The Things We Do For Love E-Book

Alice Peterson

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

January Wild loves her daughter, her dog Spud and her childhood home by the sea. Single parenting is tough, but January has no regrets. She has a job she adores, a happy home, and the support of her beloved grandfather. But the arrival of a new boss threatens to shake up January's safe world. Ward Metcalfe loves great sales results and a well-run office. Everyone at the office agrees: Ward is a soulless, corporate slave driver. Even Spud, the company mascot, dislikes him. Yet over time January sees there is more to Ward than meets the eye. Rumours circulate. What exactly is he hiding? Is there a secret standing between them? And is January prepared to risk everything to find out?

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Praise for The Things We Do For Love

‘This is a wonderful portrait of the different dynamics within an unusual family’ Sara Lawrence, Daily Mail

Praise for Alice Peterson

‘If You Were Here is a moving and emotional story about facing a life-altering dilemma’ Jill Mansell, bestselling author of Rumour Has It

‘A lovely read, tackling both light and dark material with real assurance. I love the idea of a love triangle where one of the characters has died, which actually makes him more of an obstacle than if he were still alive. Also, the thought that you can find true love twice feels a strong romantic notion – and quite true, I’m sure’ Tom Williams, Chalet Girl screenwriter on Ten Years On

‘It’s not often that I fall in love with a book within the first few pages, but it happened to me with this one’ The Bookbag on You, Me and Him

‘Compelling and beautifully written’ Daisy Buchanan, journalist and author on If You Were Here

‘As it was the favourite book of the year to date for my reader in this field, I had to read it too… I loved it. It’s character-led, warm and sensitive’ Sarah Broadhurst, The Bookseller on Letters From My Sister

‘Echoes of Jane Austin, A Room With a View and Bridget Jones’s Diary’ Robert O’Rourke on Monday to Friday Man

‘A lovely example of realistic fiction that many women will be able to relate to’ Sun on One Step Closer to You

To Kim, Steve and Charlotte Edwards

And to my friend and cousin, SJ

Thank you for bringing this book to life

PROLOGUE

A beautifully presented two-bedroom garden flat in a popular street, only a stone’s throw away from excellent local shops and restaurants…

Finally I stand outside the front door of Flat 4a, 23 Priory Road. I catch my breath, handbag dropping to the pavement, my back aching, puffy ankles throbbing. I reread the estate agent’s blurb. I’m sure I’ve only passed a twenty-four-hour shop, tattoo parlour and a Tesco Express. No sign of any restaurants. Surely they can’t mean that old hut across the road that sells kebabs? I sigh. Course they do. They’re full of bullshit.

I glance at my watch. It’s coming up to half past one. I congratulate myself on being only ten minutes late when these days I can’t get anywhere quickly; I’m like a bus without wheels. What’s his excuse? I need to be back at work for a two thirty meeting. I’m bursting too.

Ten excruciatingly long minutes later, after leaving Alex Whyte a couple of messages, I’m about to give up when I see a tomato ketchup-coloured car zooming into a tight space on the opposite side of the street. Out comes a stocky man whom I guess to be about my age – early twenties – with short blond hair, chest puffed out, clearly proud of his parking skills. Must be him, he looks like an estate agent. I pick up my bag, thinking this place had better be worth the journey. I can’t face walking round any more depressing damp-ridden flats, agents advising me to strike while the iron is hot. This Alex guy is new so with any luck he’ll get what I’m looking for: a simple, small two-bedroom flat in West London, modern, a flat that needs no work…

I watch as Alex strides across the road in a dark suit and tie, talking on his mobile, his voice so loud that surely the whole street can hear his business. He raises an eyebrow in my direction and looks me up and down, keys jangling. The first one he locates doesn’t unlock the door and he’s still on his phone, no sign of an apology for keeping me waiting. I feel like grabbing his mobile, throwing it on to the ground and stamping on it. Oh the pleasure! ‘Yeah, mate, bang on,’ he’s saying as he tries another key. ‘Can’t, mate, the missus wants me back tonight.’ He rolls his eyes at me as finally we enter the building that… I sniff… smells of cat pee.

‘Okey-dokey!’ Alex hangs up and opens the front door to Flat 4a. ‘I’m all yours! I’m Alex by the way and I’m assuming you must be January. Cool name. How you doing? Having a good day so far?’

‘Not bad,’ I mutter, stepping into the hallway, painted olive green with an ivy-trellised border. I glance down the dark and narrow corridor, already feeling disappointed. It’s like dating. All your hopes are built up and then you meet a man who tucks his jumper into his trousers and wears white socks.

‘This is the hallway,’ Alex says, before walking a few steps and turning left, ‘and this is the kitchen.’

