for not taking whatever revolting job Miss Frosty dug up for me—and I had no doubt that it would be revolting—would be that I was already gainfully employed.
The prospect of telling her so cheered me up considerably. It wasn’t as if I was unemployable, or even lazy. I’d had loads of jobs. But the unappealing prospect of becoming unpaid housekeeper to my manipulative and thoroughly bad-tempered father was all the incentive I needed to stay seriously focussed. I was in the mood to show him, too.
Okay, so I’d majored in having fun for the last few years. I mean, what was there to be serious about? But I’d had a wake-up call, a reminder that I couldn’t carry on like this indefinitely.
Apparently I was supposed to get serious now I’d turned twenty-five. Get a career plan.
Let’s face it. I didn’t even have a life plan.
It occurred to me that if I wasn’t jolly careful another twenty-five years would drift by and I wouldn’t have had a life.
Yes, it was definitely time to get serious.
I stopped at the corner shop to stock up on cat food, and while I was there picked up the evening paper. I scanned the ads while I was waiting for the girl behind the counter to stop flirting with a man buying a motorcycle magazine and discovered to my delight that I could job hunt on the internet, thus bypassing the doubtful pleasure of being made to feel totally useless on a face to face basis.
I also bought a notebook—one with a kitten on the cover and its own matching pen. I’d need a notebook if I was going to do all this planning. And, feeling virtuous, I circled all the likely job prospects in the paper while I was on the bus, jumping off at my stop fired up with enthusiasm and raring to go.
‘Big Issue, miss?’
Saving money or not, I wasn’t homeless like the man standing on this freezing corner selling copies of a magazine for a living.
‘Hi, Paul. How’s it going? Found anywhere to live yet?’
‘It’s looking good for after Christmas.’
‘Great.’ I handed over the money for the magazine and then bent down to make a fuss of the black and white mongrel pup sitting patiently at his side.
‘Hello, boy.’ He responded happily to a scratch behind the ear and I gave him a pound, too, which more or less cancelled out my economy with the taxi. ‘Buy yourself a bone on me.’
I went in through the back entrance to the flats so that I could feed the little stripey cat who’d made a home there. She appeared at the first sound of kibble rattling in the dish. She was so predictable. Then I walked through to the lifts, grateful that my ‘guests’ were away for an entire week and determined to make a serious start on the job hunting front.
There were distractions waiting for me in the lobby, however.
I might be trying to ignore my birthday, but nobody else was taking the hint. The porter had a pile of cards for me, as well as a parcel from my sister—who was away visiting her in-laws for a family celebration—and some totally knockout flowers.
There was a whopping big bunch of sunflowers—my absolute favourite, and heaven alone knew where the florist had managed to get them this late in the year—from Ginny and Rich. I felt a lump forming in my throat. I was practically certain that it was a rule of being on honeymoon that you were supposed to be totally self-centred and forget that the rest of the world existed. I touched the bright petals. Not Ginny…
There was an orchid in a pot from Philly, too. I hadn’t seen my here-today-gone-tomorrow next door neighbour in ages. She and Cal were always flitting off to some corner of a foreign field, or jungle, or mountain range to film exotic fauna. Neither of them had allowed the arrival of their baby daughter to slow them down, but just carried her along with them, papoose-style, wherever they went.
I’d have been okay if the arrangement of pale pink roses hadn’t been from my mother.
I sniffed. Loudly. I refused to cry. I did not cry—I’d used up all the tears I was ever going to shed over Perry Fotheringay—but it was a close-run thing. Everyone in the world I loved was married, or away on an adventure, or busy getting a life. Not that I begrudged any of them one bit of happiness or success. I was just a little bit tired of endlessly playing the dizzy bridesmaid and doing my best to avoid catching the bouquet tossed so carefully in my direction before waving them off on their new lives. That was all.
I opened the package from my sister. Nestling inside the layers of tissue paper, I found a pot of industrial strength anti-wrinkle cream, support stockings and a pair of ‘big knickers’. The card—’Over the hill? What hill? I didn’t see any hill…’—that went with it contained a voucher for a day of total pampering with all the extras at a luxury spa. It was exactly what I needed.
A laugh and a bit of luxury.
I was still grinning when the phone began to ring. I picked it up, expecting to hear a raucous chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to you’ from one of the gang I hung around with.
‘Sophie Harrington—single, sexy and celebrating—’
‘Miss Harrington?’ Miss Frosty’s voice froze the smile on my face. ‘How are you with dogs?’
‘Dogs?’
She wanted me to wash dogs?
‘One of our clients needs a dog-walker, and it occurred to me that this might be something you could do.’
Oh, very funny.
If this was her idea of ‘changing my life’ she could keep it. I’d go somewhere else. I cleared my throat, about to tell her what she could do with her dog-walking job; I just about managed to stop myself from saying it.
I’d said ‘anything’. If this was a test I wasn’t about to fail it just because I was too proud to walk someone’s dog for money. Not when I’d probably have done it for nothing, if asked nicely. Who was I kidding? Not probably—I’d have volunteered like a shot. I loved dogs. They were always the same. Up-front and honest. They had no hidden agendas, no secrets. They never let you down.
‘How much an hour?’ I asked. Since I hadn’t been asked nicely, I might as well be businesslike about it.
She told me.
A dog-walker didn’t rate as much per hour as a secretary, but if I was totally honest I had to admit that I could walk a lot better than I could type. And I couldn’t afford to be choosy.
‘Two hours a day—first thing in the morning and again in the evening,’ she continued. ‘It will leave you ample time to fit in other jobs during the day.’
‘Great,’ I said, the spectre of greasy ovens looming large. But it occurred to me that not only would I have a little money coming in—and I wasn’t in any position to turn that down—I’d also have plenty of time to work on my career plan. Look for a proper job. ‘When do I start?’
‘This afternoon. It’s a bit of a crisis situation.’
Naturally. Some idle bloke couldn’t be bothered to walk his own dogs and it was a crisis.
‘That’s not a problem,
