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‘Perhaps you should set up a hidden camera in his office, so you can watch without them knowing,’ I suggest, jokingly.
‘That’s a great idea! Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘I was kidding! Apart from the fact that you’d be fired so fast your feet wouldn’t touch the ground if you were caught, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal.’
She sighs. ‘I suppose you’re right. Shame.’
While I’m waiting for the bus to take me to Charing Cross, I check my phone to make sure that the trains are all on time. If one is cancelled, the train afterwards is always completely rammed full, so I avoid that and aim for a later one once things have calmed down. Thankfully, the gods are on my side tonight, and I arrive at the station with ten minutes to spare before the train leaves. There are a few seats left, and I tuck myself into an aisle seat next to another woman. I can see a guy further down the carriage watching me as I sit down, probably hoping for a glimpse up my skirt, and I give him a defiant stare. At least he has the grace to blush slightly as he hurriedly diverts his eyes back to his laptop screen.
As the train pulls out of the station, I start making a mental list of the things I need to pack when I get home. I bought plenty of sunscreen earlier in the week, and Katie and I went shopping last weekend to treat ourselves to a holiday wardrobe refresh, so I’ve got two new swimsuits, as well as a selection of shorts and T-shirts. Most of it is in a pile in the corner of my bedroom, so all I need to do is stuff it into my case and ensure I’ve got our passports, travel insurance, and money.
After I’ve run through the list a couple of times in my head, I start to relax a little. I think I’m ready for this break.
2
There’s more of a rush than usual as my fellow commuters and I disembark at Paddock Wood station. We have to climb a long staircase to the bridge over the tracks, and then back down the other side to reach the car park. This is normally a weary trudge but, because it’s Friday, everyone is anxious to get home and begin their weekends. Some of them are so keen, they’re bounding up the steps two at a time. I keep well to the side and grip the handrail firmly. The last thing I want to do is fall and break my leg just before I go on holiday. When I reach the safety of the ground, I leave my car in the car park and walk straight out of the station towards the Chinese takeaway in the town. As I walk through the door, the woman behind the counter smiles at me.
‘Hello, Miss Daisy. Your order is all ready for you.’
This is part of my Friday routine. I call in our order from the train, so it’s ready for me to collect when I arrive. I don’t even need to list what I want; we have the same things every week, so I just ask for my usual. I hand over my card with a smile, enter my PIN, and watch as the transaction goes through.
‘I hope you enjoy it,’ she says as she hands me the bag. ‘See you next week?’
‘No. I’m on holiday for a couple of weeks, but I’ll see you when I get back,’ I promise her.
Normally, I pop into the off-licence a couple of doors down and pick up a bottle of wine, but as I’m not staying at Paul’s tonight, I walk straight past. I’m outside his flat a few minutes later.
‘Hiya,’ he says, as he opens the door to let me in. ‘I’ve got the plates warming in the oven. No wine tonight?’
‘No, I’m not staying. I told you, remember?’
‘Oh, yes, sorry. Early start.’
We unpack the takeaway bag and load up our plates. I’ve got sesame prawn toasts and chicken curry, while Paul has spring rolls and sweet and sour prawn balls. We divide the rice between us and sit down at his tiny, rickety table. As we eat, he fills me in on his week and I tell him about Grace’s latest theories about Mr Speke and Rosemary. Unlike me, Paul stayed on at school to do his A levels, but his results were far from stellar and he’s worked in a mobile phone shop in Tonbridge for the last six years. He was promoted to manager two years ago and took the opportunity to move out of his parents’ house into his rented one-bed flat in Paddock Wood as a reward. It’s a typical man cave; the main room contains a huge TV with surround sound, a PlayStation with a wide array of games, a squishy leather sofa, and the table at which we’re currently sitting. There are a couple of cheap prints on the walls and a rug to hide the bit of floor where the carpet has worn through. The kitchen has definitely seen better days, but Paul’s landlord is adamant that there’s nothing wrong with it, even though a couple of the cupboard doors are missing and there’s a special technique to opening and closing the cutlery drawer without it falling off its runners and emptying itself all over the floor.
After we’ve finished eating, I relax on the sofa while Paul washes up. I turn on the TV and start flicking through the channels, but nothing grabs me. Paul flops down next to me and puts his arm around me. Our sex life, like everything else, is utterly predictable. I reckon I could set a timer and he’d be totally consistent every week. One minute with his arm around my shoulders, then he’ll move to gently stroking my arm for a couple of minutes, catching an occasional brush of the side of my boob as he does. If I don’t move away (which I pretty much never do), the brushing of the side of my boob will get more frequent until he moves his hand completely and begins cupping and squeezing. Every move happens in exactly the same way every time, as if it’s one of those incredibly complex recipes you see onMasterChefwhere you have to do everything exactly by the book or the whole thing is ruined. The only variety is whether we stay where we are or move into the bedroom. From his moves, it looks like tonight is going to be a sofa night. I’ve noticed recently that the only time he ever kisses me now is as part of the run-up to sex. We used to kiss all the time when we first got together, but I guess he doesn’t see the point any more unless it’s leading to something. It’s a shame, really; I quite enjoy kissing him, even if the actual sex often leaves a bit to be desired on my side.