Why do they always say that? Makes me want to snap back, ‘No, really Sherlock? You don’t say.’ My bladder reminds me I need the loo.

‘As you can see, this property has a great feeling of light and space,’ says Alex, repeating word for word what is on my sheet, ‘and could make a terrific investment.’

I open one of the cupboard doors. A hinge is loose and the door swings.

‘Nothing that a bit of DIY can’t sort out,’ claims Alex, attempting to come to the rescue. ‘I’m sure your hubby or partner is a whizz with the screwdriver and hammer, hey.’ He slams the door shut and it falls off its hinge again. ‘Okey-dokey, moving on.’

‘Yes, let’s,’ I say, before asking him if I can go to the loo.

‘So, how many months are you?’ Alex calls through the bathroom door.

‘Er, hang on,’ I call back.

‘My girlfriend always says I should never ask if a woman is preggers just in case they’re, you know, partial to one too many doughnuts, but…’

Oh go away. You’re too close for comfort.

I flush the chain. ‘Seven,’ I say, spotting mould around the bath. ‘Two months to go.’ I unlock the door and Alex steps inside immediately, asking, ‘Is it safe or do I need to hold my nose?’ Another chuckle.

Is there a special school for estate agents, where they get gold stars for being the biggest knobs?

‘Anyway, as you can see,’ Alex continues, ‘this is the bathroom with the power shower.’

I nod, staring at an old white hose attached to one of the taps.

‘Okey-dokes.’ Next he’s leading me down the corridor and into a decent-sized room. ‘This,’ he says, as if it’s the pièce de résistance, ‘is the master bedroom with its own en-suite.’

‘The yellow walls look suspiciously as if the previous owner smoked in bed and a white shower curtain separates the shower from the loo. If I was brave enough I’d tell him not to waste any more time, this isn’t for me, but clearly I’m too polite because I’m now following him through the double doors and out into the garden, which it says in the blurb is well kept and west facing. ‘It’s not exactly well kept, is it?’ I can’t help saying, pointing at the weeds sprouting through the paving stones and peering into a pot of dead herbs. I wish my flatmate, Lizzie, was with me. Right now we’d be trying hard not to get the giggles. She was my closest school friend and the first person I lived with when I moved to London at eighteen. During this past year I don’t know what I would have done without her. Lizzie has stood by me every step of the way since, well, since everything began to go so horribly wrong.

‘Sure, sure,’ he says. ‘But you know what, all this place needs is a lick of paint and a woman’s touch…’ he winks at me, ‘and Bob’s your uncle, you’ve got a great little family pad that ticks all the boxes. So, how do you feel? Do you think your husband…?’

‘How many years are left on the lease?’ I ask, my skin burning.

‘Not sure, but I can find out,’ he suggests, placing an arm around my shoulder and leading me back into the musty-smelling sitting room with its two plastic-leather sofas, the walls painted in lilac. ‘I was going to say, do you think your other half might want to take a look?’ He registers my face, but continues, ‘I’m only asking because we’ve had serious interest and I can imagine you want to move…’ he stares at my bump, ‘pronto’.

You hate it. Tell him you hate it and he needs to do a whole lot better next time if he wants to get a juicy commission.

‘You’re a first-time buyer, right?’ Alex carries on before I have a chance to reply.

I nod.

‘You’re pretty young.’

I’m twenty-three. ‘Uh-huh. Anyway, thanks Alex, but…’

‘Lucky old you on the property ladder, hey? Is your husband a banker or something? Or let me guess, you guys won the lottery?’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’ I struggle for the right words. ‘Unfortunate circumstances,’ is what I come up with.

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Nothing unfortunate about being on the property ladder. A million people would kill to be in your shoes.’

‘Would they?’

‘Are you kidding me? I’m nowhere near buying my own place.’

As Alex continues, I see myself aged five, holding my toy rabbit as my grandparents told me the news about my parents’ death, Granny holding me in her arms. I remember going to an antiques fair for my tenth birthday and choosing a gold locket, Grandad telling me I could put a photograph of Mum and Dad on either side, reminding me that they were always close, inside my heart. I recall my grandparents telling Lucas and me, when we were eighteen, that they’d invested the money from the sale of my parents’ house, for us. It was our inheritance. Then I hear Dan’s voice inside my head and the pain deepens. When will it go away? They say time heals, but how can it when I have his child growing inside me? I’m in a dark place, a place that sometimes I don’t want to be. I touch my bump, feeling guilty that I am plagued by doubt with the choices I have made. How can I raise a child without his or her father? Am I mad thinking I can do this on my own? Will he come back? Where is he?

‘January?’ I feel someone touching my shoulder.

‘I have to go,’ I say, heading towards the front door.

