Love, Almost

by Hayley Doyle

  38

  ‘You’re doing so well, sis,’ our Kit says, peering out from my phone screen.

  ‘I needed to do something,’ I say, tapping back into selfie mode. ‘Should I text Patricia Carmichael again? I don’t want her to think I’m squatting here.’

  ‘Hold on – Gareth wants to see the flat now.’

  ‘HI CHLOE!’ Gareth smacks a kiss onto Kit’s camera.

  I turn the camera to show the living room again.

  ‘It’s nothing major,’ I say. ‘Just a few touches here and there.’

  ‘Oh, I love the dried flowers in those empty wine bottles,’ Gareth says. ‘And is that us?’

  He’s spotted the photo of me sandwiched between the two grooms on their wedding day, in pride of place on the breakfast bar. I show Gareth the invitation he designed, sitting beside it in a matching frame.

  ‘Did you tidy up especially?’ Kit asks. ‘To call us?’

  ‘Ha. You wanna see the state of the bedroom. It’s a wonder I can find me knickers.’

  ‘A leopard never changes its spots,’ Gareth chuckles.

  ‘Is me mum still fuming?’

  Kit blows out his lips. ‘She never was. It’s all in your head.’

  I hadn’t gone to visit during half term, although that had been the plan. Beth was going back to that retreat in the Cotswolds and had suggested – insisted – I went with her this time. The endless yoga did get boring, as much as I’d banked on a spiritual awakening, and the whole four days could have been more of a hoot if we’d been allowed booze, but it had been the right thing to do. Liverpool had had the potential to be a nice break. I could have caught up with mates, played Fun Aunty Chlo armed with gifts for their kids, visited my nan, but I’m not ready. I’m making progress, but I’m still worried I might once again regress to hiding in my old bedroom, emerging only for cheese toasties or to bicker with my mum. Besides, Beth asked. And she only asks when she really needs something.

  ‘You look really good, Chloe,’ Gareth says, always happy to change the subject when it concerns his mother-in-law. ‘Doesn’t she, babe?’

  ‘And she’s applied for the job. You know, the full-time teaching position?’

  ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘I’ve applied,’ I say. ‘I haven’t got it.’

  ‘Yet,’ Gareth says. ‘You haven’t got it yet.’

  ‘This is so great, sis. Do you feel like you’re starting to move on?’ Kit asks.

  I wish we were on the phone, the old-fashioned way, so they couldn’t see my face.

  ‘Shit, what did I say?’ he takes charge, walking away from Gareth.

  ‘I’m desperate to move on, but something’s stopping me. Something feels … incomplete.’

  One plan of Jack’s is outstanding, stuck to the fridge door. The estate agent’s card. Jack wanted us to move out. We just never got round to discussing where or when. I’ve kept the card there as a potential starting point for who to call if I get kicked out.

  ‘There’s still so much I never found out.’

  ‘You could say that about any relationship that ends abruptly.’

  ‘Jack wasn’t any relationship, though, was he?’

  ‘You say he wasn’t. And sis, I believe you. But maybe you do need to ask yourself – what if he wasn’t the great love of your life? What if … Ah, fuck it. I’m gonna sound like me mum if I keep talking like this.’

  He crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue. We share a small, comfortable laugh.

  ‘I’m scared, Kit. I’m so scared. Once I move on, that’s it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jack. That’s it. He really will be gone.’

  Kit’s face softens, his voice a whisper. ‘He already is, sis.’

  He’s aching to help me, but he can’t. Just like a yoga retreat in the Cotswolds can’t. With every tealight I’ve lit to make the living room look pretty, with every laugh I snort watching comedy panel shows at night on the telly, every lunch I share with Si, every cuppa I enjoy with Ingrid upstairs on a Sunday afternoon, I can’t escape this dark cloud pressing down on my shoulders. Kit’s wrong. Jack hasn’t gone.

  ‘Jack wanted us to live somewhere with a better view, you know,’ I tell him.

  ‘What’s wrong with the view?’

  I go to the front window.

  ‘Ah,’ says Kit, as he sees the stone stairs, a hint of daylight above tarmac. ‘I see his point.’

  ‘Dinner’s ready,’ Gareth shouts. He’s been making risotto.

