Free The Art of Becoming Homeless by Sara Alexi Page B

where she lives, it’s home. It’s her place. How can she move?
    The sad truth is that, at her age, she is unemployable if she loses her job. No job means no money. Room by room the old place will decay, the mould will spread its way along the hall, the panelling in the library will split and crack, the chimneys will no longer be usable, and the beetles will eat and eat until the wall collapses. She can see she will end up in the scullery with an electric fire to keep her warm, until the money in the bank is gone and the house falls down around her, leaving her in the street in her dressing gown and slippers.
    Homeless.
    Flopping into the nearest café chair and ordering an ouzo will solve all her problems—if that one ouzo is followed by another, and another. It’s tempting. No matter how many deep breaths she takes no energy returns. The ship has gone, leaving her to drown. This mess might really lose her her job.
    Despite all this, that feeling of relief remains, a feeling she has never allowed before when thinking about the house. And a part of her really does feel like this relief is, well, a relief.
    ‘Hey lady, you all right?’ A waiter addresses her. ‘You need some water?’ He is carrying a tray, drinks lined up. With his free hand he passes her a glass of water.
    ‘ Thank you.’
    ‘ You had an accident?’ He looks her up and down.
    ‘ No … yes … no. I am fine; it was yesterday. Do you know where there is a phone please?’ She must not give up.
    ‘ Public phones up the third street by the post office.’
    On the corner there ’s a shop with a dummy outside draped in linen and cotton, white and beige for the heat. Michelle dips under the low door and reappears minutes later in a clean, new outfit, noting to herself that things could have been worse—she could have lost her wallet as well as dropping her rucksack and missing the boat. But it is a small consolation. Now she needs a phone.
    The phones are mounted on a wall and covered with transparent plastic hoods. Michelle cannot imagine for a minute that they will not be vandalised. She approaches the first, ready to be disappointed, and is surprised to see that not only is it intact, but a phone directory sits on the shelf below it.

    ‘ Hello, I am just calling about the meeting tomorrow. Sorry, no I have not been able to pick up my emails … Oh, I see. No, no, I understand. No, sure, fine, if that suits you better. No, of course. Yes, yes, yes. OK then, next Friday. Yes, and by the way my phone has been mislaid so I will call you nearer the time to confirm. Emails, yes of course I will be available on email.’
    She exhales heavily and hopes there will be an internet café.
    Her new clothes get a brush of flaky whitewash from leaning against the wall. She needs some help in standing, if only for a moment. A reprieve, a stay of sentence. The Greek lawyers have requested a postponement until the following Friday, and they have emailed her chambers proposing the change of date, saying that they would be contacting her. She must get in touch with London, if for nothing else than to bring her some feeling of normality, assure herself that her job is still there.
    Energy returns to her limbs. The Gods seem to be smiling on her—for now, at least.

    The job is still intact, but the following Friday is the day she was planning to go to see Juliet. She should call and explain there is a chance she won ’t make it now.
    She could cry. This reprieve, on top of everything else, is all a bit much. And now her planned week with Juliet is defusing into the melodrama of work. Tears threaten to fall. She still feels shaky from yesterday. Where’s Dino?
    She cannot find the strength to call Juliet to let her know of the possible cancellation. It would make it too real.
    The need to sit drags her back to the port, where she subsides into the first comfortable chair she comes across.
    She lets her head rest on the back, her hands loose in her lap, eyes closed.