Free Summer With My Sister by Lucy Diamond Page B

she said after a moment.
    ‘You want me go? Or I clean?’
    Again Polly hesitated. She didn’t want anyone else in the flat right now, she was enjoying wallowing on her own. She’d decided to take the rest of this week off, before throwing herself back into job-hunting again on Monday. Having the cleaner bustling about with the Hoover would break the spell, let the real world back into the bubble she’d created around herself.
    On the other hand, the flat was kind of a tip.
    ‘You can stay,’ Polly said grandly, retreating to the sofa and pulling the duvet up under her chin again. If she didn’t look at the cleaner, she might be able to pretend she wasn’t there. She’d just concentrate on her programme, especially as an interview with Colin Firth was coming up.
    ‘You want I make you drink? Something to eat?’
    The cleaner – Polly had forgotten her name – was standing in front of her, blocking the TV screen. Polly twitched irritably and was about to shoo her away again when she processed the questions. Did she want a drink or something to eat? Actually, she did. She was paying the woman after all. ‘A cup of tea would be great,’ she said. ‘I’m out of food unfortunately. Oh, and do make yourself one if you want,’ she added as the idea occurred to her. ‘I think the milk’s gone a bit lumpy, so you might prefer it black.’
    The cleaner began stacking up the empty cereal bowls, some of which had become rather whiffy. ‘You have no one to look after you, eh? Is no good. I here now. Magda look after you, eh?’ she said, casting a sideways glance at Polly.
    Polly smiled thinly, wishing Magda would shut up and get out of the way of the television. She wasn’t exactly in the mood for chit-chat, let alone with a cleaner. She said nothing, just stared pointedly at the TV, and after a while Magda took the hint and vanished into the kitchen.
    Magda boiled the kettle and opened the dishwasher to load in the dirty crockery. A dreadful smell arose from the machine as soon as she pulled open its door. There was one plate and a few cups inside that sported dark fringes of mould. How long had they been sitting in there? ‘Môj bože ’ she muttered. ‘My God, this woman is a disaster.’
    She glanced around the upmarket white kitchen with its granite worktops, which had probably never seen a chopping board or fresh vegetables; its fridge, which was always empty, save for a pint of milk or maybe some champagne; the cupboards, which were largely bare. What a waste it all was, she thought, shaking her head. Maybe she’d got Miss Johnson wrong; maybe her apartment was often full of friends in the evenings – dinner parties, girls’ nights, a lover who cooked for her – but she’d never come across any evidence to support this. Instead there was the lone wine glass, plate, knife and fork occasionally left in the sink. The packaging of a ready-meal for one in the bin. If this place belonged to Magda – ah, it would be so different. It would be a home.
    She thought of her own kitchen: small and cramped, but decorated with her children’s artwork and certificates from school, and full of good smells from the stews she cooked on cold days or the apple cakes the children liked to help her bake. Tomasz would sit at the small wooden table, dark head bent over his homework, while Kasia would perch on the worktop swinging her legs and chattering about her day.
    Magda shut her eyes for a brief pleasurable moment, thinking of their smiling faces upturned like flowers, the warmth of their young bodies when they hugged her, their peaceful faces as they slept. This woman, Miss Johnson, she might have the fancy apartment that Magda’s small flat could fit into twenty times over, the money and the big important job, but these things were nothing when you had nobody to care for you when you were ill. Poor Miss Johnson. Magda would not swap lives with her in a heartbeat. Wcale nie . Not at all.

 

    Chapter Six
    It was