Page 42 of The Girlfriend

C HERRY SAT AT HER DESK AND SILENTLY SURVEYED THE OFFICE.

ABIGAIL and Emily stood, side by side, gazing intently at a screen, checking the photographs of a new house they’d just taken on.

She wondered why she’d never really bonded with them; was it because they recognized a kindred spirit in each other’s background?

She didn’t know, and was past the point of caring.

They cooed over the glass staircase and roof terrace overlooking Hyde Park and she despised them for it.

It was pathetic, really, facilitating the buying and selling of some of the most expensive properties in London while getting paid a pittance to do so.

Insulting, really, and all the time thinking that being in close contact with the houses themselves was a “perk.” You got to walk on handwoven rugs and polished maple flooring; but nine times out of ten, there was a clause in the contract saying it was imperative shoes were removed on entering.

That was something Cherry would have done, anyway, but being told to do so—like some serf who didn’t know how to respect something of value—got her back up.

The owners were all laughing at them, these people with their millions of pounds in the bank.

“Look, but don’t touch” would be their motto, and others were to kowtow and gush and remain deferential or risk losing their business. It stank .

It was also excruciatingly boring. Cherry had been there a year and a half now.

She felt trapped; it was as if her life was seeping away, valuable time and her youth leaking into the ground and disappearing.

This scared her and fueled the boredom further until she went round in demented circles trying to work out what to do.

This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Daniel had been her escape route and it had all been going so well.

She still missed him, was still hurting from his death, and the pain was made worse by the fact she felt partly responsible.

The life change, the plummet to the start of the Chutes and Ladders board, well, she had to take some responsibility for that.

She’d done it to herself. If only she’d concentrated on that raft, if she hadn’t hit him, he’d most likely be here now.

They’d be living together, perhaps even engaged.

She’d be well on her way to a life of freedom.

Freedom! From drudgery and work and fear.

For a moment, she imagined what it would be like to always have money before the bitter taste of reality came back.

Cherry recognized she was in a bad place.

She’d been impatient, curt even with a couple of clients lately, and Neil had overheard and taken her aside for a stern talking-to.

She boiled inside while he was speaking, but knew she had no choice but to toe the line.

The ever-present cloud of Croydon loomed, its tendrils reaching closer to snatch her back to obscurity and a humdrum life with no prospects.

She’d tried scouting for other men, a new boyfriend, but every single, or potentially single, man who walked through the door irritated her.

They were all so self-important, barely looked at her, spoke to their friends as if she wasn’t there, while she seethed and fretted and wished again that she’d never booked a white-water-rafting trip.

Then there was Laura. She hadn’t heard from her since March, when she’d called to tell her Daniel had died.

No one had rung to make sure she was okay, that she was coping with her grief.

No one had asked if she wanted to see the gravestone or whatever there was.

Her insides corkscrewed with the hurt and humiliation of it all.

Two women were heading her way. She’d heard the door open, but hadn’t bothered to look up, but now she realized that she was the only one who didn’t look busy.

She cast a resentful look over to Abigail and Emily, but they were oblivious.

The women arrived at her desk. One was about twenty or thirty years younger than the other, and the older one still looked impeccable.

She guessed they were mother and daughter.

Cherry took their details and listened to what they had to say about the apartment they wanted.

The daughter needed a “little pad” for when she started university.

They were looking now, as she wanted to “try it out” over the summer.

She wanted a garden or, preferably, a roof terrace.

There had to be a porter and a gym. It needed to be light and near to the King’s Road, for she wanted to be close to the “fun.”

There weren’t that many that fit all her criteria.

Cherry showed her one, then another, detesting this difficult-to-please, honey-haired, golden-limbed girl, who was only a couple of years younger than herself.

Judging by her skin color, Cherry suspected she’d probably already had two or three holidays this year and was now being offered every opportunity Cherry had craved, but had never had: university, independence, a mother she was close to, so much so they went shopping for apartments together.

Jealousy stuck in her throat and she wanted to snarl at her for being so spoiled, so self-involved, that she couldn’t see how lucky she was to have a flat in Kensington—and who gave a fuck if it had black, not white, cupboards in the kitchen!

Surely, her darling mother could fork out for a whole new interior if she whined about it enough.

Instead she smiled, albeit coolly, and said in a bored tone that she only had one other to show her.

She got it up on her screen and this time the gushes poured out.

“Oh, I love it. Look, Mummy, it’s got a cute little oven. I could learn to cook!”

