Three
The next morning, after dropping a tearful Sylvie at school, Kitty stands in front of her neighbours' door, thoughts whirling in her head like the bright lights of a fairground carousel, doubts nagging at the corners of her brain. Should she ask them?
She doesn't want to seem weak. She's perfectly capable of getting herself a job…but she isn't. She laughs quietly, bitterly. Look at her – running away, barely qualified, the money from her father's trust fund hidden away by her husband…
She takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.
The knock on the door jolts him out of his reverie where he's been sitting and staring into space, trying to formulate the words and ideas tangled like a spider's web in his head into a coherent article. He gets up, slowly, closing the lid of his laptop. For once, Miles is at work and he is not, so he pads towards the door, trying to stifle the yawn that rises insistently in the back of his throat.
As he pulls the door open in a protesting of hinges that one of them really needs to get around to oiling, he freezes. Their neighbour is standing there, dark hair pinned up, tapping her foot restlessly.
"Hello," he says, when it is obvious she is not going to elaborate as to why she's here. "What can I do for you?"
There is something flickering in her dark, dark eyes behind the shutters that hang a little open. A blush is creeping across her cheeks. "I need to find a job," she says, abruptly.
He raises an eyebrow. "And how exactly am I supposed to help with that?"
The flush grows more pronounced. "I don't know where to start. I thought you or your housemate might have some ideas." She's looking away, refusing to meet his eyes, the words tumbling out of her as though she wants to expel them out into the air, to get rid of the taste of them from her tongue. He watches her for a second – he's busy, and he could easily send her away with a brusque dismissal, but he's curious.
"Well," he says, turning. "You'd better come in."
Their flat is a study in contrasts. Neat stacks of papers stand in complete juxtaposition to whirlwinds of cushions, blankets, medical journals and DVDs that lie scattered across the sofa.
Her neighbour, Thomas, looks at her over his shoulder, his blue eyes undermining her defences and making her legs feel weak. "I would apologise for the state of the flat, but that is Miles' mess and not mine."
She raises a silent eyebrow, balling up her hands that are sticky with nervous sweat as she follows him into the kitchen that is a mirror-image of her own. He moves a heavy-looking tome from one of the chairs and motions for her to sit down.
"Tea? Coffee?"
"No, thank you." She glances over at the stacks of paper on the table – titles packed with complicated-looking words, diagrams scattered through the text. "Are you a doctor?" The words slip out before she can stop herself.
He sits opposite her, pulls a half-finished mug of coffee from beside the laptop that lies closed like a very shiny rock. "Yes, I am."
"What kind?"
He shrugs. "A surgeon. I'm writing an article on complications of cardiac surgery."
"Sounds interesting."
"Yes, it is. So what kind of job are you looking for?"
She hates feeling helpless. "Something to support Sylvie. I don't know."
"Well, what do you like doing?"
Art, she wants to say. Art. Photography. Being the power behind the camera instead of the vulnerable model exposed before it. "I don't know."
"Surely you must enjoy something?" He is sceptical.
"I do…it's just more of a hobby. I need something that will pay the rent. I don't necessarily have to enjoy it."
"That's stupid," he scoffs. "You have to find a job you like doing or you'll go mad."
"I can manage."
"What did you do before you came here?"
"That is none of your business." She stands up in a screeching of the chair legs on the linoleum floor. His hand shoots out to catch hers, and she flinches, sure he's going to hit her and the memories start to unwind like a roll of photographic film and no, no, no…
"Are you alright?" His voice breaks into her head, sending her fear scuttling away as though it's a terrified spider, and she's staring into those blue eyes that spark into hers like static charge.
"I've got to go."
She bolts for the door. He makes no move to stop her.
She ends up at the Co-op in Crown Street, mopping the aisles and manning the tills five days a week, but when the money coming in is still too little for their rent and food, she takes up weekend shifts at a café, leaving Sylvie colouring in the back room as she ferries coffee and cake to and from the customers seated at the little checked tables. It's still not enough, but the money's her own, which is more than she'd ever dreamed of having.
The problem, however, is Sylvie. How do other women, other single mothers, manage work and children all at the same time? It's wearing her thin, working endless shifts under her two bosses, and then having to dig a brittle smile from inside herself when she collects Sylvie from after-school care. It's not fair on her daughter to spend her weekends sequestered in the corner of the café's kitchen with nothing but a pad of paper and a small pack of colouring pencils with which to amuse herself.
But even so, she soldiers on, turning a deaf ear on her daughter's complaints. Anything is better than their old life.
November falls down on them in a scattering of rotting leaves and a chill that laces itself through the air. Kitty is waiting at the school gate – on time, for once – in the woollen designer coat she brought from the time before, aloof from all the other parents who stand in little groups, huddled into anoraks.
