by Clare Pooley
Why not? she thought, feeling the thrill of being uncharacteristically reckless. It took her a while to find a decent pen. It seemed a bit disrespectful to follow Julian’s careful calligraphy with a scrawl in manky old Biro. She turned to the next clean page and began to write.
SIX
Hazard
Hazard wondered how much of his life he’d spent bent over toilet cisterns. Probably whole days, if you added it all up. How many potentially lethal bacteria was he hoovering up along with a roughly chopped line of Colombia’s finest nose candy? And how much of it was actually cocaine and not talcum powder, rat poison, or laxative? These were all questions that wouldn’t be bothering him for very much longer as this was the last line in the last gram of coke that he was ever going to buy.
Hazard searched in his pockets for a banknote, before remembering that he’d used his only twenty on the bottle of wine that he was halfway through drinking. In this fancy, overpriced wine bar, a twenty bought a bottle that was closer on the spectrum to methylated spirits than fine wine. But it did the job. He checked all his pockets, pulling out a folded-up sheet of paper from inside his jacket. A copy of his resignation letter. Well, that had a nice symbolism to it, he thought, as he ripped off a corner and rolled it into a tight tube.
After a hefty sniff, the familiar chemical taste hit the back of Hazard’s throat and, within minutes, the edginess he’d been feeling was replaced by a sense of, if not euphoria (the days of that were long gone), then at least well-being. He crumpled the rolled paper, along with the tiny plastic bag that the powder had been in, and threw them into the toilet bowl, watching as they were sucked into the depths of London’s sewers.
Carefully, Hazard lifted up the heavy, porcelain lid of the toilet cistern and leaned it against the wall. He took his iPhone—the latest model, obviously—out of his pocket and dropped it into the water filling the cistern. It made a satisfying plop as it sunk to the bottom. Hazard replaced the lid, trapping the phone inside, alone in the dark. Now he couldn’t call his dealer. Or anyone who knew his dealer. The only number on that phone he knew by heart was his parents’, and that was the only number he needed, although he’d have a fair bit of making up to do when he next called it.
Hazard checked his reflection in the mirror, wiping away any telltale signs of white powder from under his inflamed nostrils, then walked back to his table, with more of a strut in his step than he’d had when he left. His positivity was partly chemical, but he also felt a tinge of something he hadn’t felt for a long while—pride.
He looked quizzically at the table. Something was different. The bottle of wine was still there, along with two glasses (so it looked like he was waiting for someone, rather than drinking alone) and the dog-eared copy of the Evening Standard he’d been pretending to read. But there was something else too. A notebook. He’d had one like it when he was a rookie trader, filled with snippets of information he’d gleaned from the FT and hot tips thrown at him, like treats to an enthusiastic puppy, by the veterans on the trading floor. But this one had The Authenticity Project written on the cover. It sounded like a load of new age nonsense. He looked around for anyone suitably “spiritual” who might have mislaid it, but there was just the usual crowd of midweek drinkers, busily shrugging off the stresses of the working day.
Hazard pushed the book to the edge of his table, so that its owner might spot it, while he got down to the important business of finishing the wine in front of him. His last bottle of wine. Because cocaine and wine went together, like fish and chips, eggs and bacon, MDMA and sex. If he was going to give up one, he had to give up the other. Along with his job, because after years of surfing the markets on a wave of chemical high, he didn’t think he could do it, or wanted to do it, sober.
Sober. What a horrible word. Serious, sensible, solemn, staid, steady—nothing like Hazard himself, who was a case of nominative determinism in action. Hazard put his hand firmly on his right thigh, which was jiggling up and down under the table. He realized that he was also grinding his teeth. He hadn’t slept properly for thirty-six hours, since the night he’d spent with Blanche. His head was wired and desperate for more stimulation, fighting against his body, which was bone-deep tired and yearning for oblivion. Hazard was, he realized, finally exhausted with it all, with his life and the constant merry-go-round of uppers and downers, the sleaziness of the desperate calls to his dealer, the constant sniffing and the increasingly dramatic nosebleeds. How had the occasional line at a party that made him feel like he could fly turned into something he had to do just to get out of bed in the morning?
