I blame Frazzle.
Okay, fine. I had only myself to blame. But Frazzle started it. What happened was, Joe had left for work and, an hour or so later, so had Zoë. It was Freddie’s day to open up so I was taking it a bit easy, having a long shower with the door open, blow-drying my hair with no clothes on, making my favourite breakfast (eggy bread, only made with crumpets instead of bread, slathered with butter and strawberry jam) – all the little things I’d missed doing since Zoë had moved in.
I was sitting at the kitchen table in my dressing gown, just finishing off the last bite of my breakfast, when I heard a noise coming from our spare room – or Zoë’s room, as it was now. It was a kind of scratching sound, and for a second I panicked and thought, Fuck, do we have mice? And then I remembered what Zoë had said about Frazzle being a next-level mouser, and told myself I must be imagining things.
Then I heard the noise again, and another noise too. A pitiful kind of moan. I got up and walked the few steps from the kitchen to the short passage that our room and Zoë’s led off, and listened. The scratching came again, and the moan. And they were coming from behind Zoë’s closed bedroom door.
I realised straight away what had happened. She’d only gone and shut her cat in by mistake, the dozy cow. And I was just as bad, freaking out over a cat scratching and meowing. I turned the handle and pushed open the door and Frazzle emerged, complained noisily about false imprisonment without trial, wound himself around my legs a bit, then stalked off to his favourite spot on the back of the sofa, where he’d already left a dent and a mat of ginger fur on the cushion.
I didn’t follow him, though. I stood there in the doorway and looked into the room. It was gloomy, because the blind was pulled down all the way down, and it had a smell I couldn’t immediately identify but recognised straight away – something herbal and clean, almost grassy. It was Zoë’s smell – whatever natural, organic toiletries she used, whatever phosphate-free oil kept her hair permanently glossy and frizz-free, it had seeped into the very air of what used to be our spare room slash study.
I thought, I should open a window. And at the same time, I thought, I’ve got no right to be in here. But the second thought came too late, because I was already in there. I’d stepped over the threshold. I’d broken the snoop barrier. And once I did that, it didn’t seem unreasonable to have just a little look around.
It was our flat, after all. Zoë was just visiting, really.
The small double bed was unmade, the sheets Joe and I had chosen as being tasteful and guest-appropriate (white cotton with a smudgy pale blue paisley print) scrunched up at its foot, surrounded by more swathes of cat hair and a few coils of longer, brighter hair that must have come from Zoë’s head. The small cabinet we’d thought was more than big enough for anyone staying a couple of nights to fit their stuff in was full to bursting, its drawers spilling out clothes like it had tried to eat too many of them and stopped mid-chew. I was sure I recognised the red top she’d been wearing the first time I saw her, lolling out like a tongue.
Well, if Zoë wanted a messy room, that was her lookout. It wasn’t like she was leaving dirty plates lying around or smoking weed or doing anything else I could legitimately object to. And it certainly wasn’t my business to clean up after her.
But I took another step into the room, anyway. It was like my feet were moving of their own accord. On top of the chest of drawers were a scented candle (a fire risk, maybe, but its wick was white and pristine so I knew it had never been lit); a couple of vegan cookbooks, their pages crinkled with use, a greasy orange stain on the cover of one; and a tablet with headphones plugged into it.
I picked up the tablet and switched it on, then was immediately confronted with a screen asking for a passcode. I don’t know why, but that brought home to me what I was doing: walking into a room in my own home, even if it was occupied by someone else, was one thing. Being caught trying to snoop by a piece of tech was quite another. I put the tablet back where I’d found it – quickly, as if it was too hot to hold – and turned to leave.
Then I caught sight of something else. Peeping out from under the pillow was a bundle of envelopes, wrapped loosely but not tied by a shiny red ribbon. Its ends had once been curled, the way florists and gift-wrapping services in department stores do them, but the curls were squashed now into folds and wrinkles.