  Kit throws me a ‘Zig-a-zig-ah’ and I quote a couple of lines from Dirty Dancing.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Kit,’ Gareth screams.

  ‘He’s the worst when he’s hungry,’ Kit whispers.

  ‘I know. He makes Jack seem like an angel in comparison.’

  ‘CHRISTOPHER!’

  ‘Go! Go!’ I say.

  ‘Bye, sis!’

  He hangs up. Their abrupt absence like somebody switching the main light on when you’ve just got into bed. I want risotto, too. But like Kit, like Gareth, I want it with my other half. Something I can’t do.

  There is something I can do, though. One last thing.

  I dial the number from the business card on the fridge.

  ‘Ashford Estates, Lorraine speaking,’ says a woman, a meaty melody to her voice.

  ‘Hiya, I’m looking for … erm …’

  I haven’t got a clue. Luckily, Lorraine is better at this than me.

  ‘Rental or sales?’ she asks.

  ‘Rental.’

  ‘What area?’

  ‘This one, I think. It’s pretty hilly around here, I bet there are some nice views—’

  ‘Can you tell me the area? Postcode?’ Lorraine doesn’t show much emotion over the phone, which isn’t a bad thing. She could be asking for my National Insurance number or whether I’ve ever had a threesome. She keeps her judgement tucked away.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, rubbing my forehead, as if trying to remove a dirty stain. ‘Your card’s been on our fridge for a while. I think me partner was in touch with you or one of your colleagues, maybe late May or early June this year? He must’ve dropped by, unless someone he knew gave him your card.’

  ‘Can’t you just ask him?’

  I gasp. That word just – so simple. So throwaway.

  ‘No,’ I tell her. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Maybe give us a call back when you’ve had a chance to chat to him? I’m here ’til six.’

  What I’d give for that chance.

  I remove the card from beneath the flip-flop magnet that doubles as a bottle opener, hold it between my thumb and index finger. The last person to touch this was Jack. I bring the card to my lips and kiss it. Slipping from my grip, it flutters away, landing beneath the washing machine. I drop to my knees but my fingers can’t reach to retrieve it. I grab a fork from the draining board and coax it out, my phone still pressed to my ear with my shoulder.

  ‘Lorraine? Are you still there?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. Can I help you with anything else?’

  I’m not reading the front of the card, where the logo for Ashford Estates is printed above its address, a few metres from the Sainsbury’s Local. A different address altogether is written on the back. In Jack’s handwriting.

  ‘Flat four, 68 Woodhill Road please,’ I say, reading aloud. ‘I’d like to view it, please.’

  ‘Of course, Woodhill Road. Lovely. Just what you’re after, on a hill. Perfect. Oh, no. Not perfect. It’s no longer on the market. Never mind.’

  ‘Oh.’ I deflate. Gutted. On the verge of crying. Oh God. Over a flat I’ve never fucking seen. It was on a hill. Whoop-de-doo! That would mean a steep, breathless trek from the station or the bus stop every day on the way home from school. Wonky floors. Dodgy stairs. Visitors would avoid the trip. I’ve saved myself the bother.

  ‘Would you be interested in …’ Lorraine begins, pauses. I hear the click of her mouse.

  ‘No,’ I tell her. ‘It was 68 W
oodhill Road or nothing.’

  ‘68 Woodhill Road is still available. It’s only flat four that’s gone. You can view flat three. Same floor, flat opposite. Like a mirror image?’

  ‘A mirror image?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Now what’s your name and I’ll book you in.’

  On the spot, I oblige.

  ‘Are you coming alone or should I expect your husband as well?’

  ‘We’re not married,’ I say, somehow finding that marginally easier to say than ‘alone’.

  Lorraine releases a high-pitched, ‘Oh!’ and decorates her mistake with an unashamed giggle. I hear her hand banging on her desk. ‘You’d think I’d learnt my lesson,’ she says, catching her breath. ‘Been with my other half thirty-two years. Never got round to tying the knot, though. And still, I always presume everybody else is shacked up with a ring on their finger. Oh, what am I like?!’

  Lorraine from Ashford Estates has let her guard down.