The nearby church strikes three o'clock, and children flood out of the classrooms in a tidal wave of noise. She spots her daughter's small, dark head next to the very fair one of her friend Julia.
"Mummy!" Sylvie runs to her, thrusting her blue book-bag into Kitty's arms.
"Where's your coat, Sylvie?" Kitty asks.
"I don't know." Sylvie looks at her with wide, dark eyes. "Can I have dinner at Julia's house?"
The other little girl has appeared by Sylvie's shoulder. "Please, Miss Trevelyan?"
"I suppose," Kitty says grudgingly, hurt sinking like a stone into her stomach. She's off this evening, she was looking forward to spending time with her daughter, watching a Disney film and eating take-out pizza from Sylvie's favourite place. "Tell your Daddy I'll pick her up at six o'clock."
The two run off, and Kitty trudges into school, wondering why her daughter doesn't seem to want to spend time with her anymore.
Flora Marshall is tidying up the little chairs and tables of her classroom, thinking about home, a hot bath, and her boyfriend's latest letter when there is a quiet knock on the half-open door.
"Come in," she calls, distractedly, pencils spilling out of her grasp in a clatter of graphite and stripy wood. "Oh, Miss Trevelyan – how can I help? I'm so sorry about the mess. They were having Golden Time and it just flew away with us…"
"Has Sylvie left her coat in here?"
"It's probably around here somewhere, though I don't actually remember seeing her bring it in this morning…"
There is silence, and then a quiet sob splits the air. Flora turns away from the table, dropping the pencils on the floor. Tears roll down Miss Trevelyan's cheeks like molten silver and she's slumped against the doorjamb like a toy thrown to one side by an angry child. Flora hurries over, pulling out a chair for her to sink into and wrapping a comforting arm about her shoulders.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
"I'm a hopeless mother!" The words burst out of the older woman, venomous, tinged red with self-loathing. "I can't even remember to give my daughter her coat to take to school, let alone provide for her, oh what was I thinking?"
"Look, it can't be as bad as that," Flora says firmly.
Miss Trevelyan continues as though she didn't hear her. "And now she doesn't want to spend time with me. She's rather be with Julia Singh, or her friend Mathilde and I'm so scared, so terribly scared…"
The words stop, abruptly, like a fountain that's run out of water and she's turned her face away, is wiping the tears from her face with the sleeve of her own coat. "About what?"
"Nothing. Nothing, I'm not scared of anything, I'm just being stupid. Really."
"Okay." Flora sits back on her heels. "So what are you going to do about this?"
"I don't know. I work two jobs to make enough money to support her, and I can't pick her up from after-school care or anything like that…"
"Do you have neighbours who could?"
"Yes, I do…I wouldn't want to inconvenience them, though."
"You should ask, anyway. Would you like me to come with you?"
"Would you? I don't want to be a burden…"
Flora looks at her, long and hard. "I'm a school teacher. It's my job to look after the kids in my class, and if that includes their families, well, it includes their families too."
They stand together outside the flat, Kitty twisting her hands together as Flora, calm and confident, knocks on the door. What if he's in? How can she face him after what happened last time, with her abject fear so visible on her face and her secrets playing out in the dark mirrors of her eyes?
But the door creaks open, and it's not him, it's the other, Miles, who beams like a sunny day. "Hello!"
Kitty doesn't reply, pushing her hands into her pockets. She's perfectly capable of…no, she's not.
"Hi, you must be Miles – Kitty's neighbour?"
"That I am."
"I'm Flora Marshall. I teach at St Francis Primary. Might we come in?"
"But of course," he steps back with a sweeping hand gesture. "Do come in. Tom – our beauteous neighbour has decided to grace us with her presence!"
He appears in one of the doorways, hastily smoothing down his hair. "Miles, I've got to get to work."
"It'll only take a second." Flora says. She glances pointedly at Kitty, who swallows down the ball of nerves lodged in her throat.
"I'm juggling two jobs at the moment, and I can't pick up Sylvie from school every day. I was wondering if you could help, since I don't want to impose on her friends' mothers much more than I have to." She clamps her mouth shut, an embarrassingly bright blush creeping stealthily across her cheekbones.
Miles and Thomas look at each other. "Sure," Miles says. "We'd love to help."
A flicker of irritation crosses the surface of Thomas' eyes like a shadow across a puddle, but he nods. "Yes, of course. I'm late, so if you'll excuse me."
The door slams shut behind him, and Miles sighs. "Don't mind him. Work is stressing him out. Tea?"
"No, thank you, I've got to pick Sylvie up." Kitty turns to go, but then remembers herself, her manners nagging at the inside of her head. "Thank you, very much."
"You're welcome," Miles smiles. "See you tomorrow, then."
A/N Enough Kitmas for you all? What do you think of this chapter? I'd love to hear from all of you who read it - perhaps make it up to fifteen reviews before I post chapter four probably on Monday? N xxx