Whatever was in that bundle had been moved many times, squeezed into Zoë’s backpack as she shuttled from one temporary home to another.
I’d have left the room right then, I’m quite sure of it, except for one thing. I recognised the handwriting on the top envelope, and it was Joe’s. Even though it was only one word – Zoë’s name – I’d have known it anywhere. Joe had terrible handwriting – a messy scrawl, the ends of the o not meeting as they should, the Z so wonky it could almost have been a 2, the E an awkward capital letter. The first time I’d noticed and teased him about it, he’d been defensive and embarrassed, explaining that he was not only left-handed but also mildly dyslexic, and had struggled to learn to write at school until he’d had additional help, and I’d felt terrible for taking the piss.
I felt terrible now, because I knew that there was no way I wasn’t going to open that envelope. I knew I’d regret it, knew I’d hate myself, knew I’d struggle to meet Zoë or Joe’s eyes – but I was going to do it anyway. A horrible, self-destructive urge had overtaken me, and there was only one way to make it release its hold.
I picked up the top envelope. Its flap had been torn open at an angle, like Zoë had been impatient to see inside. Either that, or she hadn’t cared about damaging it or its contents, hadn’t realised that this was something she was going to treasure, keep and look at even after six years.
Inside was a card. It was a shiny square of white with a big red heart on it, and it said, For our first anniversary.
Wait, what? Joe had told me that he and Zoë had only been together a few weeks. Had he lied? Had he wanted to make their relationship seem shorter and less significant than it really was, because he could tell I was insecure? Or for some other, more sinister reason?
My heart hammering, I opened the card.
Seems anniversary cards for one week aren’t a thing – they should be. Happy first week-iversary, my gorgeous Zoë. Love Joe.
I closed the card and put it back in its envelope, feeling sick with remorse and fear.
I wasn’t going to open any more of them – I didn’t need to. I counted the envelopes and there were twelve of them: one for each week of the three months Joe had told me their relationship had lasted, before Zoë ended it.
She’d ended it – but she’d kept his cards, all this time. And now, in our home, with Joe and me sleeping next door, she’d taken them out from wherever she kept them, and looked through them again, reading over all the words of love he’d written to her. She’d kept them under her pillow.
Maybe she’d held on to them out of sentimentality. Maybe she was the kind of person who couldn’t bear to throw things away. But I knew that wasn’t the case – this was a woman whose entire life fitted into a backpack, whose entire wardrobe could just about be squeezed into four Ikea drawers.
She still loved Joe. Whatever her reasons for finishing with him, she regretted it. And now she was here – a clear and present danger, right in our home.
And – and I know this makes me sound like the worst kind of psycho bunny-boiler ever – a phrase I’d heard Gordon use once, when he was on his way out to lunch with a barrister who was representing the other side in a case we were on, popped into my head.
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
‘You know what?’ I said to Zoë now. ‘Actually, I think that’s a great idea.’
Fourteen
So, the next morning, instead of walking to the Nag’s Head alone, I had company. Although the journey only took ten minutes, it felt like an eternity. Zoë chattered away non-stop about places where she’d worked, trends in restaurant food and her ‘visi
on’ for the pub, which she insisted on referring to as the Ginger Cat, before hastily correcting herself. But I could barely hear her; I couldn’t tear my mind away from that stack of glossy cards, each one carrying a message of love to her from Joe.
‘It’s not much, you know,’ I warned her. ‘Don’t go expecting a snazzy kitchen with all the latest gadgets, because you’ll only be disappointed.’
Still, when I unlocked the door and we stepped inside, I found myself feeling strangely nervous and protective, like if she sneered and criticised I wouldn’t be able to help taking it personally.
‘Right then,’ she said. ‘Show me where the magic happens!’
I guided her round the back of the bar to the door marked ‘Staff only’ and pushed it open, standing aside to let Zoë through.
‘Oh.’ She stood in silence for a moment, looking at the microwave, the deep-fat fryer, the large freezer.
