16 June
Lauren glanced at the kitchen clock, wishing time would slow down this morning. She’d yet to brush her hair, or put the bins out – and it was recycling day.
The toaster popped, sending a burnt slice of bread flying into the air like a clay pigeon being released from an automated trap. She tried to catch it, but it bounced off the fridge, landing on the disgusting linoleum flooring. Thankfully, her housework-obsessed sister had mopped the floor yesterday, so she felt safe in applying the ‘five-second rule’ and picked it up.
Blowing on it, she dropped it onto the breadboard, making a mental note to add ‘new toaster’ to the list of things to buy once her loan had been cleared later on today. She’d circled the date on the calendar, the last instalment. It was the only thing keeping her sane this morning.
‘Breakfast is ready!’ She used the last of the cheap margarine on the toast, relishing the prospect of buying proper butter next week, when she’d be twenty-five quid better off.
‘How far away is Looe?’ Her sister looked up from the newspaper.
Lauren wiped her hands on a tea towel. ‘It’s on the other side of the coast.’ Her children had yet to appear from their bedrooms. ‘Freddie! Florence! Breakfast is getting cold.’
Charlotte tucked her straightened hair behind her ears – a lack of grooming time in the mornings clearly wasn’t an issue for her. ‘Too far to commute?’
Lauren plated up the toast, catching sight of her reflection in the fridge. Next to her perfectly presented sister, she looked like she’d slept rough. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Looe? Could you get there for work?’ Charlotte had been studying the jobs section in the Penmullion Gazette, highlighting the positions she felt Lauren should apply for to ‘better her situation’.
Her sister meant well, but Lauren wasn’t interested in working in a building society, a call centre, or trying to sell social media space to online retailers – she could barely understand the apps on her phone. ‘No, Charlotte, I could not get to Looe for work. Apart from the fact that I have school-age children, I’m not looking to change jobs. I’m happy working at the café.’ As she’d told her sister on countless occasions. ‘Kids! I’m not going to ask again!’
Florence appeared in the kitchen wearing her Princess Fiona nightie.
‘Sweetie, why aren’t you dressed?’ Lauren glanced at the clock. ‘It’s twenty past eight. We need to leave in ten minutes, and you haven’t eaten breakfast.’
‘I’ve got tummy ache.’ Florence rubbed her stomach, emphasising the point.
Charlotte wasn’t done with her career advice. ‘I know you say you’re happy working at the café, but do you really want to spend the rest of your days serving stewed tea and limp sandwiches?’
‘What sort of tummy ache?’ Lauren knelt down, assessing whether her daughter had a genuine ailment, or whether it was a lame excuse to stay home and watch TV. ‘Where does it hurt?’
Florence pulled her sad face. ‘All over, Mummy.’
Charlotte picked up the kitchen scissors. ‘I’m sure we can find something much more fulfilling. I’m cutting out the jobs I think are suitable.’
Lauren felt her daughter’s forehead. ‘You don’t have a temperature.’
‘I’m very hot,’ Flo said, in a slightly dramatic fashion. ‘And cold too.’
Lauren kissed her daughter’s cheek, which showed no evidence of being too hot or too cold. ‘You might feel better once you’ve had something to eat.’ She eased her onto a kitchen chair. ‘Eat a slice of toast, and then we’ll reassess.’ She marched over to Freddie’s bedroom door. ‘How many times do I have to call you for breakfast?’
He was sitting on the floor playing with his Lego. At least he was dressed for school. Well, of sorts. His shirt was buttoned up wrong. It would have to do. She didn’t have time to correct it.
‘Kitchen, now, please.’ She folded her arms, a feeble attempt at being stern.
Grinning, he got up from the floor and went into the kitchen, carrying his partially built truck. ‘Can I stay home with Florence today?’
‘No, and Florence isn’t staying home, she’s going to school.’ Lauren ushered him onto a chair. ‘Please put the truck down. We haven’t got time to mess about this morning.’
Before Lauren had even collected his toast from the counter, Charlotte was unbuttoning his shirt. ‘We can’t have you going to school looking scruffy, can we?’
Lauren supressed a sigh. Normally, she’d count to ten in a bid to calm her agitation but, with the clock rapidly ticking down, she didn’t even have time for that this morning.
Charlotte realigned the buttons. ‘Is this shirt ironed?’
Lauren loved her sister, really, she did. But right at that moment, she had an overwhelming urge to pour Charlotte’s specially selected, loose-leaf, two-minute-brewed English breakfast tea over her head. ‘No, Charlotte, it’s not. Funnily enough, I don’t have time to iron school shirts, which last a day before being covered in mud and require washing again.’
Lauren was subjected to a slow shake of the head. Her sister was not impressed.
Well, tough. She didn’t have the time or inclination to pander to Charlotte’s obsessiveness. She didn’t mind her sister staying; she was glad to help out, and the kids loved having Auntie Charlie around – even if she did make them tidy up constantly – but it was challenging, to say the least.
‘Eat your toast, please, Freddie.’ Lauren picked up a discarded hair clip from the windowsill, tidying her appearance before her sister offered to plait her hair for her, like she’d done when they were kids. Well, they weren’t kids anymore. Charlotte needed to realise she was no longer the boss of her younger sibling. So what if she wasn’t organised, successful or driven? She muddled along as best she could, trying to provide a happy and stable upbringing for her kids. Charlotte had no idea what it was like to be a single parent. If she did, she might be a bit more understanding.
Someone knocked on the door. Great. That was all she needed.
‘Keep eating, please.’ Lauren checked her watch. ‘We’ll be leaving for school in five minutes.’
Ignoring Charlotte’s comments about the merits of laundry-delivery services in London, Florence moaning about her tummy ache, and Freddie not wiping his hands before smearing margarine over his Lego truck, she answered the door.
It was a shock to find Glenda Graham standing on her doorstep. The woman didn’t normally come to her home. No one else knew about the loan, and she wanted to keep it that way. Even more alarming was the sight of her two bulky sons hovering in the background. Vincent and Quentin often helped out backstage with the plays, but they never said much, and didn’t exactly radiate friendliness, so she’d always kept her distance. She’d certainly never invited them to visit her home.
‘Hello, Lauren, love. How are you this fine morning?’
As much as she didn’t