Since nobody seemed to be interested in the abandoned notebook, Hazard opened it. Densely packed handwriting covered the page. He tried to read it, but the letters danced around on the page. Hazard closed one eye and looked again. The words settled down into more orderly lines. He flicked forward a few pages and found that there were two different types of handwriting—the first a delicate calligraphy, the second a simpler, rounder, more ordinary hand. Hazard was intrigued, but reading through one eye was tiring and made him look like a nutter, so he closed the book and pushed it into his jacket pocket.
* * *
• • •
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, Hazard was looking for a pen in his jacket and found the book again. It took him a while to remember how it had gotten there. His brain was a fog. He had a crashing headache, and although he was more tired than he could ever remember, sleep was elusive. He lay down on his bed, a tangle of musty, clammy bedsheets and duvet, clutching the book and started to read.
How well do you know the people who live near you? How well do they know you? Do you even know the names of your neighbors? Would you realize if they were in trouble, or hadn’t left their house for days?
Hazard smiled to himself. He was a cokehead. The only person he was interested in was himself.
What would happen if you shared the truth instead?
Ha! He’d probably be arrested. Certainly fired. Although it was a bit too late to fire him now.
Hazard read on. He rather liked Julian. If he’d been born forty years or so earlier, or Julian forty years later, he could imagine they’d have been friends—out on the town together, making out with a procession of eager girls, and raising merry hell. But he wasn’t at all sure about the idea of telling his story (he didn’t want to tell it to himself, let alone anyone else). Authenticity was something he could do without. He’d been hiding from it for years. He turned the page. Who, he wondered, had picked up the book before him?
My name is Monica, and I found this book in my café.
Having read Julian’s story about feeling invisible, you’re probably imagining a stereotypical pensioner, all dressed in beige, with elasticated waists and orthopedic shoes. Well, I have to tell you, that’s not Julian. I saw him writing in this book before he abandoned it, and he’s the least invisible septuagenarian I’ve ever come across. He looks like Gandalf (but without the beard) and dresses like Rupert the Bear, in a mustard yellow velvet smoking jacket and checked trousers. He’s right about having been gorgeous though. Check out his self-portrait. It was in the National Portrait Gallery for a while.
Hazard reached over for his mobile, so that he could google Julian’s portrait, before remembering that it was still submerged in the flush mechanism of the local wine bar’s loo. Why had he thought that was a good idea?
I’m afraid I am far less interesting than Julian.
Hazard didn’t doubt it. He could tell just from her cautious, precise handwriting that she was an uptight nightmare. Still, at least she wasn’t the sort of woman who drew smiley faces inside all her o’s.
Here is my truth, horribly predictable, and boringly biological: I really want a baby. And a husband. Perhaps a dog and a Volvo, too. The whole, stereotypical nuclear family thing, in actual fact.
Hazard noted Monica’s use of a colon. It looked a little incongruous. He didn’t think people did
grammar anymore. They barely did writing. Just texts, and emojis.
Oh God, that looks so terrible written down. After all, I’m a feminist. I totally reject the notion that I need a man to complete me, support me, or to do the DIY even. I’m a businesswoman and, between us, a bit of a control freak. I’d probably be a terrible mother. But however hard I try to think rationally about the whole thing, I still feel like there’s an ever-expanding vacuum inside me that one day is going to totally swallow me up.
Hazard stopped reading while he knocked back another two paracetamol. He wasn’t sure that he could handle all this hormonal angst right now. One of the pills caught in the back of his throat, making him gag. He spotted a single strand of long, blond hair resting on the pillow next to him, the reminder of another lifetime. He flicked it on to the floor.