The kitchen was Juan’s turf; even though I’d checked with Shirley that it was okay to get a temporary person to hold the fort, I’d barely been inside there myself and certainly not had a proper look around. But Zoë didn’t hesitate. She pulled open the door of the freezer and rifled through the foil trays of pre-prepared meals inside. She picked up one of Juan’s knives and tested its edge against her thumb, shaking her head. She looked in the fridge and pulled out a box of tomatoes and a bag of wilting salad leaves.
‘There’s a local homeless shelter, right?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’
‘Well, I’ll find out. We can donate some of this stuff, and we’ll put the fresh things – well, the things that used to be fresh – out for the food waste collection. Now, how about a coffee?’
Without asking, she whisked over to the new coffee machine – my pride and joy – and fired it up, expertly producing two perfect espressos.
‘Thank you.’ I took a mug and sat down – there was work to do, but I might as well enjoy my hot drink first.
Zoë joined me, taking a notepad and pen from her bag.
‘I’m thinking quite a small, simple menu to start off with, until I get the sense of what the market wants. Maybe five or six small plates that’ll do for starters or sharing, and three mains. Lots of plant-based stuff – that’ll help keep costs down, apart from anything else.’
She chewed her pen for a second before starting to scribble rapidly. I inhaled the fragrant steam coming off my coffee, then took that first sip – always the best one – and waited, thinking again with a pang of envy how pretty Zoë was, with her perfect white teeth biting into her full bottom lip as she thought. Even sitting there, writing in a notebook, she fizzed with vitality.
‘How about this?’ She turned the notebook around and passed it to me. I hoped she couldn’t sense the waves of resentment I could feel radiating towards her.
‘Seitan fried “chicken”,’ I read. ‘What’s that?’
Zoë’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly. ‘Seitan’s a meat substitute. It’s made from wheat gluten. It replicates the texture of animal protein far better than soy or tofu. It’s become incredibly popular recently.’
Not with me, it hasn’t, I thought. ‘Shepherdless pie?’
‘It’s kind of a joke. Lentils and veg with a potato topping. Proper pub grub, only meat-free.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I mean, will people order this stuff? The menu before was all meat, apart from the cheese omelette.’
‘And did people order that?’
‘I guess,’ I said, then added honestly, ‘But if they did, I doubt they ever did again. Juan ordered them in frozen and nuked them.’
Zoë grimaced, then laughed. ‘Fair play. But you say the clientele here’s changing – you’re getting loads of younger people, mums with kids – just look at this area, Alice. It’s hipster central. When Sean and I had the food cart we sold loads of plant-based stuff. It’s the future.’
‘Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing. Do you miss him? Sean, I mean?’ As opposed to Joe. I know you miss him.
Zoë twisted her hair up and secured the knot of copper curls with her pen.
‘Yeah, a bit. We were only together for a few months, but we were mates first, so it’s that I miss, more than him as a boyfriend. You know what I mean? But it had kind of run its course. He’s a decent guy, but we weren’t in love or anything like that.’
Not like you were with Joe.
‘You’re really passionate about this whole food thing, aren’t you?’ Focus on the job. Never mind the other stuff she’s passionate about, like your boyfriend.
‘It wasn’t what I thought I’d end up doing with my life. I studied sociology at uni, but I realised even before I graduated that it wasn’t for me. And I had a holiday job in a restaurant, started off washing pans and then they got me chopping veg and it sort of went from there. I like the freedom of working in new places. I even like the unsociable hours.’
‘Well, you’ll get those here,’ I said.
‘How about you?’
‘How about me what?’
‘It’s quite the jump, isn’t it? To go from being a lawyer to doing this.’
‘It wasn’t even a conscious decision,’ I admitted. ‘And I have no idea how long I’ll do it for. It’s like, I was so sure I had my future all mapped out, and then the job I was sure I had in the bag wasn’t there any more, and I had to do something, so I ended up doing this. And now, with Shirley off, I’ve found myself in charge. I don’t actually have a clue what I’m doing. Just making it up as I go along.’
