cursed herself for inventing the ridiculous story about the sock. She put on her most apologetic expression and hoped she didn’t look too much like the hung-over wreck that she was.
A voice sounded from the front of the shop. ‘Hey, anyone in?’
They returned to the shop like a chided schoolgirl and teacher, Jo recognising the smooth, confident tone instantly.
‘Ah, hi, Jo. How’s things?’ Stuart stepped forward, not seeing her warning glare. ‘Just popping in for my “freebie”. You open yet?’
‘Um, er…’
‘I can answer that,’ replied Trevor, stepping out from behind the counter. ‘Yes, we’re open but no, you can’t have your “freebie”. This teashop does not offer “freebies”.’
Stuart looked a bit taken aback. ‘Er, right. I see. Well, I just wanted to leave this for Jo,’ he said, depositing what looked like a five-pound note on the nearest table. ‘See you later.’
Like a crab, he sidestepped out of the café and disappeared.
Trevor looked at Jo. ‘That is exactly what I’m talking about.’
Jo nodded feebly. It seemed fairly pointless to protest.
‘Well?’ squeaked Trevor, nostrils flaring. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Jo wasn’t waiting for anything, but presumably that wasn’t the correct response.
‘I suppose I should give that table a good scrub…’
‘You should do no such thing. Get out. You’ve had your last chance. I don’t want to see you in here again. I’ll find someone else. Someone honest. Someone who can do things properly. I should’ve known there’d be trouble as soon as you said you were foreign.’
Jo hastened towards her bag of possessions on the counter, trying to work out a line of defence but distracted by the irony of her boss’s last comment. She couldn’t think straight. It wasn’t just the alcohol in her bloodstream or the fact that Trevor was waving his flabby arms at her, exposing his sweat patches; it was the fact that she didn’t want to form a defence. She needed a job because she needed the money, but that wasn’t enough of a reason for her to stick around.
‘And because I’m an honest man,’ he went on, still smouldering, ‘I’ll pay you for the week. It’s more than you deserve.’ He grudgingly handed over a brown envelope.
Jo didn’t speak. She had nothing to say. With a final glance at the nasty plastic seats and the flowery café walls, she walked out, picking up Stuart’s fiver as she left.
She had walked for a couple of hours before Jo remembered to look in her pocket. When she did, despite her situation and despite her pulsating head, she smiled. It was an old five-pound note. Clearly Stuart had intended to use it to pay for his coffee. Across the front, in red biro, he had scribbled five words: ‘Dinner Thurs? The Grange, 8 p.m.’
Jo didn’t know whether to feel flattered by his chivalry or amused by the man’s presumptuousness. Clearly, Stuart was assuming that she’d accept the invitation. There was no phone number, no alternative, no information about where The Grange was or what type of place it was. The only thing Jo could glean from the note was a confirmation of something she had already suspected: Stuart was full of himself.
She stuffed the note in her wallet, then pulled out the envelope and transferred her week’s wages across. A hundred and eighty pounds. A hundred and eighty much-needed pounds. Jo still had over a hundred from Joe Simmons’ original stash, but she knew how quickly it would disappear if she couldn’t find somewhere cheap to live soon.
She massaged her temples, trying to alleviate the throbbing pain. She suspected the headache wasn’t just a result of yesterday’s drinking. The developments of the last few hours were also partly to blame. She was homeless and unemployed–again. Being constantly on the move, or constantly ready to be on the move, was tiring, and the uncertainty of her existence was beginning to wear her down.
In a way, she longed for the stability of a ‘normal’ life. Every once in a while–like now–she considered turning herself in and reverting to the life of Rebecca Ross. Every time–like now–she rejected the idea on the grounds that, for all she knew, Rebecca Ross’s life wasn’t ‘normal’ at all, and even if it had been ‘normal’, the turmoil of transplanting Jo Simmons back into it didn’t bear thinking about.
The houses petered out and she realised she was on a track that led to the turquoise lakes she had seen from Mrs Phillips’ guesthouse. Mrs Phillips. Jo cringed. Thinking back to the scene in the shop, she wondered whether she might have been a bit harsh on the old lady. Sure, Mrs P had been meddling in something that didn’t concern her, but still…Jo felt a twinge of guilt. Now she was sober, last night seemed like something of an over-reaction.
The lakes looked unnaturally blue, as though they’d been airbrushed for a holiday brochure. Jo guessed they were the flooded remains of a chalk quarry pit and her mind wandered to other possible industries in the area. What could she do for a living? Was she trained in anything useful? She wondered whether any skills she might have would still apply. If she could add up, could she do other things? Perhaps she was a qualified plumber, she thought, or a doctor or brain surgeon…Hmm. She could picture it now: walking into a hospital and offering her services as a neurologist. The irony almost made her smile.
The path veered away from the lakes and took her west in the direction of Abingdon. The sun was high in the sky now; it was probably nine, maybe ten o’clock. Maybe Stuart could help her get a job. He looked like a well-connected young man–if such things could be deduced from the cut of a man’s trousers or the whiteness of his teeth. You couldn’t own a convertible BMW 3 Series if you didn’t know a few people, could you?
The track brought her out on a single carriageway that she took to be the Abingdon ringroad. Jo found herself weaving through a suburban maze of estates punctuated by corner shops and miniature parks.
A group of young men about her age were kicking a ball about in a small patch of grass. Jo stopped by a tree and looked on. To call it football would have been an exaggeration; this was more like watching a bunch of apes jumping around on a giant pinball machine.
‘Sanjit, you fat bastard! You could’ve got that if you’d moved!’
The ball rolled past the goalie at a leisurely pace and came to rest a few metres from where Jo stood. The goalkeeper, a rounded young man with sloping shoulders and a Roman nose, lumbered towards it. Jo stepped forward, rolled the ball onto the top of her foot and flicked it back to the man.
It was a couple of seconds later, when the wolf-whistles from the small Asian guy in the England shirt had died down, that Jo stopped to think about what had happened. She had flicked the ball up and booted it back into the game, as if…as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Surely that wasn’t normal? Surely not everyone could do that–especially not many women?
A tall young man with a side parting and alarmingly short white shorts looked over. ‘Sorry about him,’ he shouted. ‘Doesn’t get out much.’ He rolled his eyes in a way that was clearly designed to
