Читать книгу Persuading Austen - Brigid Coady - Страница 13

Chapter Six

House on rental listing. Tick.

Annie sat at the battered and scratched kitchen table blowing on the M&S lasagne she’d reheated, her work notebook opened to the back page. Her personal to-do list was scrawled there.

She chewed on a mouthful of food, not really tasting it.

As soon as she’d floated home from Shoreditch House, Annie had emailed Shepherd and Kellynch and the next morning got them to put the house up for rent.

That had been a week ago.

She wasn’t sure how they managed to get prospective tenants through the house for viewings without either Immy or Dad noticing. There had been one close call when the couple had been leaving with the estate agent when Dad came back from a meeting.

Annie promised she’d buy a ‘Tablet’ from the next Jehovah’s Witness who came calling as an apology for using their name in vain.

Although God couldn’t have been too upset, the fake Jehovah’s Witnesses had taken the house and the moving date was in three weeks.

Three weeks.

But they didn’t start on location for another two months.

Place to live was the second bullet point. Annie added an ‘s’ to the end of the first word. It felt almost like a bigger act of rebellion than the day she showed Dad her acceptance into university to study History, not even a drama subsid.

So, places to live, pack up the house, all while starting a new job.

Annie screwed up her face. Doable, she thought, and looked at the next bullet point.

It was underlined so heavily the pen strokes had almost torn the paper.

Tell Dad and Immy.

Now this was the real problem.

Currently Annie was going with the Lily Russell School of dealing with difficult situations: do it and ask for forgiveness afterwards. Or run away and hide.

That only worked up to the point the new tenants moved in.

Even Dad would realize that Jehovah’s Witnesses, whilst extremely dedicated to their faith, would draw the line at moving into someone’s house.

But how did she tell them?

She scraped up another piece of the lasagne from her plate. At least she’d done an inventory of the house over the weekend. Admittedly creeping in and out of her dad and Immy’s rooms when they’d been out had been somewhat underhand but needs must.

Now she had to work out what needed to go into storage, what was getting dumped, and what they would take with them. When she presented it as a fait accompli then they couldn’t back out could they?

‘It will be fine,’ she lied around her full mouth of food.

This was the start. The beginning of Annie’s fight back. She did this every day at work and was rewarded for it; she was merely making sure that she got the same from her family.

If she could stand her ground here, stand by her decisions, then maybe she could start clawing back some respect.

She shuddered.

She could do this.

She had to.

Annie moved her notebook out of the way and pulled out the spreadsheet she’d printed out at the office. It ran on for twenty pages, portrait and double-sided.

The house really did have a lot of stuff in it.

They were definitely not taking the full-length portrait of Granddad Elliot with them – that was for sure. It was going into storage. No rental place any of them moved into would be big enough for it and she wasn’t leaving it for the tenants. They had kids.

Annie could feel her shoulders tighten even though the painting in question was a floor above her. She’d been scared of the painting when she’d been a child. Nothing like a painting of your grandfather carrying a skull and looking gloomy to give you the heebie-jeebies and a complex against powdered wigs.

But supposedly Sir Walter Elliot had been the foremost Shakespearean actor of his day and that meant he’d hired some gullible artist to paint his portrait. Full length. In costume. Family legend had it that the artist had never painted again. Dad said it was because he’d reached the pinnacle of his success, more like he’d been scarred for life.

God, Annie wanted to sell it. Whisk it away and everything it represented: the vanity and the ego of the Elliots. Why couldn’t they have fuzzy unposed photos on the walls like normal families?

But she wouldn’t sell it. That wouldn’t get respect from her family; that would be a declaration of war and she wasn’t at that point with them.

A small voice in her head added ‘Yet’.

No. She’d made a promise to Mum. Her job was to keep the family together, although maybe not geographically. And to do that meant keeping them financially solvent or die trying.

