The Chic Boutique On Baker Street. Rachel Dove
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still, kudos.
All Amanda had to do now was pirouette on one foot from the shopfront to her own front door, the flat being directly above her livelihood. The living quarters had been one of the main draws for Amanda, one of the catalysts that had enabled her to even visualise embarking into a new life, far away from her old one.
She had kept the property listing bookmarked for weeks, occasionally taking time to moon over it in between sending work emails and IMs to Marcus. It was like her porn, property websites and Pinterest. They made her happy, and growing up in the dysfunctional family she had, Amanda had soon realised that happiness had to be grasped where it could.
Being the daughter of two law partners, Amanda’s childhood was less My Little Pony and more Mandarin lessons after school and organic vegetables on her dinner plate. Her parents worked hard, played hard and treated their only daughter like a science project, something to be worked on, altered and trotted out to show off at dinner parties. They worked all the time, and Amanda soon found a refuge: Grandma’s house. Dad’s mum lived alone in a neat bungalow on a leafy street in Muswell Hill not far from the impressive and sterile Highbury house she shared with her parental units. Amanda loved staying with her gran, a woman who despaired at her son’s clinical, detached treatment of her only grandchild.
Looking around her new flat, Amanda thought of the happy times she had spent in that house: the smells of cooking, washing on the line, life. That bungalow had more life and joie de vivre within its crooked walls than could be contained, and Amanda learnt everything from her grandmother, Rose. Sewing, cooking, baking: Rose could turn her hand to anything, and showed Amanda another side of life. One where work and money did not rule the world, and where creativity and enjoying life had more value.
She was thirteen when Rose died. She could still remember the bungalow, the smells, the laughter, but now it was tainted, tainted with the memory of her parents picking through Rose’s life, selling and discarding her possessions. She could still picture her mother’s face, full of disgust at the layer of dust on the surfaces, the baskets of wool around the rooms. Grandma Rose’s death affected Amanda deeply, whilst it was barely registered by her own son. After that, Amanda threw herself into schoolwork, working most nights in her room, and when she finished her schooling, she made her escape to university, the promise of a law career already mapped out since her infancy.
She wondered what Grandma Rose would have thought of her actions now; she suspected that she would be watching somewhere, geeing her on. Her parents, however, would not. She shuddered at the thought. Changing her life completely was something they would never understand. She reached out and touched one of the walls of her abode. It was cool to the touch. Perhaps that bookmark was fate, she thought to herself. Maybe it finally brought me home.
The flat was all high ceilings and bumpy plastering, and it looked to Amanda exactly how she was feeling—a bare shell.
She had pored over the pictures on the estate agent’s website all night that night—laptop plonked on the bed, Amanda submerged under the duvet, surrounded by sodden tissues and the contents of her household bills box. She had made herself a little island of desperation, her king-size bed floating along on a sea of desperation, isolation and sheer disbelief. She felt like her world had been spun on its very axis, and she couldn’t help but think of what her parents would say when they discovered the news. That night, Amanda had cried, wailed, and eventually, at 3 a.m., had emailed the estate agent to not only put her London flat on the market, but to also put in an offer on the shop and flat she had been ogling, far away from the hustle and bustle, in a Yorkshire town called Westfield. Only then, once the email had pinged ‘sent’, had the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach eased enough for her to drift off. She dreamed that her little divan island had floated away, and she awoke feeling determined and oddly detached from her previous self.
When she came to, with the light from her bedroom window shining on her laptop screen, she winced, wondering what awaited her now the juggernaut of her plan had started the low rumbling of action. She hadn’t told anyone yet, but the water cooler gossip at work would be in overdrive this morning when she didn’t turn in as normal. What would Marcus tell people? Would he back her up, tell people it was a mistake? Would he even care?
She still had no idea how it had happened herself, so how could she explain it to anyone else?
She remembered how she felt that day, but the reason the contract had gotten so messed up eluded her still. She was always so meticulous. After Marcus’s visit to her office, she had knuckled down, eager to get the work done and sent off to Marcus, as he had so rudely requested on his way out to an afternoon at the golf course. Time had escaped her once again, and by the time she had finished printing off the paperwork, a quick glance at her workstation clock told her it was well past office hours. After rubbing her stiff neck, she arranged the papers neatly in the case file, threw her coat on, grabbed her bag and headed to Marcus’s office. The office was empty, even the cleaners had gone home. A few side lights lit her path along the sleek corridors. She was just pondering on her pathetic life when she heard a noise coming from Marcus’s office. Looking around her, she became all too aware that she was alone and that no one would actually miss her for a while if she were to go missing. Brandishing the file like a weapon, she froze, listening intently. She heard it again—a low grunt, punctuated by the odd squeal. What the hell was it? Gripping her bag tight to her side with her elbow, she gently pushed open the door to her boyfriend’s office. She jumped as a bang sounded near her, and she realised that she had dropped the file she was holding. The papers exploded from the file, fluttering around her, but she took no notice. What she was looking at was far worse. Marcus was lying across his desk, trousers around his hairy ankles, while a woman was straddled across him, writhing. Both heads snapped towards her at the noise, and they froze. Amanda was trying to form a coherent thought in her head when Marcus jumped up, bouncing the naked woman off him. He jiggled around one-footed on the carpeted floor as he tried to pull his clothing back on. The woman just stared at Amanda, a smug look on her face, and it clicked into place then. Angela, his secretary. The biggest cliché of them all. Shagging her boss in his office after hours.
‘Working late again are we, Miss Perry? We needed that Kamimura file by five,’ she said, all the while pulling her silky panties back up over her stockings and under her short dress. Amanda nodded, looking at Marcus, who was now heading towards her, red-faced and green around the gills.
‘Amanda,’ he said, glaring back at Angela, who shrugged and sat down. ‘This isn’t what you think, I promise.’
Amanda felt as though she would pass out any moment. All those nights, working to make him look good, doing his work, waiting for him to pick her up for dates that never happened. The memories came like stab wounds, thick and fast, realisation dripping like blood from her new wounds. She shook her head slowly, trying to get her brain to connect to her mouth.
She swooped down, picked up what was left of the file and threw it to Marcus.
‘All done,’ she said and she fled.
Marcus chased her to the elevators, calling her name, but thankfully the steel doors closed on him just as he reached them. Amanda pressed a shaky finger to the lobby button and sank down to the floor, head in her hands. Her phone buzzed in her bag, and, on automatic pilot, she pulled it out.
‘Perry,’ she said, her words barely flopping for freedom from her numb lips.
‘Amanda,’ the prim voice said crisply. ‘Mummy here, any news for me?’
Amanda stared at the walls of the lift as they took her to the ground floor.
‘No, Mother, nothing to report. I’ll call you later.’
Clicking off the call before her mother could ask her another question, she threw the phone into her bag, and peeled herself off the floor, quickly rearranging her clothes and hair before the lift doors pinged. Making her way across the marbled floors of the reception area, she smiled goodnight at the security guards and pushed through the front doors, gulping greedily at the fresh night air before hailing a taxi.
Two days later, she had been called into Stokes’ office and fired. Gross negligence, they had