Page 4 of Love Will Save the Day
Chapter Four
To my great dismay the afternoon goes as well as the morning. Maybe even slightly worse because my Oyster card was completely out of credit and I had to schlep around West London, which ordinarily I wouldn’t mind – I love a good walk – but it’s so, so, so cold. One gym manager outright laughed at the prospect of me ‘getting a job in this economy’. So yeah. I am well and truly fed up. I’ve been on the verge of tears all afternoon but I amdeterminednot to let them fall, because if they do, that’ll be like giving up and I absolutely definitely can not give up.Try again and try again.I just need to recalibrate. I’ll get home, bundle up into bed with a hot water bottle and a million blankets and try again tomorrow. Apart from calling my dad for a rescue, which is completely off the cards, there’s absolutely nothing else I can do.
I reach a frosty Kensington Park Road, unlock the front door and start the five flight ascent up to my studio flat being careful, as always, to avoid the obnoxiously loud creaks that will surely alert Mr Hemmings to my presence.
I needn’t have bothered worrying, though, because when I reach the top floor I see that Mr Hemmings is standing right outside the door of my flat.
‘Nooooo,’ I whisper to myself.
Mr Hemmings looks royally peeved, arms folded across his bony chest, moustache twitching as he frowns. I notice that he is holding an envelope.
Oh no.
He hands it to me without a word. I sigh heavily and tear it open.
An official eviction notice.
‘You’re now two months behind on the rent, Miss McKinley. I want you out by the end of the week.’
‘The end of the week? But that’s in two days! Where will I go? I have nowhere to go!’
‘That’s not my problem,’ Mr Hemmings says with a dead-faced smile. ‘My problem is that I could have a tenant who actually pays their rent on time. If you don’t pay what you owe me then I will have to contact your guarantor for the money.’
My stomach drops. Mydadis the guarantor for this flat. I can’t have him know about this. Not only would it worry him sick, but he’d just use it as another reason to make me go back home to Bristol and work at Festival of Carpets forever.
‘No, no. Don’t call the guarantor!’ I say, panicked. ‘I’ll leave by the end of the week like you asked and I’ll get you the money as soon as I can. I promise!’
Even as I say it I have no clue how on earth I’m going to uphold this promise. I just know that I absolutely have to.
Mr Hemmings narrows his eyes before giving a slow nod. ‘Full payment of what you owe within two weeks. No longer than that,’ he says flatly before heading back down the stairs to his own place.
Aaaaaargh.
Inside my flat I grab the half bottle of rank leftover whisky I have in the cupboard above the sink, fill up my fluffy hot water bottle and climb, fully clothed into my bed, pulling the duvet right up to my neck. I sip the whisky straight from the bottle and wait for it to warm my chest. Pulling out my phone I send out a few texts to London acquaintances, asking if they know of any jobs available, anything at all. The responses come quickly and they’re all negative. I open up my laptop and spend the next hour uploading my CV to various employment sites and temp agencies. Based on today’s lack of leads it’s looking a lot like I’m going to have to get a none Personal Training job just to stay afloat. I scroll down the word doc that houses my CV and grimace at the fact that I am qualified for little else other than helping people to be fit and strong. I left school at 16 years old to work at the local leisure centre as a lifeguard. Following that I worked in a variety of gyms and, after getting my NCCA certification, I’ve been training people ever since. I know very little about retail, admin, office work, catering or any of the industries where there might actually be jobs going.
While I doom scroll through the many jobs I am totally unqualified for my phone starts to ring. It’s my dad. I end the call immediately because I know that if I answer it the tears I’ve been holding in all day will start to fall and I don’t want my dad to hear that.
My phone flashes with a text from Dad.
Hiya love. Just checking in. I was thinking I’d driving down to see you in the next few days. What do you think? I can get a hotel and maybe you can treat your old dad to a fancy London meal. Miss you, love. Ring back when you have some free time.
I stare at the message, my stomach churning sadly. I would love nothing more than to see my Dad. I miss him tons. But, if he visits he’ll see how bad things have gotten here. I can’t let him see that. My goodness, if he could see me now, sad and jobless, necking whisky and shivering in a cold studio flat he’d be gutted.
I open up the Spare Room website and look for short lets. I need somewhere to stay until I can get back on my feet. Pickings are slim, but beggars can’t be choosers. I respond to every single room-to-let message within a three mile radius of London. The thought of having to share with strangers again, after I worked so hard to get a place of my own, means that the tears finally begin to fall. Taking another swig of the whisky, I realise that I’ve drunk most of the half bottle that was left. I head over to the fridge and open it up. Yep. Still nothing in there. Maaan. I should have got a lot more food from that Henry guy in the café while I could. I should have ordered toast and sandwiches and extra soup and more cake. I bet he would have bought me anything I wanted, considering he thought I had saved his life. I do a little hiccup and snort to myself as I picture his happy face, how excited he was about ‘finding me’. Mmmm, hewasvery handsome. And beneath those expensive clothes I could just tell that he had an excellent body.
I vaguely wonder what gym he goes to and then, in my quite tipsy state, an interesting thought pops into my brain. I wonder if Handsome Henry has a personal trainer? I mean, he looked like the kind of man who did… I wonder if he would be willing to swap out his usual PT for the woman who (he thinks) saved his actual life? And if he thinks I’m good, which I am, maybe he can introduce me to all his friends who might need PTs? It could work. Even if the real lifesaving woman eventually comes out of the woodwork, hopefully by that time I will have managed to get myself back on track.
I shuffle wonkily over to where my coat is hung on the back of the door and reach into the pockets until my fingers make contact with the thick card he handed to me before I left the café.
I run my thumb over the embossed print of his name. Henry Byron.
Then I plonk back down onto my bed and, swaying slightly to the left, I pick up my phone and dial his number.
