I must have fallen asleep at some point because I am woken by a pounding on the door. Wrapping my gown around myself, I make my way downstairs to find the postman with a registered letter bearing my name. Odd as no one knows yet that I live here.
I make my way upstairs and pop the kettle on before ripping open the envelope. The first thing I take in is the Hudson International letterhead, and I find my heart beating a rapid tattoo. It takes me a while to digest the words, and it is not until I see the cheque enclosed for ten thousand pounds that the penny drops.
I am being paid off. The thought sends red-hot fury coursing through my veins, and I start to shake. Of course, in black and white it is all very amicable and spelt out as a corporate responsibility as I was out of my probation
