The Desperate Wife’s Survival Plan by Alison Sherlock Page B

small shop on the green. Late March sunshine was trying to break through the clouds.
    ‘You know, you could stay in our spare bedroom if you want,’ said Caroline.
    ‘Thanks but I’ll find somewhere,’ said Charley.
    She knew that Caroline would try and be the supreme hostess, which was too much forher. And for Charley as well. She loved her friend but she probably didn’t want to live with her.
    ‘Julie sent her love,’ said Caroline. ‘She says you can stay with her. But I don’t suppose you want to go back to Upper Grove?’
    ‘Not really,’ said Charley. ‘Especially not next door to my old house. It’s really kind of you both to offer, but Mum’s right. I’ve got to stand on my own two feet.’
    She heard the words come out of her own mouth, but didn’t believe them.
    She bought the local newspaper and took it to the village green, where they sat down on a bench.
    ‘Where’s Flora today?’ asked Charley.
    ‘Easter holidays,’ Caroline told her. ‘I managed to persuade Jeff to take a whole day off.’
    Caroline’s smile was tight, so Charley dropped the subject and opened the newspaper to flick throughthe property pages. She stopped for a while at a photograph of her own house with the words ‘Recently Sold’ across it.
    ‘Nice photo,’ said Caroline.
    Charley sniffed away a tear. ‘The loft needed insulating anyway,’ she said, quickly turning the page.
    They peered at the list of properties to rent. Everything at the cheap end of the market was a flat. That meant no garden, no patio and no barbecue.Charley shook her head. The bailiffs had taken away the huge gas barbecue and who the hell would she be entertaining, anyway, these days?
    The cost was surprisingly high as well. Even the bottom three properties were at least £400 per month. How on earth did people cope with all the extra bills on top?
    ‘Studio basement flat,’ Caroline read aloud. ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘No daylight. No separatebedroom.’
    ‘Where do you sleep?’ asked Caroline, horrified.
    ‘In the kitchen probably. What’s the next one?’
    ‘Studio loft flat.’
    Charley sighed. ‘I think that means you still sleep in the kitchen, but with the added bonus of a bruised forehead from all the sloping ceilings.’
    ‘This one sounds hopeful,’ said Caroline. ‘And it’s the cheapest. Spacious one-bedroomed flat, short walk from villagecentre.’
    ‘There must be a catch,’ said Charley, ringing the number on the advertisement.
    She talked to the landlord who said they could view the flat that morning. But the address of the flat was in Lower Grove.
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Caroline. ‘That’s why it’s so cheap.’
    They walked back to pick up Caroline’s car and drove to the high street. Once across the main traffic lights, the look of theroad went down sharply as they entered Lower Grove.
    The houses became smaller, less tidy, with no pretty hanging baskets. They took a left under a railway bridge and into the depths of Hill Estate. It was a jumble of tiny council houses, all plain and square apart from the occasional patch of pebbledash and graffiti which distinguished one residence from another.
    On the edge of the estate wasa large block of flats called Hill View Court. It was three storeys high and there was a burnt-out Citroën in the car park. The flats had been built on the H-block principle, presumably because most of the inhabitants had spent time at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
    As they waited for the landlord to arrive, Caroline flicked the central locking for the doors. She gave Charley a small smile. ‘Just incase.’
    The landlord finally arrived. He was a man called Harvey, with a large beer belly and body odour. He led them through one of the front entrances into a communal hallway and stairwell. At least the main door looked secure. Whether it was to keep the hooligans outside or in was less certain.
    The flat was on the ground floor. The overhead light in the communal hallway flickered.