December EIGHT YEARS BEFORE

December

E IGHT YEARS BEFORE

5.50 A . M .

Madeleine woke in the bedroom of her grotty shared flat on the Old Kent Road to a grumbling pain in her stomach and a strong desire to vomit. It was as surprising as it was annoying. She was never ill. Never. Quite unlike some of her peers, who delighted in a mild affliction that meant a duvet day, any illness was for her an irritation – an inconvenience she did not have time for. She rarely wanted to slow down, and thankfully it had been her very fortunate experience to have never been so encumbered by a condition she couldn’t shake off. While her school mates, and now colleagues, rammed tissues under leaking noses or necked syrups, potions, and pills to try to stave off whatever bug had inveigled their system, she merely drank water, took deep breaths, walked briskly, had an early night, and managed to halt any and all potential ailments in their tracks. Her gran had been the same; her mum too.

‘The Woods women have the constitution of an ox and a hide about as thick!’

This was the family saying that only added to the self-belief that to get sick was for other people.

At twenty-two, she had been in her role as an assistant to the creative team for the large commercial renovation company for almost a year and was desperate to make her mark. She devoured interior design magazines and was drawn to any form and shape that thrilled her: it might be a vase or a view or even the contents of spaghetti hoops tipped on to a plate – it all fascinated her and she studied them accordingly.

The term ‘assistant’ had been loosely mooted at her interview and it transpired that her job entailed doing anything that the esteemed designers didn’t fancy doing themselves. This included, but was not limited to, fetching coffee and dry cleaning (unless it was a sunny day when miraculously those who deemed the task beyond them in the rain suddenly found their walking shoes), making endless copies, picking up items from the printers across town, redistributing mail that had ended up on the wrong desk, staying after hours to supervise contractors, calling plumbers when the loo got blocked, grabbing sushi orders, doing the sandwich run, watering plants, answering a phone at an empty desk when the person calling was determined to stay connected, ordering flowers, buying birthday cards, booking taxis, restaurants, hotels and flights, and best of all, taking Captain the pug for a shite as and when the need arose. Captain was the beloved flat-faced beast of Rebecca, her boss. The boss.

The irony wasn’t lost on her that Captain owned a wardrobe with more designer labels than she had seen on any human and was hand-fed poached chicken and filet mignon while she struggled to afford pasta. Thrice daily, she’d parade Captain on a thin stretch of grass along the pavement near the office, whispering gentle words of encouragement to help him go. These were not her finest moments. Especially when he was wearing his favoured sailor top and tourists insisted on snapping him mid-toilette.

It was humiliating for them both.

She was, however, determined that this would not always be her life, and wanted one day to eat poached chicken and filet mignon herself, although she’d draw the line at someone hand-feeding it to her while she sat on a monogrammed velvet cushion ... and similarly would rather they didn’t watch her poo afterwards and collect her waste in a biodegradable bag while the world looked on.

Having never been in a position to go to university, aware of the cost and petrified by the prospect of student debt, she had decided to carve her own path and had finally landed this position, her first foray into the world of commercial design. She was ecstatic to be working in the office of the terrifyingly organised and neurotic perfectionist Rebecca Swinton.

As was often the case, Madeleine had a grand plan, a vision of where she wanted to get to, and could see herself riding a wave of future success. She spent endless hours imagining how she’d decorate her bougie apartment, the incredible choice of shoes in her walk-in closet, the holidays booked spontaneously, and the way it might feel sitting in the big chair and making the rules. Freedom that she suspected would largely be dictated by having a bank account in the black. A bank account where every dime was hard earned by her alone. The trouble was, she wasn’t really sure of how to bring it to fruition, hoping one day the intricacies of her life map would become clear. Right now, her main objective was to work hard and learn as much as she could. Without the qualifications that saw some of her peers awarded tasty projects or interesting assignments, she made it her mission to arrive early, leave late, eat lunch at her desk, show up, volunteer, make great coffee, fuss over Captain, and generally do whatever she could to get noticed. Having days off to be ‘sick’ was most definitely not part of her plan.

And now this: an unusual level of discomfort some ten minutes before her alarm went off. Sitting up in her bed, she wrapped her arms around her stomach, breathing slowly and deeply, as if this might be enough to stop the pain.

It wasn’t.

She lay down and rubbed the affected area, wondering if this might help as she ran through possible diagnoses in her head. Had she eaten something dodgy? Nothing came to mind: a sandwich for lunch, toast for supper last night and three oranges. The cramped kitchen she shared with Luciano, Meredith and Liesl wasn’t exactly super clean – they were all busy working people – and had now reached that point where no one wanted to do more than their fair share of housework and it therefore felt easier not to bleach the floors and scrub the fridge, but food poisoning? It seemed unlikely.

Six a.m. came and went. She felt the spike of fever, but sincerely hoped a cool shower might restore her enough for work.

‘God, you look awful!’ Liesl spied her from the sofa, where she sat smoking and applying eyeliner simultaneously.

‘Cheers!’ She gave a weak thumbs-up.

‘Can I get you anything? Do you want some tea?’

‘No, but thanks.’ She appreciated her kindness on this day that had started so badly. ‘I’m thinking a shower might sort me out.’

‘Mmm . . .’

The look Liesl gave her told her she thought this most unlikely.

‘I feel like shite!’ she exhaled.

‘As I might have mentioned, you look it. Are you at the café tonight?’

Madeleine had an evening job to supplement her meagre income at the agency. It was in fact how she’d met Luciano, who also worked there, and how she’d heard about the spare room that was now hers.

‘No, night off, thank God. I’m knackered.’

‘In that case, can you pick some eggs up, please, honey? We’re out again.’ She pointed towards Meredith’s bedroom door and made a fist. She knew how to make her laugh, even when she felt this rough.

‘Sure. Might not be back till late, though.’

‘As long as they’re here for my midnight omelette, that’s fine.’ Liesl did a double take, and took a drag on her cigarette. ‘You know, you really do look awful.’

‘Way to build my confidence!’ Madeleine headed for the shower, praying it might do the trick.