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Mira looks at me with curiosity. "You okay?"
"Why wouldn’t I be?"
"You look a little peaked."
"It’s the changing weather. Spring into Autumn, the days drawing to an end earlier. I mean, I do like the turning of the leaves, but I much prefer when it’s warm and sunny."
"Hmm…" She taps her fingers on the table. "You’re a shit liar."
"I’m not lying." I take a sip of the chamomile tea and almost gag.
"You don’t have to drink that, you know?"
"I do." I hunch my shoulder. "My ma always used to say there was nothing chamomile tea couldn’t make better."
Her gaze softens. "How is she doing?"
"Well, she recognized me when I saw her, so it was a good day." The slippery sensation of chamomile fills my mouth, and I force myself to swallow it. Maybe the more I do the things I don’t like, the more God will reward me with the things I want. It’s a strange logic, but one that has been drilled into me, thanks to the nuns who ran the school I went to. The same nuns who forbid swearing and thinking about sex and boys. It was a strict upbringing, but a happy one. For all the singing of religious hymns at morning assembly and the talk of sacrifice, there were also some upsides.
For me, it was an innocent, carefree childhood. My mother worked two jobs to keep a roof over our heads, but she also ensured I never wanted for anything. Our home was filled with love and happiness. My mother was my best friend, right until the day she collapsed in our living room when I was eighteen.
She was diagnosed with early-stage dementia. I put off going to university so I could support her. She was disappointed by my decision but didn’t have the strength to fight me on it. Thankfully, I managed to get help from our local council and move her to a home where she’s been for the last five years. Her condition has been steadily deteriorating, and the council went through budget cuts and can’t cover her costs anymore. So, I need money. Fast. And here I am, unable to hold down a single job.
"I’m sorry, Penny." Mira reaches forward and grips my hand. "I wish there was something I could do to help you."
"You’re allowing me to stay here and pay a fraction of the money I should be paying in rent. I think you’re doing a lot already."
"I have a job. I can support the both of us." She raises a shoulder. "Besides, if I’d refused to accept any money from you, would you have moved in here?"
I begin to object when she stops me with a raised brow.
"That’s what I thought." She lifts her mug of hot chocolate and slurps it up. "You make a mean hot cocoa. Also, I'm the beneficiary of your cooking experiments, so I’d say I got the better end of the deal."
"That’s you, being generous. I’d hardly qualify my little cooking forays as worthy of getting to stay in this apartment in Central London." I glance around the tiny apartment. What it lacks in space, it makes up for in light. It's on the top floor of a four-story apartment, with skylights that allow the sunshine to stream in. And it's in the heart of Soho, which is as prime as you can get, in terms of real estate locations.
"You don’t give yourself enough credit."
I laugh. "If you mean the cooking, I really do like it. It’s just that I prefer it as a hobby, cooking at my own pace, rather than being packed into the pressure-cooker environment of a kitchen run by a professional chef."
"That bad, huh?" Her tone is sympathetic.
"It took the joy out of cooking. I realized, very quickly, it's not for me."
"It’s good you realized it early, huh? This way, you can move on, instead of investing your life in a career you don’t like?"
I take in her features. "Are you referring to yourself when you say that?"
"Who, me? Nah!" She places her palms together in front of her. "I mean, the big boss of my company is a jerkass, but I don’t have much to do with him, so it’s all right. I like what I do, so that’s a positive."
"I wish I could find a career I love. I’m twenty-three and still trying to work out what I want to do with my life."
"You have plenty of time to work that out," Mira assures me.
"But my mother doesn’t." I swallow down the ball of emotions that blocks my throat. "I need to find a way to keep her in the home. She’s comfortable there. Everyone knows her and is kind to her. If only I could find a job that I could hold onto, I—"
As if summoned, my phone buzzes with an incoming text message. I glance at it. "It’s from Abby," I murmur.
"Oh, what does she say?"
I read the message again, then hold up the phone for Mira.
Abby: I have the perfect job for you