‘So, give us a tinkle once you’ve had a chance to think about it and—’

‘I’ve thought about it,’ I cut him off, before reinforcing with increasing frustration that this flat doesn’t tick any of my boxes.

He must sense my mood as outside, in the cold and drizzle, he says, ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I reply. Catching a bus back to work is infinitely preferable to another minute spent with Alex and his wild assumptions.

But then I see something out of the corner of my eye and Alex follows my gaze.

‘Oh shit!’ He races across the road just as a traffic warden plants a ticket behind his windscreen wipers.

On my way back to the office I can’t stop smiling. There was something so funny about watching Alex argue in vain about his ticket, saying he’d only parked for one lousy minute. One minute! If only.

So, I didn’t find my dream house, and time is against me, but it will be out there somewhere; it’s just hiding well. Perhaps finding the right house is like finding the right man. Just as you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince, clearly sometimes you have to visit many places like Flat 4a, 23 Priory Road before you find the right match.

I take a deep breath and stare out of the window, wiping a tear from my eye, my emotions all over the place these days. I touch my locket. It doesn’t matter how often I tell myself that I have many friends and I have my wonderful grandparents and I have Lizzie – the thing is, I don’t have him anymore. Dan’s face haunts me every single day. Every waking hour I fantasise that this is a dream and soon I’ll wake up and see his face.

I wish I didn’t feel this way. How weak I am. I should hate him for being such a coward, shouldn’t I? And I do, but there is a fine line between love and hate.

As the bus pulls into the next stop, I sit up, promising myself to stop thinking about him all the time. I have my baby now; he or she is my priority. Perhaps, one day, he will regret the choices he has made. Maybe it’s better to be on my own than with the wrong man. Lizzie tells me there is nothing lonelier than being with the wrong person. I will raise my child and give it all the love I have. I can do it. I know I can. Just watch me, Dan Gregory.

I know, in many ways, that Alex is right. I am in a fortunate position. I find myself smiling again recalling him laying into the traffic warden, calling him the scum of the earth, so angry spit was flying out of his mouth. Imagine being with a man like him. I think I’d rather have pins stuck in my eyes than go out with a man who says ‘okey-dokey’. Life could be worse. Life could be so much worse.

I can’t stop smiling now.

‘Your mother loved to laugh, January,’ Granny once said to me when she was teaching me how to plant seeds in her greenhouse. ‘Her glass was always half full. As a child she used to love watching the Carry On films. I could hear her laughter coming all the way from the other side of the house.’

I must be laughing now as my neighbour is looking at me strangely, as if I’m mad. Maybe I am.

All I can think is I could be married to an Alex.

I could be married to an estate agent.

1

Eight years later, 2011

I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, holding my stomach in. I don’t remember my navy suit trousers being this tight… but then again I haven’t worn them for years. But still, surely not? The drycleaners must have shrunk them.

‘Are you wearing the shoes that make your feet go up?’ Isla asks me. She has always described high heels this way. She’s sitting on the end of my bed, stroking Spud, our Jack Russell rescue dog. His coat is snow-white with a light brown circular patch on his back and sturdy little chest. I shove my feet into my shoes. ‘Yep! Ta-dah!’ I give her a twirl, trying to disguise my nerves.

Isla sticks her thumbs up. ‘She looks pretty, doesn’t she, Spud?’ She pats him on the top of his head before cocking her head to one side. ‘But your hair is funny.’ She shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter, ha ha ha!’ Isla has a naughty contagious laugh.

‘Ha ha ha!’ I repeat before glancing in the mirror and noticing how static my hair is after washing it this morning. ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘breakfast.’

I couldn’t eat a thing.

This morning I’m having my second interview for Sherwoods, a property firm in Mayfair that specialises in selling country houses and estates. I have applied for the PA position, working for the chairman of the London office, Jeremy North. I don’t know a thing about property, except that I don’t like estate agents. I still can’t believe I’m applying to work for one. Clearly I’m not only desperate but insane too. I think back to the agent who sold me this place in Hammersmith, pound signs bulging out of his eyes. But surely not all estate agents are tossers, are they? After weeks of circling job adverts and nothing materialising, Lizzie, who works for a travel company, told me she’d heard about this job through a friend. ‘Don’t worry about having no experience,’ she’d reassured me, ‘you just need to be able to run an office.’ But that’s the trouble. I’m seriously rusty. I haven’t worked in an office since Isla was born. I had every intention of going back to my old job at a literary agency in Notting Hill, but when I sat down and really worked out the sums, I struggled to see how my salary could cover full-time care. It couldn’t. And then Isla needed all that extra attention, and suddenly I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to have a job or lead anything close to a normal life ever again. A lot has happened over the past eight years to chip away at my confidence.

