Free One Step Too Far by Tina Seskis Page B

start looking for a job.” The tasks seem insurmountable.
    I pause, try to lighten the mood. “One thing I must do today though is buy some flip-flops – how the hell d'you cope in that bathroom?”
    Angel laughs. “I try to shower at work mostly. And anyway I’m not here for long babe, I just needed somewhere where my bastard ex-boyfriend couldn’t find me. I wouldn’t normally live in such a pit, but needs must and all that.”
    “Oh.” I look down.
    “What’s your excuse, babe?” says Angel gently. The kindness pricks at my eyes.
    “Same as you really, I suppose. And I don’t mean to sound like a weirdo, I know we’ve only just met, but I thought it would be all right in that hideous house, with you there.”
    “Don’t worry, babe,” Angel says. “I’m not going just yet.”
    I feel ridiculous that I’ve formed such an attachment to Angel, but she doesn’t seem to mind – I get the sense that she’s used to looking after people, that she likes it, likes to feel needed. She seems in some ways more grown up than I’ve ever been, although I must have 10 years on her, and I used to be a wife, a mother.
    “Well, we’ll have to keep in touch when you do go,” I say limply.
    “Of course we will, babe. Anyway, I’m here now and there’s no-one else in the house I’d want to hang out with.” She smiles at me and there’s wickedness in her eyes. She puts on a terrible American accent. “Don’t you worry Miss Brown. You and me, we’re gonna have us some fun .”
    I cheer up, like a screaming child who’s been given an ice-cream, and although Angel is done with eating she's happy to stay, and so we sit for longer and order more coffees and chat about everything and nothing, and I finish the buttered toast that’s piled up between us, every last piece.
     
    When we get home, Angel goes straight to bed as she’s been working all night, and as I don’t know what else to do I check out the kitchen, just to see if it’s empty. I haven’t yet sussed out who in the house does what, when or whether they work, who’s going to be in when. As there’s no living room I assumed there’d always be plenty of people in the kitchen, but so far it’s been fairly quiet. I’ve not seen Bev, the girl from Barnsley who had her chocolate stolen, since that first evening, but she’s here now, busy at the sink. It’s too late to not go in, she’s heard me. She turns her head over her shoulder and beams at me. “Morning!” she says. “Fucking dogs, I’ve just stood in fucking dog shit. I don’t know why people have the little fuckers, they could at least pick their crap up but people round here are so fucking IGNORANT.” I realise that Bev has her wooden clog in her hand, and she’s scraping at it with a table knife, over a stack of dirty dishes in the sink. She sees my face.
    “Oh, don’t worry, washing up liquid is amazing stuff, it gets rid of 99.9% of germs. I read an article on it, it's all fine.”
    I’m at a loss how to respond to this. Australian Erica enters into the pause. She’s wearing an aubergine skirt suit that shows off her incredibly petite figure and her plain face is thick with make-up and her dark hair is pulled up in one of those big hair clamps. I smile at her but she just scowls at me, then she goes over to the sink and sees what Bev’s doing.
    “For God’s sake, Bev!” says Erica.
    “Oh, get over it Erica, I’m going to clean up afterwards.”
    “That is DISGUSTING,” says Erica, and although I don’t much like her I have to agree with her on this.
    Bev laughs and carries on cleaning her shoe. Erica turns on her kitten heels and stomps out of the kitchen, slamming the door.
    “Good luck with the interview,” calls Bev cheerily, then under her breath mutters, “You sour-faced cunt.” I’m usually offended by that word, but I find myself sympathising in this case, almost wanting to laugh.
    I hesitate but she seems friendly. “Bev,” I say. “Do you know where I