The Spare Bedroom: A totally heartwarming, funny and feel good romantic comedy

by Elizabeth Neep

  I placed my hand on the door handle and looked back across the room. It was just how I found it; like I was never here, except… I reached down into the bedside table and pulled out the broken photo frame I had stashed in the drawer. I placed it back on the table top. Sam and Jamie, the perfect couple, broken and cracked. Because of me. I took one last look at the photograph, one final look at Sam’s surfboard, and then turned to leave the box room for good.

  Chapter 30

  I looked down at my rucksack on the pavement, quite literally kicked to the kerb, as I heard the bus pull away behind me. I bent my knees and prepared to lift it. I already had the weight of the world on my shoulders, now I had to lug this bloody great thing around too.

  This couldn’t be happening. Sam had missed me; he’d said he loved me. But as a friend. I replayed our time together, unable to marry my version to his. Friend; I could really do with one of them right now. At least I had a job, I thought as I walked across the road to CreateSpace trying hard not to compare my rucksack-clad, puffy-eyed self to the designer-draped co-curator from two days ago.

  It was time to tell Tim that I had decided to stay on, to see the exhibition through to the end and to explore how we could work together in the future. At least I’d be making one person happy. The exhibition would be opening to the public tomorrow and if the press event was anything to go by it should be a sell-out, keeping all three of us busy all hours of the day.

  I breathed slowly, trying to salvage the scraps of my Sydney life. Maybe things would be okay. I didn’t need Sam and Jamie and their box room to make something of myself here. If there even was a Sam and Jamie any more. The thought made my stomach churn. I had been so happy, knocking back drink after drink with Joshua. And now I’d hurt his sister. And him – someone who had only ever looked out for me. I tried desperately not to question what he must think of me now, his disappointed eyes piercing through the foggy missed memories of last night. Something told me our Saturday surfing sessions had seen their last.

  As I walked into the reception, the guys at the desk barely lifted their heads. Friday’s compliments and smiles were gone. Had Jamie told Tim what had happened already? My sickness reared. I wouldn’t have made anything of myself here without Jamie and her connections. I stashed my rucksack behind the desk. Neither one of the receptionists questioned it – maybe the answers were too obvious. Slowly, and with shaking hands, I opened the door into the first room. The morning colours, once so joyful, now glared garishly down at me, causing a new wave of nausea to rush through my body. Tim stood, looking into Nameless, the same small blue painting that Sam and I had studied only days before. My heart ached at the memory. I swallowed the thought and hopelessly gathered the sparse shards of strength and sobriety I had left.

  ‘Great piece, isn’t it?’

  Tim didn’t respond. He didn’t even turn to look at me. He knew. I had hurt his precious Jamie, after she had been so generous and hospitable and perfect. And I hadn’t exactly been a great friend to him either; all of those extended lunchbreaks with my mystery man and not once did I tell him he was pushing me further into the gap between his two friends, that he was an accessory to my ex-boyfriend-seducing crime. I probably wasn’t the worst person in the world, but I couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of the title right now.

  ‘Tim?’ I asked again. ‘I have something to tell you.’ I knew he was angry. But I couldn’t stand here in silence all day; the volunteers would be here soon – at least now he’d know his understaffed days were behind him.

  ‘Jessica.’ Tim turned to me slowly, long grey T-shirt skimming his tartan-covered thighs. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply, his tone indicating that now wasn’t the moment for good news. I’d ask him tomorrow. For the meantime, I had to stay and face whatever it was Jamie had told him, to apologise for being so dishonest when I felt like I was the only one being honest with my feelings. Tim’s tired eyes took me in. Part of me wanted to run away; I couldn’t handle another person being mad at me today. I wished that Tim would scoop me up in his big bear arms and let me tell him everything and say that Sam was an idiot and he had led me on and he’d never liked Jamie anyway and that everything would be okay. Everything had to be okay.

  ‘Jessica,’ Tim said again, looking down at his feet. ‘I have to let you go.’

  Let me what? Another wave of sickness hit me and I could feel the tears coming. This couldn’t be happening. Not because of one silly drunken mistake.