Things used to be simple. I moved to London when I was eighteen, ready to throw myself into any job. Unlike my older brother Lucas (he managed to get away with a more conservative name), who knew he’d always wanted to be a banker and earn serious money, I had no idea what I wanted to do except to earn enough to pay my rent and enjoy my freedom. My first job was waitressing in a bar and then over the next three years I shampooed hair at Toni&Guy and worked in the toy department at Harrods where I met my first love, Billy, who worked in the men’s toiletries department. He used to pick me up for dates on his motorbike, wearing his hot leather jacket. When I heard the sound of the engine I’d rush out of the front door and he’d whip his helmet off for a kiss before I hopped on to the back, Billy telling me to hold on tight. It was like being with Tom Cruise in Top Gun! Then I sold silver heart necklaces and engagement rings in Tiffany’s, worked for a courier company and, finally, had a secretarial job for a literary agency. I’ve enjoyed each job in a different way, but it hasn’t exactly been a career ladder or whatever you call it. Given half the chance I’d read books for a living, so my last job was the most fulfilling. I was not only doing secretarial work but also reading scripts and learning about the contract side. At last I’d found something that gave me a kick in my stride. I didn’t want to have cigarette and coffee breaks every minute of the day. And then I met Dan and… well, everything changed and… I stop, not wanting to live in the past. Focus on this morning, January. I need this job to help pay my bills and mortgage. However, it’s not just about the money. These past eight years have been some of my most challenging yet, and I have no regrets. I love being Isla’s mother. But somewhere along the way I’ve lost a part of me that I need to find again.

Deep breath. I can do this. Be professional. I can work for an estate agent, as long as he doesn’t say okey-dokey…

Isla and I head into the kitchen and I try to ignore the mess of bills and paperwork littering the worktop. Isla lifts herself on to the stool; she’s as light as a sparrow and short for her age, with rich chestnut-coloured hair like my own and my mother’s and grandmother’s, except Isla’s hair is cut in a cute bob with a blunt fringe that highlights her almond-shaped eyes. I have grey-green eyes, like my mother’s. Granny often hugs me tightly, saying she can’t believe how alike we are, that I have grown up to be a beautiful woman. ‘Although you might be a tiny bit biased,’ I add.

I pour Isla a glass of milk before switching on the coffee machine and radio, sticking some bread into the toaster and mashing some vile-smelling tinned meat into Spud’s bowl. Next Isla is off the stool and singing ‘Edelweiss’ with Spud, Spud’s head tilted to one side, tail wagging as he howls along to the music. It’s one of his party tricks and normally I find it endearing… ‘Isla! Will you sit down otherwise we’ll be late.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

Her favourite expression, said with a shrug. This morning I butter and cut her toast. I know I shouldn’t do it for her but I don’t have the time or energy to argue. I think back to my teens and early twenties, the job interviews that I had. I don’t remember feeling this nervous, but then I didn’t have anything to lose, nor care so deeply about rejection. Now there’s this part of me screaming, ‘Who the hell would want to employ you? You’re just a mum. You haven’t been in the job market for years! You won’t even know how to work the photocopier!’ The knife slips from my fingers.

‘Isla! That’s enough!’ I force her on to the stool before plonking Spud’s bowl on to the floor for him.

‘You’ll be all right, Mummy,’ she says, looking up at me with that soulful expression.

It’s only a job. I drop my shoulders. ‘Sorry, darling.’

‘They liked you the first time,’ she reasons, ‘so I’m sure they’ll like you again.’

I think back to my first interview. I’d arrived at Green Park with plenty of time to spare so decided to have a coffee. I was in a queue in Starbucks and the young woman standing in front of me was constantly looking at her watch. She had long fair hair and patterned tights and I could see a packet of cigarettes in her jacket pocket. When the time finally came for her to order a double espresso she rummaged in her handbag before explaining to the indifferent man behind the counter that she’d left her wallet in the office and could she pay later? Everyone in the queue began to tut because the manager needed to be called. Sensing her stress I tapped her on the shoulder and said I’d be happy to pay, and no, she didn’t need to pay me back. It was only a coffee. My grandmother always says do kind things for people; what goes around comes around. When I was shown into the boardroom later that morning there she was, sitting at the table. ‘Lucie Henshaw, Jeremy North’s number two,’ she said, shaking my hand and telling me to sit down, and that she’d never come across the name January before. She then looked at me again, narrowing her eyes and said with a small smile, ‘Can I get you a coffee?’