Cherry flinched; she hated hearing grown women calling their parents “Mummy” and “Daddy.” And the cute little oven was a top-of-the-line La Cornue.

Mummy smiled indulgently, amused, and Cherry knew the girl was one of these types who thought it was amusing to claim she burned eggs, and any attempt at cooking anything would have more focus on how she was adorably incompetent than actually putting any effort in.

“Can I have it? Can I, please?”

“If you ask me and Daddy round to dinner first.”

The girl squealed in delight.

Cherry felt sick. She looked unabashedly at the clock. Thank God she could go home in ten minutes.

“Can we look at it now?”

The mother had spoken and caught her unaware. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” The lie didn’t sound convincing and the mother frowned.

“Why not?”

“Because I want to go home, and the thought of spending one minute of my own time taking you and your overprivileged daughter to a place I’ll never dream of having in my entire life makes me want to turn this desk over” was what she wanted to say. Instead she settled with:

“We need to give the owners twenty-four hours’ notice.”

“But I thought you said the place was empty.”

Cherry turned to the girl. So she had been listening. “Nevertheless, we do still need to let them know.”

The look of displeasure on the girl’s face gave her a surge of satisfaction, of power. She felt a need to damage that self-appointed, God-given right and take something away, let her know what it felt like not to get what you wanted.

“Can’t you just ring them now?”

Cherry stiffened. She didn’t like the way she was being spoken to. You need this job, she told herself quickly, plastering on a smile. She didn’t see Neil making his way over from the back office, Emily just behind him.

He addressed the clients first, all smooth charm. “Excuse me for interrupting, but Emily here can take care of your viewing. Cherry, would you mind just sorting something out in the office for me, please?”

She stared, bewildered, but his arm was out, indicating the way, and she had no choice but to stand. The honey-haired girl gave her a mocking look as Emily slipped into her warm seat .

Cherry felt the atmosphere change to one of obsequious wish making as she followed Neil to the back.

“Take a seat,” said Neil.

“What’s this about?” she asked, trying to regain some dignity, but still she sat down.

“I’m going to make this quick,” he said, “as I think it might be better all round.”

Her stomach flipped over. Was she in some sort of trouble?

“Your latest comments, on the clients we have here. It’s just not acceptable.”

“That girl out there, she was a bit strident,” defended Cherry, “rude, actually, with me. Demanding. But I didn’t say anything to her.”

“Not her. Not anyone specific. Or perhaps everyone.” He leaned over to the desk, where a computer was lit up.

“‘Once again, my day is filled with arrogant, rich wanker foreigners who seem to persist in wanting to buy the whole of London. I’ve had enough of them, throwing around their millions and taking all our houses.’” He stopped reading and looked at her.

“You’ve even mentioned this agency by name in another message. ”

Cherry stared at him in horror, leapt up to see the screen, and realized he was reading from two tweets— her tweets. “But that wasn’t me. I didn’t write those!” she said hotly.

He considered her a moment. “It’s your account—”

“Someone’s hacked in. It happens all the time, you read it in the papers—”

“This is incredibly damaging.”

“No shit! God, to think you think I wrote that!”

“I meant to the agency. We’ve already lost a sale.

A Chinese businessman has pulled out of a house that was due to close at the end of the week.

Found somewhere else. With someone else.

It’s worth over thirty-five grand to us in fees.

And I’ve just spent half an hour on the phone with a client, trying to persuade her to keep her two apartments on with us. She declined.”

Fear gripped her; she had to get through to him. “But, Neil, please, this wasn’t me. You can’t blame me for something I didn’t do.”

“I’m sorry, Cherry, but I just don’t think it’s working out—”

“No—”

“It’s not just this. I sense a general attitude change. . . .”

“My boyfriend’s just died! And now you’re firing me. I’ll sue you.”

“Or you can go quietly and we’ll pay you two months’ salary.”

It was paltry. Insulting. She burned with rage. “Six. And a reference.”

“Three. And that’s my final offer. Clients need to know they’re welcome here, and they can work with us. And I’m sorry, but I think a reference is out of the question, given the circumstances. I think it would be best for us all if you could take your things home now.”

Minutes later, Cherry barged defiantly down the street, not caring if she knocked into people.

She got more than a few disapproving looks, but couldn’t give a damn.

Who had done this to her? Was it some joke?

Could it have been Emily or Abigail? Then the tears came.

She quickly swallowed to push them back.

A hard pain formed in her chest. With no reference, she had very little chance of finding another job.

No job meant no money to pay for her flat. She was going back to Croydon.