haven’t got time for that.’ I wave away the slip of pink paper and start to back away towards Vanessa’s office. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’
*
The sun is out now, shining bright in the almost cloudless sky, but it is freezing as I stand on the platform at Piccadilly train station, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my coat. I’m still wearing the ridiculous peep-toe boots and I can feel every breath of the wind that is whistling along the platform, my toes turning blue with the chill. I should have changed into more suitable footwear whilst I was at the flat, but I barely had time to shove a few essentials into the holdall before I had to jump into the taxi beeping with irritation outside. I’ve packed enough to last me until the weekend, when I’ll make the journey back home, because Vanessa can’t seriously expect me to uproot my life for a whole month – however tempting the thought had been when I’d stepped into the flat and caught the lingering whiff of my flatmate. Having a little break from Lee is the only silver lining of this whole debacle. I toyed with the idea of leaving my absence to his imagination – had I been kidnapped? Run over and left for dead on the side of the road? – but I was afraid he’d have rented out my room by the time I returned if I didn’t let him know I’d be back soon, so I’ve left him a note on the fridge.
Tugging my hands from my pockets, I rub them together to try to create a bit of warmth as I peer down the tracks, hoping to glimpse the train that was due eight minutes ago. I’d rushed to make it to the station but I needn’t have been so speedy as there’s no sign of the train. I’m half-tempted to nip to the kiosk at the top of the steps to grab a cup of coffee to warm me up but I know without a doubt that the train will have pulled up and left again by the time I’ve clattered back down the steps, probably spilling hot liquid down myself in my haste. So I’m forced to stand, teeth chattering, while I wait for a train I don’t even want to catch.
This is absurd. Why am I putting up with this change in job role? I should have been firm. Said no, I will absolutely not take on the task of project managing a house renovation in the middle of nowhere, and if you even think of firing me over the matter, I will drag you to court for unfair dismissal. But I didn’t, because I’m as firm as unset jelly, and now I’m about to board the train that is rumbling down the tracks towards me at last.
I feel a bit sick as I bend down to grab the holdall at my feet. This is it. I’m really doing this. I’m actually taking a break from my role as Vanessa’s PA, moving away from the office and my dream profession, to oversee the transformation of a house I have zero interest in. How am I supposed to earn a promotion now I’ve been shoved out of the way? I can’t impress Vanessa with my ideas from Little Heaton. This is career suicide!
Unless … Hooking the holdall onto my arm, I join the melee of people waiting to board, scanning the crowd for the end of a queue to join. Or any hint of a queue in the chaos, at least. There isn’t one and I find myself jostled out of the way as a D-bag with a briefcase barges past with his elbows out. I apologise (what the hell?) before edging my way back into the pack, earning myself a glare from a woman with a pushchair, who runs over my exposed toes before I can leap out of the way. I’m silently seething by the time I limp onto the train, shuffling along the carriage in search of an empty seat with my holdall clutched to my chest. This day sucks. I thought Lee using my toothpaste without permission had been bad enough, but the morning has been on a steady decline since I stepped into Vanessa’s office and spotted her dishevelled hairdo. So much for those good vibes I’d fooled myself into feeling on the way to work.
I make my way into the next carriage and the feeling of dread lifts ever so slightly when I spot a free seat at the end. Not only is the seat free of either body or bag, it is a window seat and it is facing forward. The positive me from this morning would have taken this as a Very Good Sign, but all the buoyancy has been sucked out of me by now so I simply slot my holdall into the luggage rack above my head and sink gratefully into the seat. The voice over the tannoy system announces the opening of the onboard kiosk, but although I’m in desperate need of a coffee for both the caffeine injection and the warmth, I’m fearful that my seat will have been appropriated by the time I get back. No, it’s safer to remain where I am, as settled as I can be whizzing past fields of sheep at a hundred miles an hour. Besides, there’s something more urgent than my need for coffee prodding at me. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s bugging me, a thought that I can’t quite grasp hold of.
My phone beeps in my pocket and I see a message from Emma when I pull it out.
Good luck with your ‘new job’ – show Vanessa what you’re made of! xxx
And that’s when it hits me. The thought that’s been niggling at me since I picked up my holdall on the platform. I need to use this as an opportunity to really impress Vanessa, to show her that I have all the skills required of a good events planner: exceptional organisation, the ability to multitask and problem-solve while working under pressure, and meeting tight deadlines while retaining a high level of attention to detail. I’m going to be the best, most efficient project manager and keep the refurbishment on track. I’m going to prove to Vanessa that I have what it takes, that I would be an asset to her team if she would only give me the opportunity to shine. I’m going to earn myself that promotion, get a foot back on the career ladder and find myself a decent flat-share so I can finally live the life I dreamed I would when I left home and moved to Manchester. This is the start of a brand new life and a brand new me.
Vanessa hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said Little Heaton was in the middle of nowhere; I haven’t seen any sign of civilisation for at least fifteen minutes as we delve further into the Cheshire countryside. Even the sheep-filled fields have given way to wild moorland and I’m starting to panic that instead of taking me to the address I’d hastily jotted down earlier and am now clutching in my hand, the taxi driver is finding the perfect spot to bury a body. My body.
I know I’m being paranoid – or at least that’s what I’m telling myself as I take deep, even breaths while watching the meter clocking up pound after pound – but I’m not the most adventurous of people. I’d felt super-sophisticated when I moved to Manchester from the tiny town I’d grown up in, though any sense of refinement diminished rapidly when I moved into the flat with Lee, obviously – but I was still proud of the leap I’d made. Now, though, I want to take a giant step backwards. I want to return to a place of safety. A place I know, even if I don’t particularly love it. My grubby little flat doesn’t seem so bad when faced with the prospect of being transported into the wilderness with a maniac.
The taxi driver hasn’t given me any hint that he’s a maniac. In fact, he’d seemed quite pleasant as he’d hefted my holdall into the boot of his car, and he’d attempted to make small talk as we’d left the town somewhere on the outskirts of Warrington behind, only giving up when it transpired it would be easier getting blood from a stone than having a two-way conversation with me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to him about the weather or how many weeks there are until Christmas, but I found all my attention was focused on not having an anxiety-fuelled vomit over the backseat of his car. I’d bought a bottle of water once I’d disembarked the train at Warrington and have been taking tiny sips of it ever since, but it’s doing little to ease the nausea I’ve been feeling since I stepped onto the hot, stuffy bus that eventually led me to a town I’d never even heard of until I’d Googled how to get to Little Heaton. From there, I’d managed to locate a taxi rank to take me the rest of the way. Or at least that’s what I hope is happening right now. The taxi driver is pleasant and I didn’t spot a shovel in the boot of his car earlier, but you just never know. I should ask if it’s much further, to try to gauge the driver’s intentions, but I find myself mute and clammy-handed as I sit ramrod straight in my seat, wincing as the meter continues to tick over.
‘I don’t come this far out very often.’
I jump a mile as the driver’s voice suddenly speaks over the radio, interrupting Mike and the Mechanics urging the listeners to appreciate their