I used to be a solicitor, in a big, prestigious City firm. They paid me a small fortune, in exchange for making their gender equality numbers look good, and swapping my life for billable hours. I worked every moment I could, including much of the weekend. If I had any spare time, I’d head to the gym to run off the stress. The only social life I had revolved around work parties and client entertaining. I felt like I was still in touch with my school and university friends because I saw their status updates on Facebook, but I hadn’t actually seen many of them in real life for years.
My life might have carried on like this forever, nose to the grindstone, doing what was expected, achieving promotions and meaningless accolades, had it not been for something my mum said, and a girl called Tanya.
I never met Tanya, or at least I don’t think I did, but her life was much like mine—another high-achieving City solicitor, but ten years older than me. One Sunday she went into the office, as usual. Her boss was there. He told her that she shouldn’t be at work every weekend, that she should have a life outside. He meant it kindly, but that conversation must have triggered something, made Tanya realize how empty it all was, because the next Sunday she came into the office, as usual, took the elevator to the top floor, and jumped off the roof. The papers ran a photo of her on her graduation day, standing between her proud parents, eyes filled with hope and expectation.
I didn’t want to be Tanya, but I could see that was where my life was heading. I was thirty-five years old, single, and had nothing in my life except for work. So when my great-aunt Lettice died and left me a small legacy, I added it to the fairly large pot of money I’d managed to save up over the years and did the first, and only, surprising thing in my life: I quit. I took over the lease on a derelict sweet shop on the Fulham Road, turned it into a café, and called it Monica’s.
Monica’s Café. Hazard knew it. It was just opposite the bar where he’d found the book. He’d never been in there himself. He preferred the more anonymous coffee shops, where the ever-changing gang of baristas were unlikely to notice how many mornings he staggered in, hungover, or that he often had to unroll a banknote before he handed it to them. Monica’s always appeared terribly cozy. Wholesome. All organic and granny’s favorite recipe. Places like that made Hazard feel a bit grubby. The name put him off too. Monica’s. It was the sort of name you’d expect a teacher to have. Or a fortune-teller. Even a brothel keeper. Madame Monica, massage with happy endings. Not a good name for a café. He carried on reading.
Being my own boss, instead of a name in a box of a complicated organizational hierarchy, is still a thrill (as well as a huge learning curve; let’s just say that Benji is not my first barista). But there’s a huge void. I know how old-fashioned it sounds, but I really do want the fairy tale. I want the handsome prince, and to live happily ever after.
I’ve done Tinder. I’ve been on endless dates. I try not to be too fussy, to ignore the fact that they haven’t read any Dickens, have dirty fingernails, or talk with their mouth full. I’ve had a number of relationships, and one or two that I honestly thought were going somewhere. But, eventually, I end up hearing the same old excuses, the “It’s not you, it’s me. I’m not ready to settle down . . . ” yada, yada, yada. Then, six months later I get a Facebook notification saying their relationship status has changed to “engaged,” and I know that it WAS just me, but I don’t know why.
Hazard could hazard a guess.
All my life I’ve had plans. I’ve been in control. I write lists, I set objectives and milestones, I make things happen. But I’m thirty-seven years old and running out of time.
Thirty-seven. Hazard mulled the number over in his addled brain. He’d definitely swipe left at that one, despite the fact that he himself was thirty-eight. He remembered explaining to a mate on his desk at the bank that when you were buying fruit at the supermarket (not that he ever did buy fruit, or go to a supermarket), you didn’t pick the peaches that were the closest to turning rotten. In his experience, older women were trouble. They had expectations. Agendas. You knew that, within a matter of weeks, you’d be having the conversation. You’d have to discuss where your “relationship” was going, as if you were on the number 22 bus, trundling down Piccadilly. He shuddered.
Whenever a friend posts a picture of their baby scan on Facebook, I click on “like” and call them up and gush down the phone about how excited I am for them, but, honestly, I just want to howl and say why not me? Then I have to go and shop in the haberdashery department of Peter Jones, because no one can feel stressed in a haberdashery, surrounded by skeins of wool, crochet hooks, and assorted buttons, can they?
