The Apartment - K. L. Slater Page 0,17

like living in an over-inflated bubble of luxury. Don’t they know there are people just a few streets from here living rough, struggling to find their next meal?

Then I catch myself, feeling like I don’t belong again and my last foster mother’s words replay in my head. You’ll never make anything of your life. You’ll see.

But she was wrong. I am making something of our lives here. It’s just going to take a bit of getting used to.

It’s 2.40 a.m. when my eyes spring open.

The glowing red digits of the clock don’t get the chance to move on a minute before I start feeling a little queasy.

I prop myself up with pillows and lie back in the soft glow of my single bedside lamp. It must have been drinking sherry at the Marsdens’ on an empty stomach like that . . .

What on earth was I thinking?

I’d only had a few sips before putting down my glass, but it was strong stuff. I’d felt the warming effect of the alcohol when we came back upstairs, but I hadn’t had enough to feel remotely drunk.

I’d made Skye a simple tea of fish fingers and peas, but I hadn’t bothered having anything myself simply because I felt so tired. That had clearly been a mistake.

I take a sip of water from the glass I brought to bed with me last night and allow my head to sink back into the pillows. I don’t know why I feel restless, I should be counting my blessings.

Yet I can’t help asking myself why they are so accommodating, pushing gifts on my daughter, paying bills that have nothing to do with them. Some folks might think I’m crazy for even questioning their motives, but it makes me uncomfortable. Simple as that.

They could fill this place a hundred times over for the peppercorn rent I’m paying, there’s no doubt about that. So what’s so special about us?

Dr Marsden told me he chooses tenants on the basis of how they fit in here. But a single mother with various hang-ups and a precarious financial status? A little girl who’s struggling after the death of her father?

We seem a world apart from the existing Adder House residents. I sigh and close my eyes, tired of turning it all over in my head.

It’s so blissfully quiet here. There’s no traffic noise and, as our apartment looks out over the back of the house, no sounds from people returning home from a night out in the surrounding houses and apartments.

Most people around here seem older, more conservative than the diverse mix of neighbours we had in Acton. I’m far from missing the place but feel a little squeeze of concern that once we’re properly settled in, I’ll need to ensure I’m mixing with younger people, too.

There is more to life than antique vases and vintage sherry, although the Marsdens don’t seem to think so.

I look around my apartment at the newly painted smooth walls, the modern and functional Roman blind at the window, and the spotless beige carpet. This place seems to have literally everything we need.

But I’ve no intention of living in the landlord’s pocket, and I need to make that crystal clear as soon as I get the chance.

10

We set off for school early Monday morning. We have to walk up the road to the bus stop and then get the first of two buses to Skye’s current school, Grove Primary in Acton.

I could have easily kept her off school for the remainder of the summer term. It would certainly be easier than trawling across London on various buses twice a day. But I thought it was really important to keep the routine going, particularly as I hadn’t had a chance yet to inform Grove about Skye’s transfer to a new school.

But before our moving day, I rang St Benjamin Monks Primary, the school just down the road here where Audrey is a governor.

It’s a state school, rare in this area with its sea of independent private primary schools costing up to twenty thousand pounds a year for each child. It’s located on Kensington Church Street, and Ofsted have graded it as ‘Outstanding’ for the last three inspections. Plus, the school’s examination results rank in the top five best state primary schools in the whole of London.

It’s a no-brainer which school Skye is better off attending.

When I called, the school office put me through to the headteacher, Mrs Grant.

‘It’s probably neater if Skye finishes the term at her current