  ‘Tim,’ I began, ready to drop to my knees. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Tears started to fall from my eyes. ‘I was so drunk I could hardly speak and I… I’ve decided I don’t want to work for Art Today any more. This gallery, the work, you – you’ve inspired me so much… I want to stay on, for as long as you’ll have me—’

  ‘Jessica,’ Tim interrupted, shaking his head and putting a hand to his brow. ‘It was a press event; you were meant to represent us. It was your idea to invite them in the first place. I figured you’d had a bit to drink, but so much you could barely speak…’ He let the end of his sentence fade into the expanse between us.

  I looked at him through tear-filled eyes. Lost, in every sense of the word.

  ‘The press night? I wasn’t too drunk at the press night…’ I stammered, unable to hide my confusion.

  ‘But you just said—’

  ‘I thought you were talking about…’ I stopped myself. Maybe he didn’t know about the Sam thing after all. And if he was angry about something at the press night I didn’t want to hand him even more material to paint a picture of me as the absolute fuck-up I was clearly proving to be. I racked my brain for press night hiccups, literal or metaphorical, but drew a blank. It had been a success, we had been a success. Tim had even said so. Without a word, Tim reached into his pocket and placed a piece of paper in my hand. It was a print-out of an email. Shaking, I read the subject line and the sender’s name:

  SUBJECT: PA – THETIC ATTEMPTS AT CREATESPACE

  FROM: H. A. SOMMERS

  I glanced up to look at Tim, who was studying my expression with an intensity that made every one of my hairs stand on end. Hannah Sommers. My mind quickly shot back to our interview, recalling blurry words against the same colourful backdrops that surrounded us now. Had she found out? I hadn’t mentioned jobs, hadn’t asked her for anything. And Tim hadn’t spoken a word to her either. Nor had Olivia, other than our introduction – too fearful of putting her foot in it. I’d made sure of it. I’d kept them apart. I’d watched Hannah leave. All I’d expected from Sommers was a stunning review, but looking from Tim’s distraught face to the message in my hand, I knew this wasn’t it. I read on:

  Dearest Timothy,

  It makes for a catchy headline, doesn’t it? I am sincerely hoping that our readers at Art Today think the same. If I am perfectly honest – a quality for which I am known industry-wide – I had rather high hopes for your latest exhibition, hopes that were realised as I was welcomed by your wonderful receptionists and the glory of Tuesday’s Slumber.

  However, as the evening unfolded, my reverence for the collection was somewhat clouded by the slur of defamatory comments and the smell of bitter champagne emanating from your so-called co-curator. Disinterested and distracted for the duration of our time together, it wasn’t until your co-curator’s bold and misplaced assurances that my sister is incompetent and deceitful – qualities unseen by the rest of the industry in which you no doubt are aware she plays a central role – that I suddenly saw the significant error of your ways in the employment of this latest exhibition under your surveillance.

  Needless to say, it didn’t take me long to realise that said co-curator is a previous personal assistant of my dear sister and one that it was decided she should let go. Clearly, her defamatory slur was motivated by a personal vendetta, bitter resentment and an entirely unprofessional persona. I feel quite strongly that in an industry where many young people would kill for the chances your co-curator has been aff
orded, we cannot allow such an individual to rise. It is therefore with regret that I advise you to terminate your co-curator’s employment forthwith or you will leave me no choice but to publish a deeply negative review of her latest work, your exhibition, therefore preventing this individual from being afforded any more standing in this regard. I think you will agree it is the best thing for CreateSpace. I have long admired your work and would hate to see it undermined by the personal agenda of one misled individual.

  Yours faithfully,

  Hannah A. Sommers

  Editor-in-Chief, Art Today Australia

  I looked up at Tim, hands still shaking, this time with anger added into the mix of mounting emotions that were becoming impossible to control.

  They were sisters? But I knew the art world. Surely I would have picked up on that? Plus, I had spent years overhearing Devon slagging her off, seething about her success, stealing her ideas. How was I supposed to know they were sisters? How was I supposed to know their relationship was a lie?