School is thankfully only a five-minute walk from home. I like this part of west London. It’s where Lizzie and I rented our first flat together on Hammersmith Grove. Isla, Spud and I live close to Ravenscourt Park; we’re only minutes away from cafes, the Lyric theatre, the rundown cinema and pubs along the river. As Isla rushes on ahead with Spud I tell her to keep her right foot flat on the ground. ‘No Miss Tippy Toes!’ I call out, ignoring another passer-by looking at us. We’re fairly immune now to stares. Walking in a straight line has never been Isla’s strong point.

My mobile rings. It’s Granny. ‘Sock it to him, darling.’

Grandad comes on to the line. ‘And if you get nervous imagine the old chairman starkers.’

I smile. ‘What are you doing today?’

‘Sleeping,’ he says, ‘in between eating cheese.’

Granny comes back on to the line. ‘Call us, won’t you, when it’s over.’ She sounds breathless.

‘Granny, are you all right?’ Granny is seventy-four. ‘You haven’t had any more of your giddy spells? Isla, not too fast!’

‘I’m as right as rain. Now good luck, you can do it.’

At the school gates I receive many admiring glances since my school-mum friends are so used to seeing me in jeans, a sloppy jumper and boots. As everyone wishes me good luck I’m beginning to regret telling them all about this interview. It reminds me of announcing the date of my driving test to all my friends, only to go and mount the kerb the moment I left the driving test centre. Isla dawdles. She hates saying goodbye to Spud and me; normally she heads off with her friends, no glance over her shoulder, but today she’s clingy. ‘If you get the job,’ she says, ‘you’ll still be my mum, won’t you?’

I bend down and wrap my arms around her, feeling guilty for snapping earlier this morning. ‘I love you more than any job. You will always come first.’

She nods as if that answer will do. As I watch her walk through the school gates, I can’t help comparing her spaghetti-thin legs to the sturdy legs of her friends. I overhear her telling them Mummy is trying to get a job, which is why I am wearing shoes that make my feet go up.

Sherwoods is on Dover Street, close to Berkeley Square, in the heart of Mayfair. Next door to a modern art gallery is a shoe shop, a pair of silver heels mounted in the window as if they are jewels.

The office building is two-toned, white and charcoal grey, with long sash windows and a little black balcony. As I approach the front door I remind myself of all the things not to say or do during my interview. Don’t chew nails. Don’t ramble, no going off on tangents. Remember my W.A.I.T. tactic – it stands for ‘Why Am I Talking?’ Lizzie tipped me off about this one. Often we have this need, driven either by insecurity or some warped sense of responsibility that it’s always up to us to fill an awkward silence, but it’s dangerous since it can lead to waffling. W.A.I.T. is useful to remember on first dates too; you don’t want to give away your whole life story. Not that I’ve had huge success lately on the dating front… don’t think about that right now… concentrate…

Don’t say ‘you know’ a lot. Impress Mr North with your knowledge about the company. There are twelve offices in the country and roughly two hundred staff. It was founded in 1875 or was it 1895? Say late nineteenth century. Their rival is Barker & Goulding, a much bigger property firm. I thrive in smaller set-ups. I press the buzzer. ‘I can do this,’ I mutter for the millionth time. The reason for the eight-year gap on my CV, well, that’s a long story… W.A.I.T. He doesn’t need to know all about my private life… Lucie will have told him that I have a child, just say no plans to have any more and… ‘Oh hello, it’s January Wild,’ I say through the intercom, straightening my jacket and brushing one of Spud’s hairs off my trousers. ‘I’m here for…’

They buzz me in. ‘My ten o’clock interview,’ I say to myself, touching my locket.

The receptionist greets me again, soaked in Chanel scent. She’s called Nadine and looks as if she’s in her late forties, short honey-blonde dyed hair, top-heavy but great legs, I notice, as she totters in front of me in a skirt and purple suede boots. Sherwoods is based in a private house on two levels. The reception is in the hallway, a wide wooden-floored corridor, big enough to fit a desk, a couple of chairs and a glass coffee table scattered with Country Life magazines. Downstairs is the open-plan office that everyone shares, except for Jeremy who has his own private room upstairs, next to the boardroom. Nadine comments on how quiet it is since everyone is out on a pitch.

As I walk into Jeremy North’s spacious office the first things I take in are the tailored suit, silvery-grey hair and old-fashioned spectacles perched precariously close to the end of his nose. I shake his hand firmly before sitting down.

He shuffles some paperwork in front of me. ‘So, January, your name certainly stands out.’

‘I’m often teased. People say to me, “What’s your surname? Let me guess. February?” Or I tell you another one…’ W.A.I.T. I laugh nervously and shut up.

He skims through my CV. I want to tell him I’m a hard worker, that had it not been for Isla’s complications, my qualifications would be more impressive. But I remain quiet. ‘I see you have no actual work experience in property, but obviously you know the difference between when a property is for sale, when it’s under offer and when it’s exchanged contracts?’

