‘Yes,’ she gasped when she could catch her breath. ‘You could say a little bleak.’
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ protested Pearl.
‘Yes, just a bit of a bad day.’
Pearl laughed more. ‘There have been better days.’
‘Yes,’ said Issy. ‘My last cervical smear was more fun than this.’
Louis wobbled up to them, wanting to know what all the laughter was about. Issy looked at him ruefully.
‘Hello, pumpkin.’
Louis stretched his hands out to his mother.
‘Best birfday,’ he said proudly. ‘Louis best birfday.’ Then he went a little quieter. ‘Weah Daddy, Mummy?’
Ben, in the end, hadn’t shown. Pearl’s face was completely impassive.
Graeme’s flat had no windows facing the street, so Issy had no way of knowing whether he was in or not, short of ringing the intercom, and she had no intention of talking to him unless it was absolutely necessary. She swallowed hard, unwilling to get out of the taxi.
‘All right, love?’ asked the cabbie, and she nearly confided in him there and then, but stepped out nonetheless. The heat had mostly gone out of the day, but it was mild enough for just a cardigan.
‘Yes,’ she said, reflecting that this was the last time she would ever get out here. Surely he’d have gone out. It was Saturday night after all. He’d be out with his mates, having a few beers, trying to pull someone new in a nightclub, probably. Laughing it off, talking about being free at last, and how much money he was going to make with this new deal. She swallowed hard. He didn’t give a shit about her. He never had. It had always been about the money for him, always. He’d strung her along like an idiot, and she’d fallen for it completely.
She was so convinced he would be having a wonderful time in a cocktail bar, pulling a blonde right at that very minute, that Issy wasn’t at all expecting to see Graeme when she entered the dimly lit hallway. In fact, she nearly missed him. He was sitting in his fake Le Corbusier armchair, in his dressing gown – Issy hadn’t known he owned a dressing gown – glass in hand, staring out of the window at the minimalist courtyard garden nobody ever visited. He started when she entered, but didn’t turn his head. Issy stood there. Her heart was thumping painfully.
‘I’m here to get my stuff,’ she announced loudly. After the hubbub of the day, the flat was deathly quiet. Graeme clutched at his glass. Even now, Issy realized inside, she was waiting for a sign … for something that would show he had been fond of her, that what they’d had had meant something, that she had pleased him. Something more than just being that girl from the office who happened to be handy. Someone to use, to get what he wanted.
‘Whatever,’ said Graeme, not looking at her.
Issy packed up her bits and pieces into a small suitcase. There wasn’t much. Graeme didn’t move a muscle the entire time. Then she marched into the kitchen, which she’d stocked up with supplies. She took 250g of flour, five eggs, an entire tin of treacle and a small sachet of hundreds and thousands, and whipped them up with a wooden spoon.
Then she brought the whole lot into the living room and, with a practised flick of the wrist, poured it all over Graeme’s head.
Her flat felt different. Issy couldn’t put her finger on it. It was the sense not just of someone new living there that she’d had for a couple of weeks – Ashok was interesting, serious and entirely charming – but of a shifting dynamic. They had piles of estate agents’ details and a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
It felt like the entire world was moving on, except for Issy. And she felt less comfortable striding into her pink kitchen and collapsing on the huge squishy settee – like a stranger in her own home. Which was ridiculous, she knew. But more than anything else it was the shame of her first, her only experiment in cohabitation ending so quickly and so badly.
Helena knew that pointing out Graeme had always been a wrong’un wasn’t particularly useful but being there probably was, so she did her best to do that instead, even if she tended to fall asleep every five minutes.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, ever practical. Issy sat, staring unseeingly at the television.
‘Well, I’m going to open up on Monday morning … After that, I’m not so sure.’
‘You’ve done it once,’ said Helena. ‘You can do it again.’
‘I’m just so tired,’ said Issy. ‘So tired.’
Helena put her to bed, where Issy thought she wouldn’t be able to get to sleep at all. In fact, she slept halfway through Sunday. The sun pricking through her curtains made her feel a tiny bit more optimistic. Just a little bit.
‘I can try and get a baking job,’ she said. ‘The problem is, the hours are even worse than what I have now, and there’s a million brilliant patissiers in London, and—’
‘Hush,’ said Helena.
‘Maybe everyone else was right all along,’ said Issy. ‘Maybe I should have become a chiropodist.’
On Monday morning, she picked up an envelope off the mat. Yes, there it was. A notice to quit once her lease was up, from Mr Barstow. Tied with white cord to lamp posts around the court were plastic laminates with the outlines of the planning application. Issy could hardly bear to give them a second glance. She started off the day’s baking on autopilot, making her first cup of coffee; going through the motions of normality in the hopes that it would quell her rising panic. It would be fine. She’d find something. She’d speak to Des, he’d know. In her confusion, she called him before realizing it was still only just after seven in the morning. He answered immediately.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Issy.
‘It’s all right,’ said Des. ‘Teeth. I’ve been up for hours.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Issy. ‘Have you called a dentist?’
‘Um, Jamie’s teeth. More.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Issy shook her head. ‘Um …’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Des instantly. ‘I’m sorry. Did you call me up to yell at me?’
‘What about?’ said Issy.
‘About we might have to handle the apartment sales. Sorry. It wasn’t my decision, it’s just …’
Issy hadn’t even thought about this, she was only calling to ask about vacant properties. But of course.