could remember to fail in Eng.Lit.
She was glad that nobody – except Jenna – knew about her ambitions. Still unconfident, unpublished, she wasn’t sure even George would have understood. She knew despondently that her biggest battle was against her own lack of confidence. Why should anybody be interested in what she had to write? With so little experience of the world, did she even have the right to think she could be a novelist?
She knew that her parents knew perfectly well that, exam results apart, there was something else wrong, too. She was almost certain Daphne suspected some sort of broken love affair, and thought that was why she was moping around like a lovesick cow, though Cleo had never told them about Toby, wanting to keep him to herself for as long as she could. But her mother
was wrong. Splitting up with Toby had hurt like an abscessed tooth, of course it had, but several months later, she knew the condition wasn’t terminal. It was just that losing him had left her feeling so empty, hollow with unsatisfied longings for … she didn’t know what. Well, she could always write.
She wasn’t due to start with Maid to Order until Monday, so she went out and spent the morning once more looking for somewhere to live — a flat, or a bed-sit, anything. By now she wasn’t all that fussy as long as it afforded her some privacy. Not that she was anti-social, but if she was going to be serious about writing, she needed her own space.
Near Birmingham, or Coventry, there was plenty of student-type accommodation available near the universities, but that absolutely wasn’t what Cleo was looking for. She felt very definitely that she’d left that scene behind, to get involved in it again, however peripherally, would be a markedly backward step. But she found nothing else she could remotely afford, and after a depressing sandwich in a pizza bar (she should have stuck to the pizza) she wandered down to the agency, to give in her notice to her father, so to speak. He hadn’t heard about her alternative proposals for employment yet.
He wasn’t as rude about her qualifications for the job as Daphne had been, but he wasn’t thrilled with the idea, even when she pointed out that there was nothing for her to do at the agency, now that Muriel was back.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘and I wish she’d made up her bloomin’ mind to stay away. It was good of her to think I’d be needing her, but I’m not mad about having Hermione around the place.’
Who would be? The little dog had been spoiled to death before her major op, and was worse now, enjoying the rewards of being an invalid without any of the disadvantages. Cleo had noticed her trotting around the back yard on her short legs without a care in the world, not to mention chasing the butcher’s cat from next door, but she was canny enough not to push her luck by letting Muriel see her doing this. She even stayed curled in the little basket at Muriel’s feet when anyone came in, gazing at them with soulful eyes rather than snapping as was her wont, when there was nothing she enjoyed more than seeing people shrink back in fear of her sharp little teeth. She’d been tyrannising her mistress for years. Muriel had always sworn that her
previous bad temper was due to the poor little thing having had hot flushes for years, and how could anyone prove she hadn’t? True or not, the dog obviously knew she was on to a good thing now. Minced fillet steak and Choccie Chews. Warm milk to drink. Hottie bottles in her basket. Hermione had obviously become power drunk, with every intention of spinning this out indefinitely.
‘I wish I could give you some real work here,’ George said, ‘but you know how it is.’ There was barely enough work for Muriel, never mind Cleo into the bargain. ‘You’ve done well,’ he added, and she felt a certain amount of pride, despite herself.
Muriel, it had to be said, though well-intentioned, and capable in her own way, was a muddler, and
She was glad that nobody – except Jenna – knew about her ambitions. Still unconfident, unpublished, she wasn’t sure even George would have understood. She knew despondently that her biggest battle was against her own lack of confidence. Why should anybody be interested in what she had to write? With so little experience of the world, did she even have the right to think she could be a novelist?
She knew that her parents knew perfectly well that, exam results apart, there was something else wrong, too. She was almost certain Daphne suspected some sort of broken love affair, and thought that was why she was moping around like a lovesick cow, though Cleo had never told them about Toby, wanting to keep him to herself for as long as she could. But her mother
was wrong. Splitting up with Toby had hurt like an abscessed tooth, of course it had, but several months later, she knew the condition wasn’t terminal. It was just that losing him had left her feeling so empty, hollow with unsatisfied longings for … she didn’t know what. Well, she could always write.
She wasn’t due to start with Maid to Order until Monday, so she went out and spent the morning once more looking for somewhere to live — a flat, or a bed-sit, anything. By now she wasn’t all that fussy as long as it afforded her some privacy. Not that she was anti-social, but if she was going to be serious about writing, she needed her own space.
Near Birmingham, or Coventry, there was plenty of student-type accommodation available near the universities, but that absolutely wasn’t what Cleo was looking for. She felt very definitely that she’d left that scene behind, to get involved in it again, however peripherally, would be a markedly backward step. But she found nothing else she could remotely afford, and after a depressing sandwich in a pizza bar (she should have stuck to the pizza) she wandered down to the agency, to give in her notice to her father, so to speak. He hadn’t heard about her alternative proposals for employment yet.
He wasn’t as rude about her qualifications for the job as Daphne had been, but he wasn’t thrilled with the idea, even when she pointed out that there was nothing for her to do at the agency, now that Muriel was back.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘and I wish she’d made up her bloomin’ mind to stay away. It was good of her to think I’d be needing her, but I’m not mad about having Hermione around the place.’
Who would be? The little dog had been spoiled to death before her major op, and was worse now, enjoying the rewards of being an invalid without any of the disadvantages. Cleo had noticed her trotting around the back yard on her short legs without a care in the world, not to mention chasing the butcher’s cat from next door, but she was canny enough not to push her luck by letting Muriel see her doing this. She even stayed curled in the little basket at Muriel’s feet when anyone came in, gazing at them with soulful eyes rather than snapping as was her wont, when there was nothing she enjoyed more than seeing people shrink back in fear of her sharp little teeth. She’d been tyrannising her mistress for years. Muriel had always sworn that her
previous bad temper was due to the poor little thing having had hot flushes for years, and how could anyone prove she hadn’t? True or not, the dog obviously knew she was on to a good thing now. Minced fillet steak and Choccie Chews. Warm milk to drink. Hottie bottles in her basket. Hermione had obviously become power drunk, with every intention of spinning this out indefinitely.
‘I wish I could give you some real work here,’ George said, ‘but you know how it is.’ There was barely enough work for Muriel, never mind Cleo into the bargain. ‘You’ve done well,’ he added, and she felt a certain amount of pride, despite herself.
Muriel, it had to be said, though well-intentioned, and capable in her own way, was a muddler, and
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