The Summer We Danced. Fiona Harper
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She’d been so good and so quiet I’d forgotten she was still there. ‘I like it here.’
Tom gave her an exasperated look. ‘We were going to go go-karting, but … Well, ring if something crops up and I’ll see what I can do.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Come on, scamp.’
Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Scamp is a dog’s name. I am not a dog.’
‘Well, whoever you are, get your stuff together, because it’s time to go or we’ll miss it altogether, and I’ve had it booked up for weeks.’
With that Tom headed for the door. His daughter let out a heavy sigh, picked up her bag by its strap and followed him out the door, dragging the bag’s sparkly pinkness along the floor behind her.
‘You should run along too, Philippa. You’ve spent enough time helping me out already.’
I turned to Miss Mimi and saw the gentle smile on her features. She wasn’t worried in the slightest about this, had some kind of inner sense that everything would just work out, fall into place. Unfortunately, I had no such sense. I knew how life could pull the rug from underneath you just when you least expected it and I had a nasty gnawing feeling when I thought about Mimi going back into that office.
And, although it felt a bit bad to admit this, I’d actually quite enjoyed this morning so far. I’d got so used to just being in my house or stacking shelves at the supermarket, I’d forgotten how nice it was to talk to someone, and it had felt good to be useful. My mood was better now than it had been in weeks.
I looked down at my phone. ‘Who do you pay your electric bill to? I can find their number before I go, if you like? Save you some time and trouble.’
A frown cast a shadow over Mimi’s previously sunny expression. ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s South East Electric,’ she said breezily. ‘Or was it Kent Power? I really can’t recall. Anyway, it’s the one with the dog in their adverts on the telly.’
That might have been helpful if I didn’t already know that the dog—who had featured in ads more than ten years ago—had been for a company that served the West Country. The only other option now was to rummage through the piles of paper in the office to find a recent bill, and that could take hours.
I looked at Miss Mimi. She was old and thin, if fit. Not much meat on her bones. Not like me; I had plenty of insulation. And it was freezing in here, even more so now the rain had dampened the wind. ‘I’ll help you look for a bill.’
‘Oh, no,’ Miss Mimi responded, looking slightly horrified. ‘I’m sure a lovely young woman like you has far better things to do with her time on a Saturday than help an old duffer like me.’
I thought about my empty house, about Roberta, who was probably still stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep, and the pile of DVDs stacked up next to the television. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I really don’t.’
I picked up a pile of paper, saw it was an invoice for ballet lessons for spring term four years ago, and set it down on a stack I’d been making on the desk, then I picked up the next one: a flyer for a Christmas show and turned to put that one down too, only to discover that the invoice was now gone.
‘Miss Mimi? Have you seen that invoice I just put down there?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Miss Mimi said, popping up from behind the filing cabinet. ‘I’ve added it to my pile I’ve made for my best-ever students—over here.’ And she indicated a separate group of papers that she’d made on the floor near the door.
I was tempted to cry. We’d been at this two hours already and I thought we’d got a system going. I’d been sorting papers into promotion, newsletters, stuff to do with rent and utilities, invoices and financial accounts, but it seemed that Miss Mimi had come up with one of her own and had been emptying my piles and making new ones, everything jumbled back in together.
‘Wonderful,’ I said. There was no point in having an argument about it, no matter how frustrated I was. It was Miss Mimi’s dance school, after all. She could do whatever the heck she wanted with her paperwork. However, it did mean that it was going to make the present task all the more complicated.
‘Maybe you should think about running an ad for an admin assistant.’ We weren’t even halfway through yet. Paperwork clearly wasn’t Miss Mimi’s strong suit. Nor Sherri’s, I suspected.
We carried on hunting and about half an hour later I discovered an electricity bill—dated last September—tucked inside a dancewear catalogue that had been under a lost property box full of lone socks, ballet shoes and even underwear. That boggled my mind. How on earth could you go home and not realise you didn’t have your knickers on? And, more worrying, how did you end up losing them in the first place?
I pulled the bill out and waved it up in the air for Miss Mimi to see. ‘Got it! Shall I call them?’
Miss Mimi slumped gratefully into a chair. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, dear.’
After fifteen minutes on hold it turned out there was a very simple reason Miss Mimi had no electricity.
I shot a nervous glance at her. She was leafing through a pile of flyers for the dance shows she used to put on every year, smiling now and then at the memories floating up off the faded paper. She had no idea, did she?
‘Just a moment, please,’ I told the customer service bod on the other end of the line. ‘It’s the bill,’ I told Miss Mimi in a stage whisper. ‘It hasn’t been paid.’
Miss Mimi’s eyebrows raised in surprise. I’d been right. No idea.
‘She says we can pay it now, if you like, and power will be back on before Monday.’ I swallowed before I asked the next question, fearing I already knew the answer. ‘Do you have a credit card?’
Miss Mimi wrinkled her nose. ‘Don’t hold truck with those things.’
‘I’ll put it on mine if you like and you can pay me back.’
‘Oh, no, dear. I couldn’t do that!’
I exhaled softly. ‘It’s the only way to get the power back on before the middle of next week. You don’t want to have to cancel any more classes, do you?’
With that, Miss Mimi crumbled. ‘Very well, then,’ she said, sighing. ‘Thank you, Philippa.’
I nodded and made a mental note that I was going to get Miss Mimi to use the shortened form of my name if it killed me. Now Mum was gone, nobody called me Philippa any more.
I resumed my discussions with the woman from the electric company and five minutes later everything was sorted. I rubbed my face with my hands and let out a weary breath.
The organiser inside me wanted to keep going at the office, to conquer this mountain of paper and plant a tiny little Union Jack in it, but my inner sloth was whispering—very sensibly, I might add—that I’d already been here for hours and it was cold and damp, and my inner gannet was chiming in and adding that I’d be much better off going to find something to eat, preferably involving bread and melted cheese.
After a moment or two of dithering, the argument went the way it usually did. I stood up in a purposeful manner and heaved my handbag over my shoulder. ‘Right. I’m taking you down to the Doves for a latte and a panini. No arguments.’
Miss Mimi opened her mouth to object, but I held up a hand. It seemed I was getting a handle on this ‘being feisty’ thing. ‘I said “no arguments”.’
Maybe the whole episode had worn Miss Mimi out more than I’d realised, because she didn’t even try to talk me round. Instead she said, ‘Well, that sounds lovely, cherie. I’d rather have a coffee and a sandwich, if you don’t mind, though.’
I