He leaned forward, probably alarmed by the deadly look on my face.
‘Do you have any other income besides your royalties and your cooking?’
‘If I did I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ I snapped, only to apologise. ‘Sorry. That was out of order.’
He watched me with surprised eyes that seemed to grow wider. And suddenly, kinder. ‘No worries. I’m just trying to think…’ He leaned back, steepling his index fingers and jamming them up into his bottom lip. ‘Have you any other assets?’
Please see previous retort. I shook my head. ‘We had a flat in London but we sold it to pay for… some other things…’ Meaning Phil’s gambling debts. My eyes, suddenly heavy with moisture, dropped to the dark grey carpet patterned with the bank’s logo.
If there is an even number of hexagons on the carpet from here to the door, I’ll be okay, I told myself.
When he finally sighed and shook his head, I stood up, forced a smile and shook his outstretched hand firmly to let him know that I was no wimp. I would survive this one as well. Somehow.
On my way home, I remembered we were out of milk, so I stopped off at old Alf’s Post Office, or, as the sign had read for the past few years, Post Of ice.
After a morning of running around so other people could eat, I rummaged around in my bag until I found the slice of toast I’d wrapped in a paper towel and tore off a bite as I tried to ring Alice to check up on my royalties that were soon due. But I got my provider instead:
Unfortunately, you don’t have enough credit to make your call.
Ooh, goody. What next?
As I squeezed the last of my coins out of my bag to pay for the milk, my mobile rang again. I chewed and swallowed.
‘H’llo?’ God, who was it now, Mephistopheles claiming my soul? Close. ‘Good morning, Ms Conte. I’m calling from Northwood Academy…’
I jammed my little stash back into my bag, suddenly not hungry anymore.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Ms Conte…’ Not in the least. You just caught me in the middle of writing my suicide note…
‘… But there seems to be a problem with this term’s fees…’
I swear I almost fell back against the dairy counter. ‘What? I mean, I beg your pardon?’
‘Your cheque wasn’t, erm, honoured.’
Oh God. It was the beginning of the end. This was the first time ever a cheque had bounced. How on earth had I fallen so low?
‘You’ll want to pop by and rectify by noon, Ms Conte…’
Was that a threat? Next she was going to tell me how many kids were on the waiting list to get into Northwood.
‘Thank you. I will,’ I assured her, and hung up, only for my mobile to ring again.
‘Hello?’
‘Ms Jenkins?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s Conte,’ I said for the second time in a day. ‘Nina Conte. Who is calling, please?’
‘It’s Ray Givens, from C&C Surveyors?’
Who?
‘We have been contacted by your husband, Mr Philip Jenkins, to evaluate your home for the sale? When would be a good time to come round?’
Phil? Sale? Oh my God in Heaven.
‘Ms Conte?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr… er, sir, but our home is not for sale.’
‘Do you not live at Cornflower Cottage in Penworth Ford?’ he insisted.
‘Yes, but, again, our home is not for sale.’
Silence, and then: ‘I’m sorry, there must have been a misunderstanding.’
‘I’m sure there was. Good day,’ I said and hung up.
The bastard. What the hell did Phil think he was doing, putting up our home for sale?
Enough of this crap. It was now official. Without a loan, I couldn’t go on this way. I needed a second job if I was going to keep the house. Because as far as my writing career was concerned, for the life of me… I simply couldn’t write another word about love.
*
‘That son of a bitch!’ Emma cried when I told her about Phil’s latest act of chivalry.
A single mum herself, she worked as a wedding planner for a firm in Truro and avoided her own ex like the plague. Her goal was to start her own company, raise her daughter Chanel, and meet the man of her dreams. And meet him she would, because she was as determined as hell to bag an eligible bachelor who had it all – the looks, the money, and, above all, someone who loved Chanel as well.
‘He can’t do that! He can’t just put your house up for sale without your signature.’
I squished my heavy eyelids with the tips of my fingers, every drop of energy drained from me. I needed to talk to the arsehole pronto. Use logic and persuasion. And possibly bring my butcher’s knife along, just in case.
‘And now we know why he’s been dragging the divorce all these years,’ I sighed. ‘He wants as much as he can take from me.’
‘Why doesn’t he man up and get himself a job rather than trying to sponge off you?’ she asked. Emma had been crazy in love with her husband Adam, but had kicked him out when she caught him cheating. Chanel wasn’t interested in ever seeing her father again, but I suspect that had a lot to do with Emma’s influence. Chanel emulated her mum in almost everything. They shared each other’s clothes and secrets and they were more like sisters than mother and daughter. But it worked for them. Me, I didn’t have the guts to explain to my children what their own father had done, partly because I didn’t want to break their hearts any further.
‘Well, if you need any help, I’m here for you,’ she said as Callie, our stray pup, crawled across the floorboards towards me, lodging herself between my feet.
‘Thanks, Emma, I’ll be fine.’
What else could I do? Hire a hitman? I couldn’t afford one. Talking to Phil was all I had left, despite the fact that listening had never been