‘I do,’ comes my solemn reply, as if answering vows in a church.

‘This role requires someone who is organised. I travel a fair amount, mainly meeting colleagues at the other offices or I’m doing pitches across the country. I need someone here to manage my time and my diary.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘What’s your geography like?’

‘My geography? Very fine.’ Very fine?

‘My last PA was charming, but her geography. She didn’t know where Princes Risborough was. Fancy that. She thought it was a person, that I was meeting a Prince Risborough.’

‘Fancy that,’ I say, clocking on the wall behind him a framed print of a map of Britain, but drat, I’m too far away. I didn’t reckon on having to be a geography whizz. My grandfather once asked me the capital of Turkey and I said ‘Bernard Matthews’.

‘You see, if I’m going from Norfolk to Cheshire in a day,’ Jeremy continues, ‘I need more than an hour to get there, unless my name is Obama and I fly by private jet.’ His light blue eyes twinkle. I imagine he had fair hair when he was young. Looking at him now makes me think of my father. They would have been roughly the same age.

‘How long would you give me to travel from Norfolk to Cheshire, January?’

‘Norfolk to Cheshire,’ I repeat, indiscreetly trying to place both on the map. Why isn’t he asking me what my strengths are and all that? ‘Well, that depends on all sorts of things.’ I give him one of my megawatt smiles, hoping that will be enough for him.

‘Such as?’ He peers at me from behind his round-framed glasses.

‘The traffic and… the weather, you know, flooding or, you know, wind…’

‘Wind?’

‘Yes, howling gales that can, you know, rock your car side to side and if your satnav doesn’t send you on, you know, a little detour…’ W.A.I.T. ‘Three hours, maybe a little more,’ I add when I see his face.

‘I’d say at least four to be on the safe side. In this business you cannot afford to be late for pitches.’

‘Yes. Always best to be cautious.’

‘It’s essential to be professional and on time.’

‘Absolutely. Normally I’m far too early. I once turned up at a wedding before the groom, ha ha…’ I stop; fold my hands on to my lap. ‘Anyway, as you were saying…’

‘Yes, right. Some of your work will involve advertising and brochure design, booking photographers and researching the area to get key selling points across in the text. You’ll get the hang of the property blurb.’ He pauses. ‘Lucie mentioned that you have family commitments?’

I nod. ‘I have a little girl, Isla.’ I go on to tell him that I have provisionally made arrangements for her, but without going into the detail of interviewing a Romanian woman called Ruki, who wants to work part-time in between cutting people’s hair from home.

‘I have a dog too,’ I say, glancing at the photograph of two golden Labradors on the bookcase behind his desk.

‘Oh, do you? What kind?’ For the first time Jeremy looks interested, as if a dark room suddenly has light.

‘A Jack Russell. He’s called Spud.’

‘I have two.’ He swings round to pick up the photograph. ‘Albert, named after Albert Bridge, and Elvis because my wife loves…’ He begins to sing ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’, Elvis Presley-style. ‘I tell you, it’s exceptionally handy to be a dog lover in this job. I was once at a house and happened to know that the woman’s four-legged friend was a Spinone Italiano. That got me the pitch immediately.’

I laugh with him.

With renewed energy Jeremy goes on to tell me about how one of the most important aspects of the job is to keep the clients happy. ‘Some are charming; others you want to poke in the eye with a dirty stick, but the thing is, without clients we have nothing to sell.’

He picks up his telephone, calls down to Nadine to ask for a pot of coffee. ‘And some of those biscuits au gingembre,’ he says in a French accent as he winks at me. ‘So, as I was saying…’ He trails off.

‘You were saying how important your clients are.’

‘That’s right. Often we sell houses to the rich and famous, or the rich and famous are our clients, so one needs a degree in discretion.’

‘I have that.’

He drums his fingers against the desk. ‘What people tend to forget is that selling a house can be emotional. I am dealing with someone’s most prized possession. It’s not like selling British Telecom shares. There are tears, especially from my older clients and it’s important to respect what they’re going through. These are people who have often spent forty plus years in their homes and finally they have to move because they can’t manage or one of them is gravely ill. They have to say goodbye to a home filled with memories, a place where they raised their children. Where do your parents live?’

‘Cornwall.’

‘Lovely. Which part?’

‘South coast, near St Austell.’ From my bedroom window is a blanket of green lawn and blue sea. I picture my grandmother now, sitting by the telephone, waiting for me to call as she distracts herself with the crossword or some sewing. She used to knit cardigans and smock dresses for Isla. Or maybe she’s practising the piano. She took it up when I left home aged eighteen. She doesn’t do as much gardening or walking as she used to. I feel emotional as I picture her weekly pillbox, Granny laughing that unless she sticks her tablets into each little compartment she forgets if she’s taken them.

