The leak is fixed. Hooray! Mrs Pankhurst was so sorry she has given me an old rug that one of her rich friends no longer wants. It’s a bit old and shabby, but it’s a big improvement on the cold linoleum floor. I stood on it with bare feet, closed my eyes and pictured myself in my future fabulous boudoir.
I then went out and bought a red brocade quilt and a long silk pillow sham from a funny little Chinese emporium that I found in Limehouse. The transformation of my little nest has begun. I’ve been lying on the bed running my hands over the smooth splendor.
Then the futility of it all sinks its teeth into my heart. Who cares if my dank little room is a tiny bit brighter. No one cares if I live or die. In fact if I disappeared tomorrow only Mrs Pankhurst and Mr Harrison would even know. And they would just shrug and assume I’d flown the coup. Run off with some dashing libertine.
I got so glum when I saw Christmas baubles starting to appear in windows last week. I haven’t really stopped to think about it. But I am lonely. In fact I am alone. It’s so obvious, but I suppose I’m a bit slow. I have no one. Things were so terrible at home, but at least they will have a string of Christmas cards above the mantle piece soon. Should I send them one? No it would be postmarked.
I’m going to go out. Not to the docks. To the West End. I won’t be hunting for men or sex or money. Just for some life and some fun. What do I have to lose?