Hens Reunited by Lucy Diamond Page B

had from Jake since the split had been a cheque for a lot of money which his manager had forwarded. Jake had sold the Chelsea flat and had given her half the profit. Which was very handy and meant Alice wouldn’t have to work for a while, but all the same . . . There wasn’t even a note from him, just a Post-it from his rotten manager explaining the sale. Big deal.
    The last Alice knew of him – via a paragraph in Heat magazine – was that he was in LA auditioning for something with Orlando Bloom. No doubt her devoted husband would be knobbing every starlet he could get his hands on.
    She sighed, ruffling the downy hairs on the back of her daughter’s head. Iris reached out a pink fist and grabbed Alice’s ponytail in return. Tug, tug.
    Get over it, Alice. Move on. New start, remember?
    She got to her feet. ‘Let’s look round our new start,’ she murmured to Iris, who let go of her hair and began to make sucking motions on Alice’s shoulder, nuzzling the fabric of her T-shirt to one side, in order to get a gummy suction seal on her bare skin. Alice kissed her daughter’s head. It was nice, she reminded herself, having someone else crave her body, her bare skin, even if it wasn’t her husband.
    So this was the living room. Why did it look so titchy today, this gloomy little square of space? Cosy, the letting agent had called it, when he’d showed her the cottage the other week. Sweet, Alice had thought to herself back then, gazing around. The windows had been flung open, and there had been fresh white roses in an earthenware jug on the mantelpiece, scenting the room. The person who’d rented it before Alice had had colourful pictures on the walls, photos of grandchildren (she guessed) and bright drapes of material across the sofa. It had felt like a safe place. A place where good things happened.
    ‘Of course, it’ll be let fully furnished,’ the letting agent had assured her with yet another smarmy smile. And Alice had gazed around at the small oak bookcase stuffed with paperbacks, the rich red rug in front of the fireplace, and the grandchildren beaming out from the photos with their brushed hair and spotless school uniforms, and said, ‘I’ll take it.’
    Since then, Alice had stupidly remembered the cheerful accessories of her predecessor whenever she’d thought about moving in. She’d remembered the feel of the place, rather than what lay beneath the cushions and photos and roses.
    Now the room seemed bare, with its rough-plastered walls, tiny window and manky greying net curtain blocking out the light with its dirt. There was a telly that looked as if it had been salvaged from the ark – she doubted she’d be able to get E4 on that – and dust on the old stone mantelpiece.
    The front door, which she’d left open, cast a slant of sunlight over the grubby carpet. The rug had gone, too, of course.
    So, suicide-inducing living room aside, what other delights were in store for her here? She hardly dared look now. She’d probably discover there was no running water, or no electricity or something. Why hadn’t she been more thorough about checking over her new home? Why had she been won over by someone’s photos and flowers? What a sucker the letting agent must have thought her.
    Into the tiny kitchen she went. It was clean, at least; she could see the faint smears of Flash or something similar on the hob where some well-meaning person had wiped around the gas rings. The bright blue teapot she’d seen on the previous visit had gone, along with the cluster of mugs. No checked tea towel lay drying on the radiator now. The dripping tap competed with a ticking clock as to who could mark time better.
    Who lives in a house like this? Loyd Grossman said in Alice’s head. Let’s consider the evidence. It’s shabby and small. It’s dingy and dusty. Of course! It’s single-mum loser Alice and fatherless Iris!
    Upstairs wasn’t a whole lot cheerier. One titchy bathroom with pink tiles and a smell of