When You Walked Back Into My Life (33 page)

Flora just sat there, unable to work up enough spirit to argue.

Cheryl sighed, her tough manner suddenly dropping away.

‘Listen, there is one possibility, if you’re up for it.’ She paused, her mouth working as she considered her
proposition. ‘We’ve been let down by the maternity cover we got in for Kelly. The bloody girl just didn’t come in this week, and no one can contact her. She was useless anyway.’

Flora waited.

‘You know what Kelly does. Books jobs, interviews nurses and carers … it’s not rocket science. But we’ll need someone till July, when Kelly’s supposed to come back.’ She raised her eyebrows when Flora didn’t immediately respond. ‘It’s a desk job. Compatible with pregnancy.’

Flora nodded, realising the gift she’d just been handed. ‘God, yes, thank you, that would be great.’ She paused and repeated, ‘Thank you so much, Cheryl.’

As she headed home, Flora knew she should feel happier. She was immensely grateful for the job, which would start the following Monday and at least solve her financial situation till the baby was born. But the thought of sitting in that dreary, airless Holborn office, under harsh strip lighting for eight hours a day, breathing in Cheryl’s sickly perfume and ringing nurses to find out if they were free to work, was dismal.

This is for the baby, she told herself. But when she got home she just crept back to bed and spent the next few hours in a miserable doze – she often napped during the day now, because at night she was wide awake, her sense of loneliness further enhanced by the conviction that everyone
else in the city was snuggled up comfortably with someone else.

*

Flora struggled through her first weeks at the agency and almost died of boredom. Working a twelve-hour shift with Dorothea had gone twice as quickly as eight long hours in that stuffy office. Tina, the only other employee, was in her early twenties and kept up a relentless monologue about boys, clothes, haircuts and how wasted she’d got, as if Flora was a kindred spirit. Flora kept reminding herself that she was very lucky to be working at all, but it didn’t make the time go any faster. By the weekend she was always exhausted. Mary asked her for tea one Saturday. Keith offered a drink. Even Jake texted:
wanna margarita yet?
But she turned them all down, despite her desperate loneliness; being sociable was an impossibility. She knew she was sliding, that the baby was the only thing between her and despair. But as the weeks went on, and February became March, March became April, bringing the Spring, even the baby didn’t seem to be enough.

*

‘Flora?’ It was Rene.

Flora, still half asleep in front of Saturday morning television, had reached automatically for her phone, although most of the time now she avoided all calls. Rene had called
three times already this week, but she hadn’t picked up, hadn’t replied, and regretted doing so now.

‘Hello, Rene.’

‘Have I woken you?’

‘No … no. I was just … checking emails.’ She hauled herself upright.

‘I need to have a chat with you. I’ll be at Dorothea’s tomorrow, sorting things out. Could you pop round?’

‘Umm … that might be difficult. I have to meet up with someone for lunch.’ She hoped her lie was convincing. It was hard enough getting herself together for work, without having to go out at weekends too.

‘Right … well, maybe afterwards? I shall probably be there most of the day. Or before?’

Flora knew she wasn’t going to get out of it. ‘OK … can we make it after, then?’

‘Does fourish give you enough time?’

‘Yes, that’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

After Rene had hung up, Flora groaned quietly. She’d sounded as if it were urgent, but then Rene always did. What did she want to talk to her about anyway? She probably needed help clearing out the flat so that the grisly Dominic could get his hands on it, she decided. But if Rene were offering a few days’ work over a weekend, she wasn’t in a position to turn it down. She went through to the bathroom
and peered at her face in the small mirror. A pale, drear image looked anxiously back at her, heavy dark rings beneath her gold-brown eyes, hair straggling, unwashed and uncut, past her shoulders. I look like a bag-lady, she thought, turning quickly away and putting the shower on before she lost the impetus.

*

‘Come in, come in.’ Rene ushered her inside. ‘I’ve made some tea.’

They picked their way through the boxes in the hall to the sitting room, which was partially packed up, pale dust-sheets making odd shapes of the furniture, more boxes piled by the windows, pictures stacked against one wall. Only the sofa stood uncovered, the dust-sheet folded neatly over one arm.

Rene poured the tea in silence.