Zoë laughed. ‘Isn’t most of life like that, though? What’s your star sign, Alice?’
The one that maintains – rightly – that astrology’s a load of bollocks, I thought. But I answered pleasantly, ‘Leo, I think. My birthday’s the seventeenth of August.’
‘Ah, so you thrive on challenges and have big ideas. You’re made for this. Who wants to work in a law firm, anyway?’
‘Joe does.’
We sat in silence for a moment, like Joe’s name was a barrier that had suddenly sprung up between us, interrupting the first proper conversation we’d had. I’d wanted to see how she reacted to his name, when I said it, to see if there was an echo of pain, or longing, or regret in her face. But she was carefully impassive.
‘But doing human rights stuff, not high finance, right? He was always idealistic like that, wanting to change the world. Typical Sagittarius. He’s a good person, Alice. You’re good together. You’re lucky.’
With a cold shock of realisation, I thought, We were good together. And if I’m not careful, my luck could change.
‘It’s been difficult for him. This… change. And now we’re both working so hard, and in different places. I feel like we hardly see each other any more.’
It was a weird feeling: saying that to Zoë, of all people, made me admit it to myself. Over the past weeks, I’d been conscious of a distance opening between Joe and me – one that hadn’t been there before. I’d blamed it on Zoë herself – her presence in our lives and our home. But maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe the new direction my life had taken was moving me out of the orbit Joe and I had been in. And if I moved too far away from him, would I ever be able to return?
And what about Joe? He hadn’t said anything to suggest that he was unhappy, or even that he was aware of a change in our relationship. But then, he hadn’t had the chance to say anything at all, really. The few minutes we had alone together each day were barely enough for me to tell him that things at the pub were okay, and him to tell me things at Billings Pitt Furzedown were likewise okay, but frantically busy, and to fill me in on fragments of gossip about my old colleagues, who now seemed like creatures from another planet.
Had he been spending time with Zoë when I was out at work? It didn’t seem possible – his working day was longer even than mine. After that first night, when I’d seen them dancing together in our kitchen, they’d barely been alone together, either. Or had they?
‘What happened with
you and Joe?’ I heard myself blurt out.
Zoë pulled the pen out of her hair and it cascaded down over her shoulders.
‘I ended it,’ she said. ‘You know what it’s like, at uni. There’s so much going on. I didn’t want to be tied to one person.’
‘Was he okay? How did he take it?’
Zoë stood up. The energy that had radiated from her before had faded; she looked tired and a bit sad. ‘I don’t know. It was a long time ago. You should ask him.’
I had asked him. I had, and he’d gone all weird.
But there was no time to press her further; the tasks I’d managed to set aside for those few minutes were crowding in on me; soon the first of the morning coffee crowd would be arriving.
‘I could make some muffins,’ Zoë suggested. ‘Get a bit of a breakfast menu going. What do you reckon?’
‘Sounds good,’ I said, and went to open the door for our first customers.
All that morning, I found my mind returning to Zoë – Zoë and Joe, those sweet cards, the same kind of romantic gesture he made towards me. Back then, he’d been a student, and skint, so cards had been the best he could do. There’d been no hot tub in the garden for Zoë. No garden at all, in a grotty hall of residence. But he’d marked each one of their twelve weeks together, counting them off as if they were precious objects – links in a chain, maybe, forged one by one to hold the two of them together.
And then Zoë had ended it. Maybe she hadn’t loved him like he’d loved her. Maybe the cards had been too much for her. Maybe it had put her off him as definitively as Kieren’s poo talk had put Heather off. But then why keep them? Why tie the ribbon carefully around them time after time, to make sure none of them went astray? Why look at them in bed, knowing that the man who’d written them was just a couple of metres away, in bed himself, with his girlfriend?
Just Saying: An absolutely perfect and feel-good romantic comedy Page 12