  ‘I… I… didn’t know…’ I stuttered, unable to string my sentence together. ‘They’re sisters?’

  ‘In law,’ Tim said, stony-faced. How didn’t I know this? ‘Sommers only got the job through family connections and so they keep it out of the media. Plus, it means they can set an international trend or showcase new talent just by picking up the phone to each other. It’s the best kept secret in the industry; people on the inside are in the know.’ Tim said this last bit in a way that reminded me I was not one of them. I knew Devon was always after Hannah’s ideas but she had never given the impression that Hannah may be willing to share them.

  ‘But that’s collusion,’ I argued. ‘And this.’ I waved the piece of paper in the air. ‘This is blackmail. It’s immoral. They can’t get away with it.’ Raw tears of rage fell down my cheeks. ‘They’re profiting off, well… a lie.’

  ‘Says the woman who lied about her employment history.’ Tim looked at me straight on, all warmth there ever was between us evaporating. We locked eyes, his willing mine to deny the truth. Technically it wasn’t my history that was in doubt, it was my future. I’d had three bloody years of doubting my future.

  ‘Tim, I’m…’ I said, stunned at how rock bottom had turned out to be a trap door. There was no coming back from this.

  ‘I rang her up,’ Tim said. ‘After the email, to see whether she’d be open to reason, to work out whether she had her facts right. I was so confused that she didn’t seem to know you, I figured there must have been a mix-up.’

  It took all my strength not to look away.

  ‘Turns out I was the one who didn’t have my facts right, wasn’t it, Jessica?’ His sentence was intended to patronise me, to treat me like the child I was proving myself to be. I was a twenty-seven-year-old woman, and I’d been fibbing like a child this whole time. Lying to Tim, to Sam. Lying to myself.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered, barely audible. It was all too little too late. ‘I can explain. Give me five minutes and I can tell you everything, explain it all.’ My rage at Devon and Sommers tasted bitter and ironic. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. I held Tim’s stony gaze; we both knew my house had come crashing down.

  ‘Jessica, I don’t have time for this.’ Tim looked away from my tear-stained face to the clock on the wall. I thought back to my first day when he had asked me to read it for him, nostalgic for being needed, even in the most miniscule of ways.

  ‘But it’s blackmail,’ I cried, pleading with Tim to listen. ‘If I can just show this to the media…’

  ‘And say what?’ Tim shrugged, his face deadpan. ‘Hannah has a recording of your whole conversation. Let’s just say you didn’t sound sober.’ He shook his head. ‘And let’s face it,’ he went on, ‘who are the media going to believe?’ He looked at me; a drunk bitter girl who had lied her way across Sydney, or an editor-in-chief known industry-wide for her so-called honesty. ‘The volunteers are arriving in five. Jessica, honestly, I have to let you go.’ He gestured towards the door, characteristically dramatic but lacking some of the gusto of days past. He was tired of being let down; I knew the feeling.

  I turned away, walking through yet another door, desperately trying not to question why everything I wanted, wanted to push me away instead. Why everything I had built was founded on a lie.

  18 January 2017 – London, England

  ‘How’s work been?’ I asked, trying to bridge the distance between us, physically and metaphorically. I resented the question, so normal and yet it was the kind of ‘catching up’ statement I thought we’d never need to say. Lives that were in sync shouldn’t need to catch up or slow down. I walked into Tesco, begrudging my meal for one, begrudging Sam for not being here yet, for having another year in Nottingham.

  ‘Would you like a bag?’ the cashier asked as I shook my head and gathered the meal deal with my free hand. ‘Could I grab a ticket for the Euromillions?’ I added as an afterthought. Couple of mill wouldn’t go amiss right now.

  ‘Did you just buy a lottery ticket, J?’ Sam’s voice said down the line as I walked out onto the pavement of Vauxhall Bridge Road.

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘I just,’ he continued, voice strained, ‘didn’t know you played it.’

  ‘From time to time.’ I shrugged as much as my juggling hands would allow. ‘Problem?’