Afterwards, I pick up my clothes and wander into his bathroom to sort myself out and get dressed. It’s much like the rest of the flat; the ancient bath is discoloured and several of the tiles are cracked. There’s an electric shower over the bath, and the shower curtain is so thin it’s practically see-through. Thankfully, as I’m not staying over tonight, I won’t need to try to wash myself tomorrow morning in the pathetic dribble that the shower emits. I sit on the toilet, rinse my mouth out with a little of Paul’s mouthwash, and climb into my clothes before checking the time. 9.30.
It’s still light as I leave Paul’s flat, which is a relief, as I don’t really like wandering around the station car park in the dark. In winter, I’m always careful to park my car as close as I can to one of the overhead lights, so as to minimise the risk of someone being able to hide in the shadows and jump out at me. The car park is nearly empty at this time of night on a Friday, and I hurry over to my car, pressing the button to unlock the door at the last minute and throwing myself in. For someone who doesn’t particularly like driving, I spend a fortune on cars. My dad was the opposite, and one of the findings from the inquest was that the battered old Toyota that he’d nursed to nearly a quarter of a million miles simply folded up like a pack of cards in the impact, giving them no protection at all. As a result, I buy a brand-new car every couple of years to make sure I’ve got all the latest safety features. According to Grant, the salesman I deal with each time, this one has so many airbags that it would basically transform into the automotive equivalent of a bouncy castle if I were unfortunate enough to hit anything. That doesn’t stop my palms from sweating a bit whenever I encounter a large truck coming the other way, though.
I pull up on the drive of my grandparents’ bungalow in Five Oak Green just before ten. They moved here in the eighties, and the decorative style hasn’t been updated since. Think chintz, pastel colours, bathroom units in pink or avocado, and you’re pretty much there. It was only a few years ago that their beloved waterbed sprung a leak and had to be replaced with something more conventional. At least they redecorated Katie’s and my bedrooms when we moved in, and they made it clear that they were happy for us to update them as we wanted to over the last ten years. They did put their foot down when I decided I wanted to paint all of my walls black when I was seventeen, but apart from that, they’ve been pretty accommodating. My room is currently sporting a very neutral palette, with magnolia walls, biscuit carpet, and terracotta curtains. Katie says it’s dull, and that I should have patterned curtains at least, but I find the blocks of colour restful. She’s not exactly in a position to criticise, as her room has the same floral wallpaper and pink curtains that she chose when we first moved in.
They’re all in the living room when I walk through the door, so I give Nan and Grandad a kiss each, and then settle on the sofa next to Katie.
‘All set for tomorrow?’ I ask her.
‘Yup. I think I’ve packed for every possibility except snow. I was just going to pack shorts, T-shirts and swimming costumes, but Nan kept coming in and muttering darkly about “layers”, so my case is probably twice as heavy as it needs to be!’ she smiles.
‘It’s better to be prepared, that’s all I said,’ Nan admonishes her.
‘Nan, you do know the forecast is wall-to-wall sunshine and temperatures in the high twenties for the whole of next week, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but the forecast can be wrong, can’t it? Just look at poor old Michael Fish and the hurricane in 1987.’
‘I think you’ll find that the science of predicting the weather has improved a little since then, Nan. Come on,’ I say to Katie, ‘let’s go and have a look at your case.’
If you didn’t know us, you might struggle to figure out that Katie and I are sisters because we’re so different. We both have dark brown hair and blue eyes, but that’s pretty much where the resemblance stops. I’m quite curvy, with a round face, large breasts, and wide hips, whereas she is more androgynous and athletic-looking. She’s also slightly taller than me and wears round, heavy-framed glasses that give her a scholarly air. I show my emotions easily, but she is quiet and reserved. After the initial shock, we reacted completely differently to the deaths of our parents. While I went off the rails, she buried herself in her schoolwork, so it was no surprise when she passed all her GCSEs with either As or A*s. From the way things are heading, it looks like she’ll repeat the trick for her A levels next year, which means she’ll hopefully have her pick of universities. I’m trying not to think about that too much; I want the best for her, obviously, but I also know that I’ll miss her terribly when she goes.