‘All looks very organised,’ Flora commented, her eyes sweeping round the room, remembering the daily image of Dorothea sitting peacefully in her chair by the window. She felt a pang of loss.

‘Well, it’s getting there. Still a lot to do.’ Rene handed Flora a mug and took the other one herself, cradling it between her hands in the cold room.

‘Right … no point in beating about the bush. I’ve got something very important to tell you.’ Rene paused, her
look significant. ‘I’d have told you before, but there were a number of things to sort out.’

Flora waited. ‘Dorothea has left this flat to you. And a small legacy to go with it.’

Flora’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’ She felt a shiver down her spine, felt the blood drain from her face.

Rene nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes. Marvellous isn’t it? The flat is now yours. And fifty thousand pounds.’ She gave her a broad smile.

‘But … wait … to
me
? I don’t believe it. What about Dominic? I thought she’d left everything to him.’

‘She had. But she changed her will. She’s left him a substantial legacy, of course. He should be pleased, but of course he’s not.’

Flora was speechless, suddenly understanding why he’d snubbed her at the funeral. ‘Why? Did she think he was cheating her?’

‘She never said as much. You know Dorothea, she wouldn’t have said a word against him. She was just determined that you have the flat. She was extremely fond of you.’

‘I was very fond of her too.’ Flora’s eyes filled with tears. She swallowed hard. ‘But can I really have it? Won’t Dominic challenge the will?’

‘He certainly planned to. He was livid. He demanded a meeting at the solicitor’s. Called both of us some pretty
horrible names. But I said we had proof that he’d been cheating his great-aunt for months, selling off her stuff for a fraction of what it was worth. I told him in no uncertain terms that if he made a fuss, all that would come out.’

‘But we don’t have proof … do we?’

‘Not as such, but it wouldn’t be hard to get. The clincher was when I asked to see the bills of sale from the auction houses for all the items. He went quiet after that.’

‘So you don’t think he’ll take it further?’

‘Look, she left him a hundred thousand pounds and all the most valuable furniture. More than he deserves. He’d be mad to risk his reputation – for what that’s worth – by taking us to court. Whatever his justification, he was nothing more than a common thief.’

Flora sat in stunned silence. She looked at Rene. ‘Let me get this straight. Dorothea has left the entire flat … to me. And fifty thousand pounds?’

Rene laughed, reaching over to pat her arm. ‘Hard to take in, eh?’

‘When did she do it? Change her will, I mean?’

‘About two months before she died. She suddenly got a bee in her bonnet about it. I had to arrange all the signing on a Saturday, when you weren’t here. Ironically it was Pia who witnessed her signature. And she’s left something to Mary and Keith. The flat’s leasehold, I’m afraid, it’s only got
twenty-eight years to run. You’d have to renew the lease fairly soon if you wanted to sell it for what it’s really worth.’

Rene rattled on. ‘Obviously probate will take a while with regard to the money, but as Dorothea’s executor I can give you the keys to the flat now. I don’t know what you intend to do, but I would suggest you don’t leave it empty for too long. Houses quickly develop problems if they’re not lived in.’

Flora looked around the room. This is mine? This is really mine? It was impossible to take in. And it felt even stranger that she wasn’t able to thank Dorothea in person.

Rene got up. ‘You sit there for a bit, absorb the good news. I need to get on with things, tackle her bedroom. Then we should talk about what, if anything, you’d like to keep of the stuff not going to Dominic.’ She bustled out of the room.

Flora leant back against the cushions and closed her eyes. Dorothea, she called silently into the ether, her hands pressed together in her lap. Dorothea … please be there, please hear me. Thank you a million times for what you’ve done. It’s unbelievable. You’ve literally saved my life. There was no sound in the still room, but she fancied, in her euphoric state, that Dorothea did hear her, her kind smile lighting up those pale old eyes. The tears were hot behind Flora’s lids, but she welcomed them, her sense of relief too much to contain.

*

For the next two hours, she and Rene worked side by side, a roll of bin bags between them gradually being filled with all that remained of Dorothea’s life. But Flora felt disassociated from her actions, her speech. They went on automatically while she floated separate, buoyed up by the first breath of hope she had experienced in months.

