Chapter 8
Chapter eight
By nine o’clock, the agency still hadn’t called. Sloan rang them again, cursing under her breath when it went through to voicemail once more.
She opened the fridge and found they were out of milk. She could drink coffee black when she needed to stay awake, work through a long meeting, or stay late at the office, but Gloria wouldn’t touch a cup of tea without milk.
“I’m going to pop into town and get some milk and a few bits. Do you need anything?” Sloan asked her mother as she pulled her coat on.
“Abandoning me again,” Gloria said, turning from the television to fix Sloan with cold eyes.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.” Sloan rolled her eyes. “If you didn’t keep scaring off the help, you wouldn’t need to be left by yourself.”
“Of course it’s my fault,” Gloria sneered, and turned back to the TV.
“I’ll take that as a no, then.”
With no reply from Gloria, Sloan turned away.
***
She could have just popped to the local corner shop and picked up a pint of milk, but the interaction with her mother, and the lack of a call from the agency, had her on edge and sent her fleeing further, into the hustle and bustle of town.
Her nerve endings were firing off synapses that were all out of sync. She caught sight of herself in a window and stopped to stare at her reflection. To the outside world, she was Sloan Slater, senior executive.
She’d chosen dark blue jeans and a silk shirt worth more than some people’s weekly wage, with a cashmere jumper thrown over the top to finish the effect. But inside, Joan was clawing to get out—mousy little Joan, who wanted nothing more than to disappear until the world went quiet.
Sloan ran a hand through her hair, shifted the parting to the other side, and then noticed the café across the square.
Compton’s.
She glanced at the time. It wouldn’t be wise to leave Gloria alone for too much longer, but a coffee wouldn’t hurt, would it?
Crossing the square with as much confidence as she could muster, she pushed the door open, arriving just as a table became free. She placed her bags down on the opposite seat and was about to go up and order her drink when a shrill ringing came from her pocket.
Pulling it free, she looked at the screen: The agency.
“Hello, this is Sloan Slater,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even and not let her words run away with themselves in a garbled plea for help.
“Ms Slater,” he said before he cleared his throat, “this is Gabor. I’ve just got into the office and picked up Patsy’s report—”
“Yes, of course. And I know it all sounds very—I know. It’s appalling. I do appreciate that.”
“Indeed,” Gabor agreed, with just the hint of judgement in his voice. “The thing is, Ms Slater, we’ve got no one left.”
She slumped down into a chair. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, there are no more carers on our books who are willing to take on your mother.”
“That can’t be,” Sloan said. Heat rushed through her as her free hand clenched and released. “There has to be someone.”
“I’m afraid not. Mrs Slater is...difficult, to say the least, but—”
“This is ridiculous. You care for people with far more complex needs than hers.” Sloan’s voice was raised and people in the seats beside her began to stare.
“Your mother’s needs are not the issue. Your mother is,” he said firmly. “And I’m afraid we’ve reached the end of a very long tether.”
“And what am I supposed to do now?”
“I appreciate this is a difficult—”
“Difficult? You have no idea what difficult is. Please. I’m begging you. I’ll pay double the going rate.”
Gabor sighed. “I’m afraid it isn’t about the money, Ms Slater. Your mother is incorrigible, and in all honesty, I’ve had several workers threaten to walk out if they’re forced to work with her. I’m sorry. There’s nothing more we can do.”
“Well, thanks for nothing.” She closed the call. Furious, she stood up and turned straight into someone carrying a tray. Leftover tea, coffee, bread crusts, and crumbs flew up, then came down all over Sloan’s clothes.
“For God’s sake! Look what you’ve done, you idiot!” she shouted as everyone round her scrambled backwards. She stared down at her jumper, seeing the cashmere smeared with brown muck. “It’s ruined.”
“I’m so sorry...I... You walked straight into me. I couldn’t—”
“I don’t care!” Sloan snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut as she stared down at herself. “Look at this! Do you have any idea how much this cost?”
Lawrence appeared, his hands already raised in appeasement. “I assure you, we’ll cover the cleaning costs,” he began. “Matty, apologise. Now.”
Matty blinked, still holding the empty tray, her cheeks flushed. “It was an accident. You stood up and turned right into me—”
“Matty.” Lawrence’s voice was tight, urgent. “Just apologise.”
“No.” Matty straightened, her jaw set. “I’m not apologising for something I didn’t do. It was an accident.”
Sloan’s eyes snapped to her face and properly scanned her features.
Wait.
The delivery girl. The woman from the bar last night.
But the recognition didn’t soften her. If anything, it made the humiliation worse. This woman had just ruined her favourite jumper in the midst of a public meltdown. And now this attractive woman was staring at her in a way she didn’t enjoy.
“This jumper is cashmere,” Sloan said coldly, Joan scratching beneath her skin to get out. “It cost over ￡200. If it can’t be cleaned, someone’s replacing it.”
“I assure you, we’ll cover the costs,” Lawrence began. “Matty…” Lawrence turned back to her, desperation creeping into his voice. “Please. Just apologise so we can move on.”
Matty stared at him, then at Sloan, then back at Lawrence.
Her hands moved to the ties of her apron.
“No,” she said quietly.
She pulled the apron over her head, balled it up, and threw it at Lawrence’s chest.
“I quit.”
The café went silent. Every eye turned towards them. Hands held cups halfway to lips as everyone watched.
Lawrence caught the apron, stunned. “Matty, wait—”
But she was already walking towards the rear of the shop and the door that would take her out of this situation. Head high, shoulders squared, she didn’t look back.
Sloan stood there, dripping with lukewarm tea and coffee, watching her go.
The door to the back area swung shut and Matty was gone.
For a moment no one moved, then Lawrence turned back to Sloan, stammering, “I’m so sorry, I’ll—”
But Sloan wasn’t listening.
She was still staring after Matty, and at the now closed door at the back of the café.