Annie put down her fork, picked up a pen, and scribbled an instruction to wrap the painting tightly next to its entry for the packers. She paused and tapped the pen on her lip. Maybe she could somehow get them to mislabel it and perhaps lose it. The warehouse the storage place used in Thurrock was massive. When she’d toured it on Monday all she’d seen were packing cases for what looked like miles. It would be hard to find.

She sighed and put down the pen. She’d never get that lucky.

Picking up her fork again, Annie found that she had finished her dinner without realizing. Should she have the second portion of lasagne? The package had been a meal for two. She could’ve bought a single portion but, well, it was never quite enough.

A flash of Louisa’s sleek figure crossed her mind. The whole of the production would be spent with people whose only spare tyre was in the boot of their car.

Annie pushed the plate from her and pulled the list closer.

The library would also have to be packed up. She dreaded having to explain that one. Suddenly the extra lasagne felt like a comforting idea. It wasn’t as if her dad read any of the books, but a library gave weight to his image that he was some kind of actor manager from another century.

The hazy dread that had enveloped her since that lunch with Auntie Lil became a little more solid.

How the hell was she supposed to tell them? Even if she got them to accept that they had to move out, they would probably expect some fancy Regency type townhouse in a small town as if they were really characters from the productions they were in.

There was no probable about it.

Of course they would.

And Bath wasn’t cheap.

For fuck’s sake.

Annie added a few more choice swear words and threw the stapled list at the wall. It fluttered apart and shed pages like leaves.

She looked round for something with more weight to throw so that it would make a more satisfying thunk and add to the chips and nicks and scars the kitchen already bore.

She thought of the expensive smoothie maker in the cupboard gathering dust. It would sound great as it split apart taking bits of wall with it.

She got half out of her chair.

No.

She wouldn’t stoop to their level. What she needed was to show them in no uncertain way what the reality of their life was going to be.

She sat back down and started to smile.

Oh, what a great idea, she thought.

Okay, it was time for some show and tell.

***

Annie looked round the living room, seeing it with new eyes.

She never realized exactly how big it was.

Hell, this had better work.

They’re going to sulk and shout and scream; they’re going to annihilate you, Annie couldn’t stop the fear whispering to her.

Nope. She shook her head to distract herself. She could do this.

No matter how much she hated family confrontation she had to do this. Needed to. She had to pull them into line and get them to understand the reality of their situation. She couldn’t keep letting them go down this road to what was toeing the line of bankruptcy even if it meant they’d shout at her. Letting the family fail wasn’t why her mum had left her in charge.

And maybe she could free herself in the process.

Annie could feel her shoulders seizing up, rising towards her ears. Her breath was coming fast, her mouth was dry, and her hands were shaking. She felt about five years old.

There was nothing they could do. Nothing, she told herself. She was a grown-up now. She wasn’t a child.

She could do this.

‘Really, Annie, I don’t know why you are making such a fuss of talking about finances. You do this every year and every year we’re fine.’ Immy was speaking as she walked through the door into the living room. ‘I can’t believe …’ Her words stopped.

Annie started chewing on her nail as she watched Imogen take in what was before her.

Or what wasn’t before her.

Immy’s eyes had widened and her mouth hung open. Then she snapped it shut at the same time as her eyes narrowed. ‘What the hell?’ Her voice was like an arrow and it hit Annie right in the gut.

How was it that your family could reduce you to a quivering prepubescent mess with a word and a tone of voice?

Immy’s voice held the memories of Chinese burns and ostracism. It carried with it ties and hooks, ready to clutch at Annie and remind her of how things were supposed to be. How they had always been. The tone of it spoke of where Annie fitted in to the world, her place in the family hierarchy. It told her that she was not to challenge the status quo.

But that was all changing – had to change. Annie had to stay strong.

‘I wanted to show you and Dad how much of our things we could realistically take to the new place. I mean, our new places.’ Annie’s voice started strong but wavered towards the end.

Damn it, she couldn’t show fear.

‘This is some kind of joke?’ Immy’s voice got sharper. Harsher.

‘No, it isn’t. This –’ she gestured around the living room ‘– is reality.’