‘You’ll have to get insurance sorted out. I’ll send you a copy of the lease and one of the will. You should come in and talk to Andrew Houlting, my solicitor, the one who’s dealing with probate. He can tell you roughly when the money will be available, and arrange the necessary paperwork if you need a loan against it.’

Flora listened and nodded and agreed, all in a daze.

When she left Rene, she didn’t know what to do with herself. She walked up towards the bus and home, then changed her mind. She didn’t want to go and sit alone in the flat, bursting with the incredible news she’d just received, and no one to share it with. So she walked back down to the arcade and Waitrose. She would treat herself, buy some decent food for a change. Her heart wouldn’t slow down; every time she thought about the flat, the money, it leaped and jumped in her chest as if it were doing a jig.

She rang Fin as soon as she got home. She was dying to tell someone.

‘Flo?’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m great! Been on one, exercising like a bloody nutjob. When you’re in the zone the rest of the world doesn’t exist.’ He drew breath, obviously hearing what he’d just said. ‘Not you and the baby of course … I didn’t mean you don’t exist …’

‘It’s OK, Fin. Listen, something amazing has happened to me.’

‘Amazingly good or amazingly bad?’

‘Amazingly amazing.’ She found herself laughing to herself.

‘So are you going to tell me?’

‘Dorothea left me her flat.’ Flora spoke the words with complete disbelief. ‘And some money.’

‘Christ, that is amazing! So the old lady came through.’ There was a long pause. ‘Will you sell it?’

She didn’t answer at once. There had been no moment when they had made a finite decision about their future together. And she had no idea what he was thinking.

‘No,’ she said, suddenly very clear about what she herself wanted. ‘I think I’ll live there.’

‘OK.’ He went silent. ‘So you and me … does this mean …?’

‘I don’t know.’ She could hear his breathing on the line and didn’t know what she wanted him to say.

‘I can’t … it’s hard to think we won’t be together. I’d sort of thought you’d be here, with me. You and the baby. You still could be, Flo. You know I love you. If it’s the Prue thing …’

For a very long time neither of them spoke.

‘I think we want different things from life, Fin.’

‘I suppose we do,’ he muttered eventually.

Flora ended the call awash with conflicting emotions: the bubbling excitement about Dorothea’s flat, relief at the thought of the legacy, and a leaden sadness that she and Fin couldn’t make it work together.

4 June

In the weeks since Flora had got the keys to the St George’s Court flat, she had gradually, with the help of Bel and Keith, and recently Simon Kent, begun to transform the cluttered and tatty interior into a clean, light space. She’d been sleeping in the flat for a couple of weeks, and Dorothea’s old bedroom was now bright and clean, the ancient carpet long since consigned to a skip, the floorboards sanded, polished and covered in a colourful rag rug, the heavy curtains replaced by a calico blind. The rest of the flat still had a long way to go.

It was Flora who had made the decision to get in touch with Simon again. She knew they would be neighbours and would bump into each other in the street, but she thought
they could also be friends and had wanted to dispel the awkwardness that was so apparent when they’d seen each other in the park café.

One morning, a month or so after she had got the keys to the flat, she’d left a text on his mobile:
Give me a ring when you have a moment. Flora.

He hadn’t responded for two days, and she was saddened at the thought that he didn’t want any contact with her. But on her way to work at the agency, walking from Holborn Tube station in the din of the rush-hour traffic, her phone rang.

‘Flora, hi. It’s Simon Kent.’ He didn’t sound unfriendly exactly, but as if he was in a hurry, his breath quick as he walked.

‘Hello … How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

Though discouraged by his tone, she’d ploughed on. ‘Um … I just called because I thought you should know, we’re going to be neighbours.’ She told him about Dorothea leaving her the flat.

‘How wonderful. She obviously adored you.’

‘We’re just giving it a basic makeover.’

‘Well, good luck with it all. I hope you’ll be very happy there.’ He’d paused. ‘Probably see you around and about then.’

‘Drop in if you have a moment. I’m sort of living there now, although it’s a mess because there’s still masses to do. Keith’s helping.’

For what seemed like a long time, he hadn’t replied. Then eventually he said, ‘And Fin too, I expect.’