‘Have they lived there all their lives?’

‘We moved when I was nine,’ I say, recalling how unhappy my brother Lucas had been when we’d left London. ‘You’ve ruined my life!’ he’d tell our grandparents, slamming the door behind him. ‘I hate it here!’ I’m brought back to reality when Nadine comes in carrying a tray that she puts down on his desk, and I’m hoping that will stop Jeremy asking any more personal questions.

‘Thank you, Nadine.’ He pours the coffee and offers me a biscuit before going on. ‘I’m sure that when they eventually do sell your parents will remember all those rainy afternoons when you did your maths homework at the kitchen table, or the times you camped in the garden. My children loved to dress up and perform plays in front of our long-suffering friends.’

Please don’t go on. It’s beginning physically to hurt not to cry. My parents didn’t have the chance to see me learn to ride a bike. They didn’t teach Lucas and me to swim, or read our school reports. All their hopes and dreams for the future… maybe they had wanted a third child… everything gone, taken away in one instant… my grandparents picking up the shattered pieces…

‘I bet your mother even remembers… Oh no, oh January, what’s wrong?’ Frantic, he opens the top drawer of his desk and hands me a small packet of tissues.

‘It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.’ I pluck one out of the packet. I haven’t cried or thought about my parents for some time, so why now? ‘I’m fine,’ I assure Jeremy, wiping my eyes. Don’t muck up, January. I’ve got to get out of my rut and back into the real world again. These last eight years have been taken up with Isla’s hospital appointments, one after another, and I’m lonely, so lonely, because now that Isla’s at school I have all this time to fill, time that stretches like a long empty road leading nowhere.

I’m lost.

‘Shall I call a doctor?’ Jeremy asks when the tears come again.

There’s a knock. ‘Not now, Nadine!’

She pokes her head round the door and winces. ‘It’s just Mr Parish is on the line, he wants to put in an offer…’

‘Later!’

Nadine backs away.

‘I’m sorry.’ I sneeze. ‘Please take the call.’

‘It can wait. Was it something I said?’ There is genuine concern in Jeremy’s voice.

‘My parents died when I was a baby.’

Jeremy looks vexed. ‘How insensitive of me.’

‘You weren’t to know. My grandparents raised my brother and me. I’m lucky. They are my parents. I had everything a child could possibly want.’

‘Except your mum and dad.’ There’s a long pause. ‘You have your own family now? A daughter,’ he continues, clearly hoping that will ease my pain.

I feel a lump in my throat. ‘If you get the job you’ll still be my mum, won’t you?’

And I’m off again. The tears won’t stop. What was I thinking believing I could sit here in my stupid old suit that’s too tight pretending everything is normal?

There’s a further tentative knock on the door. Nadine comes in, ‘I’m sorry, Jeremy, but Mr Parish is insisting…’ She stops when she sees me. ‘I’ll come back later.’ The door slams shut.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to Jeremy. ‘I’ve wasted enough of your time, I’ll…’

He raises a hand to stop me. ‘Would you like to start the interview again?’

Stunned, I nod. He gives me time to gather myself and dry my eyes. Ask me about Sherwoods, ask me anything that’s easy to answer.

‘How old is your daughter?’

Surprised, ‘Eight,’ I reply.

‘And you’re a single mum? That must be tough.’

‘Isla’s father, Daniel…’ I stop, unsure how to begin telling Jeremy that messed-up story. ‘He’s around. He’s a good father, but we’re not together anymore.’ I see Dan giving Isla a piggyback in the park, both of them laughing as Dan chases Spud across the field, Isla saying, ‘Faster, Daddy!’

Jeremy picks up his telephone. ‘Nadine, cancel all my appointments for this morning and tell Mr Parish I’m unavailable for the next hour, that there’s been an emergency.’ He looks at me with kindness in his eyes. ‘What’s Isla like?’

‘Goodness, where do I start?’

‘At the beginning.’

2

Six years ago, 2005

Isla is two years old. After seeing the doctor, I leave the hospital, numb, pushing her buggy down the corridor and towards the lifts. A blast of fresh air hits me when we exit the building. I watch the traffic, hear an ambulance siren and see people rushing down the street with cups of coffee, talking on their mobiles. How can life carry on when my world has been turned upside down?

As we wait at the bus stop I keep reminding myself that Isla is the same girl she was twenty minutes ago. Nothing has changed. I look down at her, sitting in her pram, chestnut curls, podgy cheeks and big round eyes. Except everything has changed. On the bus on our way home, ‘What shall we have for our tea?’ I ask, adopting that cheerful voice when inside my head all I can hear is the doctor saying those dreaded words, ‘Isla has cerebral palsy’.

