plan room where several people seem to be working (if chatting, drawing on a large board and sitting with your feet up constitute working – she’s not sure), and into a glass-walled side office at the end. There are three people sitting in the room. None of them is Jon. The older woman speaks.
‘This is –’ she glances down at a long list – ‘Abi Attwood.’
The three people mutter hello.
‘So, Abi,’ the woman continues, ‘you know what this is for …?’
Abi is barely listening. Jon isn’t there. He had an opportunity to see her and he declined. In her head she had allowed herself to believe that that was what this was really all about. He had suggested she come for the casting because he wanted to know he was going to see her again. Now she has no idea what she’s doing here.
She notices that the three people sitting down are all looking at her expectantly.
‘Sorry?’ she says.
‘Have you heard of Bargain Hunters?’ one of them says.
‘Oh yes. I have.’
‘Great, well, if you could just say this line –’ she is handed a piece of paper – ‘into that camera. Say your name first.’
A small camera is set up on a tripod in the corner. A young boy, probably on work experience, she decides, pops up from nowhere and presses a few buttons.
‘Ready,’ he says.
Abi has no time to even think about what she’s doing. She glances down at the piece of paper, she already knows the slogan: ‘Why pay for perfect packaging?’, but they seem to have extended the line, added a few extra words.
She looks vaguely in the direction of the camera, unsure of whether that’s what she should be doing or whether it’s rude not to be addressing the people in the room.
‘I’m Abi Attwood,’ she says falteringly.
‘Can you speak directly into the camera,’ someone says.
Abi forces herself to stare down the lens. ‘My name’s Abi Attwood.’ She looks at the piece of paper in her hand. Suddenly it strikes her that the Bargain Hunters slogan might as well be some kind of metaphor for her life. She needs to get this over with and get out of there.
‘Why pay for perfect packaging when it’s what’s on the inside that counts?’
‘Good,’ a man sitting on an orange chair says. ‘Can you do it again with a bit more energy? Maybe do it like you’re holding up a damaged box of something.’
Abi feels self-conscious, embarrassed, humiliated all at once. Why is she here? How did she get herself in this stupid situation?
She waves her hand around vaguely as if she’s holding something. ‘Why pay for perfect packaging when it’s what’s on the inside that counts?’
‘And once more like you’re happy about it.’
OK, so that really does require some acting skills. Abi feels she has two choices, burst into tears and run out of the room and straight to Charing Cross station, never to return, or say the stupid line one more time with as much dignity as she can muster and then put the whole experience behind her, but at least she won’t have shamed herself too much. She chooses the latter, takes a deep breath.
‘Why pay for perfect packaging when it’s what’s on the inside that counts?’
She waits. The older woman, obviously realizing that the others must be satisfied they’ve seen as much as they need to, jumps in, waving an iPhone.
‘If I could just take a couple of pictures,’ she says, taking them before she waits for an answer.
‘Who’s your agent?’ the woman asks as she hustles Abi out.
Abi explains that she doesn’t have one, that her brother-in-law just insisted on putting her forward, but the woman doesn’t really seem interested, simply writes down Abi’s mobile number as they walk and then calls in the next candidate without even saying goodbye, leaving Abi back in the reception area where she started. The whole excruciating episode has taken about four minutes.
On the way up she had thought that maybe she’d treat herself to a gallery or a walk along the river after the casting, but now she’s here, now she’s realized what an idiot she’s been, travelling all the way up to London in the hope of getting a glimpse of her secret love object, like an adolescent, she just wants to get home as soon as she can, back to the safety of her day-to-day life. There are still things in the flat that need doing, boxes that aren’t quite unpacked, cupboards that haven’t been arranged to her liking. She can spend the evening taking care of that.