  Now that I’m booked in for a property viewing, Lorraine is my friend. She’s telling me about a divorced couple who put their house on the market last year, how she cocked it all up – ‘Oh, not the sale, just their dignity’ – by putting her ‘big bleeding size nine’ foot in it, and well, on she goes. I might just put the phone on speaker, start tidying up, make some toast.

  The man sat in the shopping trolley shares my opinion of Lorraine.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I think. ‘You’ll be coming with me.’

  And on and on she goes.

  39

  Jack’s problem with living in a basement flat was that this particular area of London is green and hilly. A cluster of steep parks hide behind rows of residential streets, with spectacular views of London Bridge and Canary Wharf. Jack – as grateful as he was to his parents for the low rent – always felt like he was hiding, when it suited him to be up and out. I can only hope this place is affordable.

  I’ve got a Saturday late afternoon viewing. It’s a short bus ride away. I’d walk, but the shrill wind blows sideways, smacking you in the face no matter what direction you stomp. Christmas is only six weeks away. We’re in that lull before windows get their annual festive makeover; a temporary bleak darkness.

  Lorraine meets me outside. She’s Amazonian. She wears blue mascara. Her size nine feet sit in flat court shoes and her whole look is eighties powerhouse: pinstripe suit with pencil skirt (at least a size too small); fine black tights. She walks with a long umbrella, using it as a stick.

  ‘So did your partner like the other flat?’ she asks, jangling the keys in her hand.

  Did he? I don’t know. I make a comment about the weather.

  She leads the way up the path towards the main entrance, unlocking the door and holding it open for me. Like the Victorian building where Jack’s parents own the flat, 68 Woodhill Road is a large, double-fronted house. The exterior has been reconstructed though and the ground-floor hallway is pristine proof that the interior has been refurbished recently.

  ‘What’s his name? Your other half?’ Lorraine asks. ‘I remember everyone.’

  ‘Jack. Jack Carmichael.’

  I love saying his name. And I love Lorraine’s question. She’s innocent when it comes to the tragedy of Jack, of me. To Lorraine, Jack is still alive. Why wouldn’t he be?

  ‘Small guy, cycles everywhere?’ she asks.

  ‘Nope,’ and that single word gives it away.

  ‘Oh! I know Jack. Big bloke, beard. Laughs and the whole room shakes.’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘See? Told you I remember everyone.’

  We go up six flights of stairs. The carpet is sea blue, spongey, the staircase wide.

  ‘Keeps you fit, this place,’ Lorraine says, out of breath and seemingly enjoying it.

  We reach the top floor: the roof. Flat four has a tall plant outside and a faded Hello Kitty doormat. Flat three looks empty. Lorraine confirms it as she turns the key.

  ‘Nobody’s ever lived here,’ she says. ‘Brand, spanking new.’

  It’s huge, perhaps due to the lack of furniture. We’re in an open-plan kitchen-diner-living area, wooden floors polished, a sloping low ceiling with beams. Three separate arched windows stretch from the floor upwards, overlooking a great distance. I press my body against the glass, taking it all in.

  ‘You won’t find any famous landmarks out there. That’s the Kent countryside, a few suburbs. Still impressive though, don’t you think?’ Lorraine says, then points her thumb behind her back. ‘That’s the property with the London skyline. The one your man viewed.’

  I turn around. The space between us feels vast.

  ‘Jack viewed that flat? Opposite?’

  ‘While ago. Early June, maybe? It was a damn sight hotter than today, anyhow. We both had to duck to stand over by the windows – bloody slopes.’

  I’d thought Jack had only been into the offices of Ashford Estates; maybe looked at photos in the window. He’s been here, though; actively viewed this place. Well, that place. Why hadn’t he told me?

  ‘Can I see the bedroom?’ I ask. Ironically, I need some space.

  ‘Plural. There’s two. And three bathrooms. Go bananas.’

  I have to imagine a bed, a lamp; although there’s a delightful walk-in wardrobe. The slope ceiling is in here too, creating warmth within this somewhat sterile apartment. I wonder what we’d hang on the walls. Get some new prints of Thailand; frame them. A low bed, for sure. I can’t imagine Jack anywhere here though. The basement flat is much smaller and yet, there, he fits. Snug. Here, he’d be banging his head and walking in zigzags.

