She stopped to consider her options. The hotel was a last resort; Joe Simmons’ money wouldn’t last for ever and she wasn’t sure when she’d get paid for the waitressing work. A bed and breakfast, or better, a youth hostel: those were her only real options. There was a remote chance that the guesthouse above the shop was still operational–if indeed it existed at all–but she knew the chances were slim.
She was obviously going to have to ask around. But how long would that take? And who would help her? The only people nearby were four lanky youths who were practising the art of suspending their trousers from beneath their buttocks.
Jo wondered what day it was, and whether the nightclub would be open later. She briefly considered the option of going out drinking, relying on meeting a guy and being invited back to his for the night. She dismissed the idea immediately. It was too risky, too ridiculous. She took a swig of vodka to help her think. She had to find people to ask. Perhaps the shopping centre would be a good place to start.
The idea of clubbing stayed with her as she hobbled back to the town centre, the cheap plastic shoes wearing away at her ankles. It was the alcohol, she thought. Her imagination was running wild. She was picturing a scene: her at the bar in a club, finishing her drink. A guy leaning sideways towards her. He was an older guy, maybe twice her age but not unattractive. It was so vivid, the scene, almost as if…it was a memory.
She was remembering something from before the blast. Jo could feel him tapping her elbow, offering her a drink. It wasn’t her imagination; it had happened. And she was remembering.
Jo stopped and shut her eyes, trying to summon more. Maybe it would all start to come back to her now. She stood there, waiting for the scene to rematerialise, but it wouldn’t come; she was trying too hard.
Jo walked on, distracted but with a new sense of hope. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. Perhaps this flashback was the first of many. She reached for her notebook and laid it against a wall, scribbling down what she’d seen.
The next two people she asked had no idea about local guesthouses and the third just looked at her suspiciously and hurried away. For the first time all day, Jo started to lose faith in herself. She had no one to call. She was alone in a strange town where nobody wanted to help her, and before long it would be dark. She had limited cash, and even if she did opt to blow seventy pounds on a hotel room, she’d have to find it first. She found herself on the road back to Radley, hoping, despite all the odds, that the man was right about the B&B. The alcohol was blurring her thinking and she could hear the blood pounding round her head.
When she reached the convenience store, she headed straight for the bottled water.
‘Evening,’ croaked the elderly woman behind the till. Despite the wizened face and white hair, she had incredibly sharp-looking green eyes.
‘Hi.’ Jo hardly dared ask the question. ‘Could you tell me, is there a bed and breakfast above this shop?’
The woman looked slightly taken aback. ‘Goodness! Who told you that? There used to be.’
‘Used to be?’ Jo’s hopes fell away. She had walked up another dead end.
‘Well, yes. About ten years ago!’
‘Oh.’ Jo paid her for the water. ‘And are you sure it’s not running any more?’
The woman laughed. ‘Quite sure! It was my little business, until they made me shut up shop.’
‘Oh, right.’ Jo nodded and broke open the bottle of water. ‘I don’t suppose you know of any others around here, do you?’
The woman looked at her. Jo could feel her eyes roaming the cheap clothes and knotted hair.
‘I’m new,’ Jo explained. ‘I–I arrived this evening. I was supposed to be staying with a…a friend, but that didn’t, er, happen.’ She could hear the lack of conviction in her voice and tried to assert herself. ‘We fell out. And I’ve got a job in Radley that starts early in the morning so I have to stay nearby.’
The woman raised an eyebrow. Jo held her breath. She had gone into too much detail.
After a long pause, the woman spoke. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know of any this side of Abingdon,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Jo nodded and made to leave.
It was a last-ditch effort, but as she leaned on the door, she looked back at the woman. ‘Who made you shut up shop?’
The shrewd green eyes narrowed for a moment. ‘The council. You know: rules, regulations, paperwork, fire hazards. That sort of nonsense. They don’t like me because I blocked the ringroad development going through my shop–but that’s another story.’
Jo nodded, seeing an opportunity. It was a long shot, but her only one. ‘Do you…still have the rooms and everything?’
The woman’s expression slowly changed to a sceptical smile. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Jo.’
‘I’m Pearl. Pearl Phillips. Are you really stuck for somewhere to stay?’
‘Totally. I’ve tried everywhere. There’s nothing this side of town–I’ve looked,’ she gabbled. ‘I can pay. I’ve got money. Like, twenty, maybe twenty-five pounds a night? I’m desperate! I wouldn’t tell anyone. D’you think maybe—’
The woman smiled and held up her hand. ‘Calm down, Jo. Let’s call it fifteen.’
‘Cornflakes or toast? That’s all there is, I’m afraid.’ Mrs Phillips looked at her expectantly from behind the kitchen counter.
‘Toast, please,’ Jo replied in a daze. Her head felt heavy. It was half-past six and she had slept badly, despite her exhaustion and the comfortable bed. Her mind had been racing with anxious, panicky thoughts that became less and less rational as the night wore on. Then at two a.m., having finally drifted off, she had woken with a jolt, her breathing shallow, covered in sweat, her pulse racing. The nausea had taken hold as she lay there willing her brain to shut down, ebbing and flowing for what seemed like hours. Sometime around dawn she must have dozed off again, only to be woken by the sound of birds and a blocked nose, which, on later inspection, turned out to be a nosebleed.
The landlady started ferrying jams and spreads onto the table and arranging them in an arc around her guest. Jo mumbled her gratitude, distracted by the incredible number of cat replicas that covered every shelf and surface in the room.
‘You like cats, then.’
There were china cats, furry miniature cats, cat teapots, cat postcards…Even the woman’s slippers were shaped like cats.
Mrs Phillips looked up and smiled. ‘Very observant. Yes. I’d get a real one if I knew it wouldn’t outlive me.’ She whipped the toast from under the grill and slid it onto a plate. ‘There you go. Gone are the days when a full fry-up came as standard, I’m afraid…Mind you, the marmalade’s home-made.’
Accepting