Skein? Was that even a word? And a haberdashery? Did they still exist? Surely people just bought everything ready-made in Primark? And what a strange way to de-stress. Much less efficient than simply downing a double vodka. Oh God, why did he have to start thinking about vodka?
My biological clock is ticking so loudly that it’s keeping me awake at night. I lie there cursing the fact that my hormones are turning me into a cliché.
So, there it is. I’ve done what Julian asked. I do hope I don’t live to regret it.
As for Julian, well, I have a plan.
Of course she has a plan, thought Hazard. He knew her type. It was probably divided into subsections, each with an allocated key performance indicator. She reminded him of an ex-girlfriend of his who had, one memorable evening, presented him with a PowerPoint presentation on their relationship—strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats. He’d wrapped that one up pretty smartish.
I know exactly how to get him out and about again. I’ve designed an advertisement, for a local artist to teach a weekly evening class at the café. I’ve posted it in the window, so now all I have to do is wait for him to apply. And I’m going to leave this book on a table in the wine bar over the road. If you’re the person who picked it up, then what happens next is in your hands.
Hazard looked down at his hands, the antithesis of a safe pair. They hadn’t stopped trembling since the end of his last big bender twenty-four hours ago, the day he’d found the book. Bugger. Why him? Apart from anything else, he was leaving the country tomorrow. He’d have to pass Monica’s on his way to the tube station. He could pop in for a coffee, check her out, and give her the book back so she could hand it over to someone more suitable.
Just as Hazard was closing the book, he noticed that Monica had written something else on the next page.
P.S. I’ve covered this book in clear sticky-backed plastic to give it a bit of protection, but please try not to leave it in the rain, in any case.
Somewhat to his surprise, Hazard found he was smiling.
SEVEN
Julian
Julian peeled the handwritten note off his front door as he went in. He didn’t stop to read it. He knew what it said and, besides, it was all written in capital letters, which he thought a bit rude and shouty, undeserving of attention.
Julian made himself a cup of tea, sat down in an armchair, untied his shoelaces, slipped off his shoes, and rested his feet in the foot-shaped dents in the threadbare, tapestry-covered ottoman i
n front of him. He picked up his latest glossy magazine—Bazaar—which he’d been carefully rationing so it would last until the end of the week, and was just starting to lose himself in its pages when he was rudely interrupted by a knocking on the window. He sunk lower into the armchair, so his head wouldn’t be visible from behind. He’d become rather adept over the last fifteen years at ignoring visitors. He was aided by the fact that his windows hadn’t been washed in much of that time, their opacity a happy unintended consequence of his slovenliness.
Julian’s neighbors were becoming increasingly intrusive in their attempts to attract his attention. With a sigh, he put the magazine down and picked up the note he’d been left. He read it, wincing at the exclamation point following his name.
MR. JESSOP!
WE NEED TO TALK!
WE (YOUR NEIGHBORS) WISH TO ACCEPT
THE FREEHOLDER’S OFFER.
WE NEED YOUR APPROVAL,
WITHOUT WHICH WE CAN’T PROCEED.
PLEASE CONTACT PATRICIA ARBUCKLE, NO. 4
WITH THE UTMOST URGENCY!
Julian had bought his cottage in 1961 when the lease had sixty-seven years left to run. That had felt like an eternity, from the vantage point of his twenties, and certainly nothing to be concerned about. Now there were only ten years left on the lease, and the freeholder was refusing to extend, as he wanted to use the land on which the studios stood to build a “corporate entertaining complex,” whatever that might be, for the Stamford Bridge stadium. The stadium had grown and modernized around Julian over the years he’d lived in its shadow, while Julian himself had become smaller and increasingly unmodern. Now it was threatening to explode, like a monstrous carbuncle, sweeping them all away in a river of pus.