Free Summer With My Sister by Lucy Diamond Page A

HR directors with her epic CV and bullet-pointed letter; it was all she could do to drag herself onto the sofa with the duvet without dying of hangover pain. She lay there for a few hours feeling mortified. How would she ever be able to go back to the Red House, after making such a spectacle of herself? And how would she ever be able to look the Sophies, Richenda and Johnny in the eye, without crying with embarrassment? She might as well face facts: her career was down the toilet, along with gallons of her alcoholic puke.
    The only good thing that happened all day was when she found the TV remote, placed neatly in the wooden drawer of the coffee table. This at least meant that she could lie there watching Phil and Holly on This Morning , followed by Loose Women and Paul O’Grady. After several hours she found the strength to make herself a cup of tea. Other than that, she only bothered moving to change channels. What else was there left for her to do?

    Several days passed in this vein, although none in quite such a hungover, alcohol-laced vein, thankfully. Oh, she made a few token efforts to check her emails, just in case anyone had replied to her job-seeking attempts with an interview or a welcoming pair of golden handcuffs but, unfortunately, the only responses she had were pro-forma rejections, informing her there were no suitable vacancies at the present time.
    She clicked on the FT website several times a day, desperate to stay in the loop – old habits died hard – but whenever she checked out her investment portfolio, its worth seemed to have shrunk even smaller. You’ve got to play the long game , she remembered telling clients time and again. No such thing as a quick fix . She was starting to doubt the wisdom of her own words, though. Since her bonus had been snatched away at the eleventh hour, she didn’t want to play a long game. She needed her shares to start rising again, fast. She needed a quick fix just as badly as a smackhead, damn it.
    When she wasn’t on her PC, she spent the rest of her time stretched out on the sofa, feet up, glued to daytime television. Why had no one told her how brilliant daytime television was? She already felt like Phil and Holly were old friends, and the Loose Women were the funny, sympathetic best mates she’d never had. She was getting good at spotting the bargains on Bargain Hunt too. And wasn’t it cosy, just staying in her pyjamas all day? She felt as snug as an unemployed bug in a rug.
    By the third day she’d wised up to planning ahead. She didn’t want to face the rest of the world yet, so she ordered a food delivery online, full of all her favourite treats. Well, why not? It was about time she took things easy, chilled out for a change. She deserved a break after almost twenty years of pressing her nose against the business grindstone, and she was one hundred per cent convinced that a job would have turned up by the end of next week.
    On Friday, when she’d been in the same pyjamas for four solid days, had just eaten cornflakes for lunch again (that Ocado van really couldn’t come too soon) and was wondering if one o’clock in the afternoon was too early to have a tiny little glass of wine while she watched Loose Women , she heard a key in the door and nearly had a coronary in fright. What the hell?
    She unswaddled herself from the duvet and leapt up from the sofa indignantly, heart pounding. ‘Excuse me ,’ she began as her front door opened, ‘but . . .’
    Then she stopped, as she realized who the intruder was. That effing cleaner again.
    Magda recoiled at the sight of Polly standing there, lank-haired and barefoot in what appeared to be quite grimy pyjamas and a dressing gown. ‘Miss Johnson, you are here?’ she asked in confusion. ‘Again?’ She blinked, taking in the sight of empty cereal bowls stacked up on the coffee table, the cold cups of coffee, the plasma screen TV blaring the Loose Women titles. ‘You are ill?’
    Polly hesitated. ‘Yes,’