London Bound (Heart of the City #3)(2)

       
         
       
        

I smiled brightly. 'I'll fix you something,' I said, manoeuvring the tray through the door and trying to avoid Joy's scoff, as she clasped her bony hands over her blanket and glared out the window at a poor passer-by. Come winter, if I had managed to survive that long, I planned to wheel her outside and put that glower to work: she could melt the snow from the pavement; sometimes evil can be useful.

I sighed, clinking my way down the hall to the kitchen, another cheery room flooded with natural light from the adjoining sunroom. Through the glass door, a beautiful rose garden lay in a private courtyard that was small but still a pleasant way to grab some sunshine if it decided to appear. I placed the tray on the sink and ran the hot water. Rinsing the delicate china always made me nervous and depressed.

So this was my life now. Cook and washerwoman to the devil.

The vivid memory of Mum warning me against my plans echoed through my mind again. What could I say? I had been blinded by the sparkling promise of travel, proximity to European fashion and, perhaps the greatest prize of all, free accommodation! And in, of all places, the very affluent South Kensington, where the streets were not paved with gold but as far as real estate went, they might as well have been. Known as 'Paris's 21st arrondissement', I knew I'd be surrounded by culture and glamour; perfect inspiration for my blog.

My mum was never close to Nana Joy. I had put it down to her being more of a daddy's girl; she had adored Lionel Ellingham, and it was sad that I had no memory of the man so revered by my mother. The image Mum painted of Joy, however, was akin to a skull-and-cross-bone warning label. Highly corrosive  –  do not touch. But I hadn't listened. I may not have seen her since I was a small girl but how could I not love my own grandmother?

Landing on the doorstep of my nana's opulent home felt like the ancestral equivalent of discovering a treasure trove; such grandeur was unlike anything I'd seen back home in the 'burbs of Australia where your wealth was measured by how big your flatscreen TV was or whether or not you had an ensuite bathroom. I was on the cusp of a grand adventure. I had visions of bonding trips to Harrods for a spot of shopping, afternoon tea at the Ritz, strolls through Kensington Gardens, and that was just in the time we would spend together. Other days I would explore on my own: day trips to the countryside, York maybe, Stonehenge, further afield to Edinburgh. The world was my oyster  …  or so I had thought.

In the three-and-a-half weeks I had been in London I had seen nothing beyond Gloucester Road, the main strip a block away from our curved row of stark-white terraces. As I placed the fingers of shortbread on a dainty china dessert plate, I realised this was as close to high tea as it would get for me. There would be no bonding, no expeditions, no gallivanting of any kind. 

A small degree of relief came in the sound of the front door opening.

Vera! Thank God.

I eagerly met her in the hall and helped her with her bags, bombarding her with big smiles and cheer. Vera was my daily dose of adult conversation; anyone would think she was my carer.

'Hello, Miss Kate, how are we today?' she puffed, handing me her cargo with red-faced appreciation.

'I'm so glad you're here, Vera.'

Vera smiled; her packet-dyed red hair was almost as bright as her sparkly blue eyes. She never asked why I was so happy to welcome her. We had a silent understanding about the creature that lurked beyond the parlour door.

She laughed. 'I'll take it from here, Kate.'

My eyes lit up; they were by far the most magical words I had ever heard.

'The rain has cleared out, why not enjoy the sun while it lasts? I won't tell.'

No, I was wrong  –  those were the most magical words I had ever heard. I went straight to my bag on the hallstand.

'Kettle's boiled and there's shortbread on the go in the kitchen for the three o'clock munchies,' I said, sneaking to unlatch the front door and wincing when it creaked. I really didn't want to be bombarded with a million questions about where I was going and how long I would be. Going out for bread and milk was hard enough, let alone any 'me' time, which was seen as frivolous and selfish. But with Vera finally here I was allowed a small window of freedom, though I always rushed, making sure to return before Nana realised I had gone. It was exhausting, nothing like the free-spirited fun I had envisioned. Some days I swear it felt like I was in a sleeper hold, the lack of oxygen to my brain was no doubt going to cause me permanent damage; I was already concerned over my psychological state, and the sugar-laced cups of tea and shortbread were no doubt rotting my teeth while the lack of stimulation rotted my mind.