She was an immaculate worker, I knew she was. With her knowledge in antiques and history passed down by her family, she was the best any antique shop could want. At her age any company would try to underpay her regardless of her qualifications, but they couldn’t have had anyone better for the job.
“There’s nothing I can do about it.” She looked so miserable with her slumped shoulders and red cheeks—no, notred cheeks, definitely not that one—swollen eyes, I doubted she even realised just how much she could do about it.
“You know my mum is a solicitor, don’t you?” I said in case she’d forgotten. Of course she knew; we’d grown up together. She was just shutting down and not thinking clearly. “You can sue them, I’m sure my mum would help. I’ll be scrubbing dishes for the rest of my life for her services, but she’ll help. You would at least get your last pay, they can’t keep it from you.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m now jobless.”
“For now,” I insisted. “You are jobless for now. You are so incredible. I have faith that you’ll find a new job in no time.”
Glen rubbed her toes on the fluffy carpet, swiping at her eyes. “I’ve looked. Don’t you think I’ve looked? I knew being let go was always an option. There is nothing else, Hallie. I’m going to lose my grandmother’s flat.”
Shaking my head, I refused to accept it, but with the mood Glen was in, it was impossible to reason with her, so I offered the next best thing. “I bet you have ice cream in that bottomless freezer of yours.”
Grabbing her hand, I pulled her out of the bedroom, across the antique living room and into a kitchen that fell somewhere between the moderness of her bedroom and antiqueness of the living space. It could possibly be called a country kitchen, only we were nowhere near the country, so it felt wrong to call it that; perhaps country chic or modern farmhouse. Whatever it was, it held the fridge and the ice cream I was certain I’d find inside.
Rummaging in her fridge left me empty handed, however. I turned an accusing gaze at Glen, whose despairing composure hadn’t changed since.
“I was here yesterday,” I claimed, flicking my gaze between the clearly ice-creamless freezer still hanging open from my search. “I could swear I brought in an entire carton of ice cream and we only ate half.”
Glen’s shoulders raised in a pathetic shrug. “You were in class when I messaged, then took another thirty minutes to arrive,” is all she replied.
Of course, she ate it. Silly of me to assume it was still here. I nudged the fridge closed and crossed my hands over my chest.
“So you’ve gotten your sugar rush already, huh?” I narrowed my eyes when all she did was tap her foot to the tiled kitchen floor. I clearly sucked at this cheering up thing. “You want more sugar? I mean, I suppose I could make hot chocolate, instead.”
No answer. Right, I was talking to myself now. With that in mind, I resumed shuffling around in Glen’s kitchen, opting to prepare the most sugarsome treat I could with the limited ingredients available. The proof of the ice cream’s early demise lay in an almost overflowing bin, which I opened to throw away a wrapper that once belonged to a chocolate bar I’d hidden away in her dry-goods cupboard a week ago. I knew she wouldn’t find it there. And right I was, at least in this small matter.
Heating up milk took longer than I thought, and I contemplated telling Glen about my lift encounter while the liquid took its sweet time to get warm. One look at her, though, and I knew that no matter how awkward my retelling would be—and it would surely be more awkward than the encounter itself, which was godawful—it would not cheer her up in her current dejected-mood. Probably nothing I would say would, so I opted to just stay quiet and prepare hot cocoa Nutella sandwiches—with the chocolate bar hidden between the slices of bread. After careful consideration, I revealed another one of my snacks-hiding places in her kitchen and pulled out some chocolate covered raisins from under a teacup solely meant for me. I added that to our definitely-best-supper-choice pile. Glen didn’t even blink an eye at the revelation.
By the time the hot chocolate was steaming, I was certain my growing belly had nothing to do with how much I exercised, and everything to do with what I was going to stuff my face with. Today was not a day to cut down on sweets, though, so I attempted to put that thought aside, along with the smug face of Mr Umbrella that kept rising to the forefront of my mind.
We consumed our calories on Glen’s Victorian sofa, wrapped up in blankets, and opted to watch the ‘Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants’—yes,pants!—on the flatscreen TV perched on a vintage cupboard when Glen suddenly blurted, “Why don’t you move in with me?”
Cat pattern jim jams are the new fashion trend
“MOVE IN WITH YOU?”?My mouth fell open as I considered her words, with my impulsiveness urging me to not think too hard.