  When I return to the main space, Lorraine is inspecting the cooker.

  ‘Thoughts?’ she asks.

  ‘Amazing. I completely love it. Out of me price range, like.’

  ‘Probably a good thing. If you know what I mean?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Oh, because your lovely man, Jack – well, it’s not his style at all, is it? Said he’d rather be putting a deposit down on a place in the country, get some horses, build proper fires. He kept talking about chopping wood like his dad. What? What’s wrong? Have I put my foot in it again?’

  She’s definitely put that bloody big foot in something; although what, I’m not sure.

  ‘So this place is for sale? Not rent?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh! Are you guys not looking to buy any more?’

  Jack and I had never discussed buying a property together. We hadn’t not discussed it either. We’d fantasised about our future home together: a hot tub, a corner bar and pool table, a family cinema. We may as well have been planning to be a ballerina or an astronaut when we grew up. We had our dreams, but we weren’t getting practical about them, scaling them down to fit reality. Not yet.

  I can’t tell Lorraine any of this, though. It might make her think twice, hold back. She’s breaking some sort of data confidentiality, no doubt, with her stories, and I want to know more.

  ‘We are,’ I lie, ‘but he’s always changing his mind. Silly old Jack. One minute he wants a rooftop apartment looking over London, and the next he wants – erm – horses, like you said. No wonder it’s taken us almost six months to get back in touch with you.’

  ‘Well, what’s the rush? None of us are going anywhere, are we?’

  Ah. Lorraine. How little you know.

  ‘And he really didn’t like this place, did he?’ I prompt.

  ‘No, not at all. But he knew you’d love it,’ and she’s laughing at herself, at the memory, at Jack, at the jokes they’d shared, ‘and he was saying how he was gonna have to buy you a pair of wellies filled with … oh, what was it … some chocolate bar. A Kinder egg … no, Bueno! Filled with Kinder Buenos! Convince you to move to the sticks.’

  I turn back to face the window, let my eyes wander miles and miles past rooftops, chimneys, fields. ‘Could you give me a minute, Lorraine? I need to …’ and I swallow, steady myself on the upper window ledge.

  ‘I’ll be downstairs, there’s a comfy sofa in t
he hallway. I’ve got a few calls to make.’

  She leaves the door ajar and gradually, her footsteps disappear.

  It’s wonderful that Jack wanted to buy; that he was in a decent financial position. God knows I’m not there yet, not on my salary. I’ve only been a teacher for a few years. I knew he had some savings, some inheritance. I’d wondered why he hadn’t already bought somewhere, but it wasn’t a question I asked. And I would’ve asked, had the conversation come up. It just hadn’t.

  I sit on the polished wood floor in the centre of the room, unravel my scarf, try to feel at home. My fingers dance, creating an invisible circle of trust, sensing the vibe. It’s clinical, this flat, but the potential is huge. For plants, plants and more plants, enjoying the sunlight from the long windows. How could Jack not love this place? I’d put some beanbags over in that small nook; a reading corner. The less I try to imagine Jack in this space, the more I see. A hanging rack for pots and pans; tall standing candles beside each window.

  I think of Jack, banging his head. Wanting to chop wood.

  Did we really want such different things?

  Does that matter? Or, more accurately, would that have mattered?

  ‘Jack?’ I whisper, standing up.

  With everything I do, no matter how big or small, I can sense a connection to Jack. Except in here. I don’t even feel like crying. Perhaps because this is beyond my means. Pure fantasy. I’m what the teacher in me would call a time-waster, viewing properties I can’t afford. So I wrap myself up with my scarf, bow my head and meander out of pretty much my dream apartment.

  ‘Miss Roscoe? Are you alright?’

  I jump, dropping my satchel between flat three and flat four, startled out of my thoughts. It’s a man, maybe older than me by a few years, his hair floppy – rather retro – like the hero of a Touchstone movie. His stubble is fair, his smile kind. I don’t know him, but he definitely knows me. He’s bent down, retrieving my bag and the pens that have rolled onto the communal sea-blue carpet.

  ‘I didn’t mean to give you a fright,’ he laughs, unsure of himself.

  ‘It’s okay, I was a million miles away.’

  ‘One too many?’