I dig my thumbnail into the palm of my hand.

‘Nana,’ she says, holding her teddy.

‘How about I make us a banana smoothie!’ I dig my nail even deeper. Of course it was obvious. Isla can’t stand straight or still, she has little or no balance. She is still crawling and when she does manage to stand, she can only walk on tiptoe.

I stare out of the window. I see the doctor sitting in front of his computer screen.

‘Often we don’t pick up on spasticity in the earlymonths…’ I shift in my seat.

‘The damage to Isla’s brain has occurred in the area that controls the muscle tone. This is why she has that tightness in her legs.’

‘So, you’re saying Isla’s brain can’t give the right messages to her body?’

‘Indeed. The command from the muscle itself overwhelms her spinal cord and as a result the muscle is too dense, or spastic.’

That ‘s’ word again. I wish I’d had the nerve to ask him to stop using it.

‘Of course patients have varying degrees,’he’d continued. ‘I see Isla has some tightness in her hands too, but it’s mild. I think her walking could be significantly affected and she could possibly have learning difficulties, linked with the brain damage…’

I feel sick. Helpless.

‘But in her case, I don’t believe it’s severe. Isla’s a bright girl. Treatment is important. We don’t want to see her get any worse… she’ll need splints for her feet and I’ll refer her for hydrotherapy. She must carry on with her stretching exercises.’

I watch another mother with her young fair-haired son. He looks as if he’s about three or four, dressed in dungarees and a cap. He presses the button before he runs down the aisle, towards the exit doors. All I can think is, why did this happen to Isla and me? Is it something I did during my pregnancy? Tears sting my eyes. Is this my fault?

Back at home it’s deathly quiet. I turn on the television, anything to have some mindless noise. I stick the kettle on, before deciding to scrap tea and open a bottle of wine instead. Isla is playing with her toys next door, scattering them across the sitting-room floor. I sit down at the kitchen table and glance at the blue hospital information pack the doctor had given me at the end of our appointment. ‘There are three types of CP,’ I read. Isla has spastic diplegia cerebral palsy. I had no idea there were different kinds. They all sound equally bad. I’d always pictured people in wheelchairs with contorted limbs, barely able to speak.

‘It’s almost impossible to say why part of a baby’s brain has been injured or failed to develop, there could be a number of reasons… Muscles must have enough tone to be healthy. The command to tense or increase muscle tone goes to the spinal cord via nerves from the muscle itself…’

There’s a diagram of half a body with lots of arrows sticking out of it. I remember the doctor saying something about ‘sensory neurons’ and ‘motor neurons’. I glance at the text again, the words blurring on the page. It’s another language I don’t want to learn.

I should be cooking Isla’s tea.

I press my head into my hands, strength draining from my body. Please, dear God, let this be a dream. Then I sit up, knowing exactly what I have to do. I reach into my handbag, take out my mobile. I will track Dan down once and for all. I call his old office. Dan is a journalist. Well, he used to be. Who knows what he’s up to now? I’m determined not to hang up until I have some information. Somebody has to know something. He can’t just vanish into thin air. ‘Hi, can I speak to someone who used to work with Dan Gregory?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘A friend.’

She hesitates, before putting me through to his old boss.

‘Haven’t I spoken to you before?’ He sounds abrupt.

‘Yes, but does anyone have his contact details?’

‘Nope.’

‘It’s important…’ I say with a trembling voice. ‘I need to—’

‘He didn’t let us know,’ he interrupts. ‘As I told you before, Dan left pretty suddenly, packed his desk… I think he went abroad.’

Clearly I wasn’t the only one let down by him. ‘Do you know anyone who might know where he is?’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s urgent. Please.’

‘Can’t help.’

I slam the mobile down on the table, anger coursing through my veins. Dan and I went out for such a short time that I didn’t meet his friends or his family. It’s as if he has erased his past, changed his mobile number, his address; he has completely reinvented himself.

I look through the glass doors and watch Isla picking up a piece of jigsaw puzzle, tapping it against her mouth, before throwing it across the room, giggling.

I gulp down some more wine before I call home. Granny picks up immediately. ‘What news?’

My silence says it all. ‘Oh, January.’

Just the sound of her voice makes me tearful. ‘I can’t do this, Granny. I’m scared.’ I tell her I tried to contact Dan again, that I’m desperate.

‘Come and stay with us,’ she pleads.

After I finish our call I don’t know how long I sit at the kitchen table, staring into space, until I feel a tug on my leg.

‘Mummy?’ Isla looks up at me and gives me one of her best smiles, as if to say ‘We’ll be all right.’ I pick her up and rock her in my arms.

‘It’s you and me, Isla, and we’re going to be fine,’ I say, my heart breaking inside.