  ‘No, it’s just… it doesn’t matter.’ I could imagine how Sam was shaking his head down the line. I didn’t need a visual to know when something was on his mind.

  ‘No, tell me,’ I demanded, all of a sudden on the back foot.

  ‘It’s not like… a problem,’ he said, ‘it’s just…’ He sighed as I walked past couples and friends drinking outside the pubs lining the way to Victoria.

  ‘We’re just really different, aren’t we?’ He said the words slowly. ‘I’d never play the lottery.’

  I laughed away his comment, stunned by its absurdity. ‘It’s just a lottery ticket.’

  ‘It’s just a bit… It’s a bit…’

  ‘What, Sam?’ I snapped, feeling the strain of London and my hour-long commutes closing in around me.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you next time I see you.’

  ‘Tell me now,’ I demanded, not sure I wanted his answer but unwilling to let it wait.

  ‘It’s just a bit… well, my parents would say it’s a bit… working class,’ Sam admitted. ‘But I don’t think that, really, and there’s nothing wrong with being working class anyway – obviously – it just surprised me because I didn’t know you played and I never would and you know, we’re just different, aren’t we?’

  ‘Working class, different?’ I asked, anger filling my blood. I didn’t realise being a snob was hereditary. Was that what his parents thought of me? Surely society had evolved past that.

  ‘No, that’s why I didn’t want to say, I don’t mean it… I just… we’re different, is all.’

  ‘Yeah we are. You’re a man and I’m a woman; you’re a medic and I’m a creative; you’re a judgmental nob and I’m…’ Red buses, red phone boxes. Red was all I could see.

  ‘Jess, please, can we just forget about it?’ Sam reasoned, like I’d been the one to bring it up in the first place. It was just a lottery ticket.

  ‘I thought you liked that we were different?’ I asked, unwilling to back down.

  ‘I did, I do,’ Sam said.

  ‘I’d hate to date the male version of me.’

  ‘Yeah me too, well, the female version,’ Sam agreed as I remained far from convinced. ‘Can we just forget about it? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. If you want to play the lottery, you play the lottery. You know I love you, every lottery-playing bit of you.’ Sam was overcompensating, trying to recover from acting out or acting more honestly than he had done in weeks, I couldn’t tell. And I really, really didn’t want to find out.

  Chapter 31

  6 September 2020 – Sydney, Australia

  My mascara-stained reflect
ion mocked me from the toilet mirrors as I tried to tell myself this wasn’t as bad as I thought, that this would all blow over, that everything would be okay.

  Holding my phone in my shaking hand, I scrolled to Zoe’s number and hovered my finger above the dial button. It was the middle of the night back home. And anyway, what was she going to say? It wasn’t like she’d been in touch to ask how the exhibition went. And I wasn’t ready to hear I told you so. Sam had always been the one to rescue me, but I was pretty sure all his efforts were going in one direction right now, no thanks to me. Once again, my mind sifted through people I could call. I could only think of one other person who might be kind enough to hear me out. Scrolling to Joshua’s number, I forced my breathing to normalise as I pressed my phone to my ear. I held my breath as the dial tone rang out, then his voice on his answerphone message, telling me Joshua ‘can’t come to the phone right now’. Can’t or won’t? I knew he was Jamie’s brother but hadn’t we become friends, too? And he’d said if I needed anything, he was always there. I called again, and again. The dial tone rang on until I heard a quick click and a deep exhale and the pained voice of Joshua: ‘Please stop calling, Jess. This isn’t a good time.’

  Darting from the toilets, through reception, I picked up my bag and didn’t look back, striding purposefully across the paved square, past the palm trees and the wall that Sam had leaned against when he came to meet me for lunch. I had nowhere to go, nothing to do, but I wouldn’t let the guys on reception know that. I knew I didn’t deserve the dignity. I felt their eyes burn into the back of my head as they watched my walk of shame: CreateSpace to empty space. I wasn’t a co-curator any more; I wasn’t even a clipboard-holder. I wasn’t a girlfriend, a friend, I wasn’t even a tenant of my ex-boyfriend’s box room. I was a joke. A jobless, homeless, hopeless joke.