by Abigail Mann
I nod at the man who runs the corner shop underneath our place and go to unlock the door, the metal scratching and grating from a cheap, poorly cut key. Although undignified, there’s a real knack to it. You have to tease it in, flirt with the lock, if you will, and then quickly jerk the key round whilst furiously rattling the handle. I must be lucky today; the door opens on the fourth attempt and I’ve only sworn once.
When I get inside, the smell of burnt cumin hangs in the hallway and I can hear Yaz tapping a utensil along to the beat of a Primal Scream track from behind the closed kitchen door. Down the corridor, our bedroom door is ajar. I chuck my scarf in the direction of the coat rack, miss, and kick it to the skirting board instead. Tom’s hiking rucksack is propped up against the bed, a row of folded outfits lined up on the duvet, complete with socks and a rolled-up pair of underpants for each day he’ll be away.
‘Still refusing to use a suitcase?’ I say, opening the wardrobe to pull on a jumper. The office carpet that runs through the flat feels cold, almost damp, underfoot.
‘What?’ he says, scratching behind his ear in irritation.
‘Your rucksack? For a stag trip?’
‘Yeah, well, I’m going with the lads, aren’t I?’ he replies, as though this explains it.
‘Ah, of course. What was I thinking?’
He doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm and instead sits on the bed with a travel-sized bottle pinched between his knees. ‘Can you pass me the shower gel?’ he says, holding out a hand. I turn and pick up a tube of sea-salt and black-pepper body wash that I’ve long since been banned from using because it’s ‘manly and expensive’. When he takes it from me, his hand slides up my forearm and he pecks me so briefly that I hover stupidly, mouth open, preparing for a deeper kiss that never arrives.
‘Hello then,’ I say, squatting down to look under the bed for my slipper socks.
‘Hey. Sorry, I’m just trying to get everything sorted so I don’t wake you up later. You all right?’
‘Yeah, fine. I was thinking stir-fry for dinner. And cheesecake.’ Tom frowns and lifts things up one by one from the bed, looking for something.
‘I ate already. With Ben, after work. I told you about it yesterday, remember?’
He didn’t.
‘Oh, right. I thought it might have been nice to eat together, seeing as you’re going away,’ I say, trying not to sound hurt that he’s ditched me and my offer of slightly dry ribboned carrot and sweaty noodles. ‘And … it’s my birthday tomorrow, so, yeah.’
‘It would have been nice, sure, but I had a load of stuff to sort out at work and I needed to talk over some logistics with Ben.’ Ah, logistics. That delightful turn of phrase that could, quite literally, mean anything. ‘We had last weekend, didn’t we?’
‘Hmm,’ I reply, thinking back to my ‘birthday meal’, which wasn’t the all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant I’d been hinting at for weeks, but curry night at the local pub – a real treat, especially when the boxing came on. If I wanted to see two blokes fighting for an audience, I’d get the night bus more often.
I run my hands along his shoulders, pushing his knees apart to place myself squarely between them, his head level with the waistband of my jeans. He looks up and I hold his gaze with doe eyes, silently willing him to hold me by the hips, to pull me down onto his perfectly folded t-shirt collection, but instead he frowns and is, if anything, embarrassed.
He taps my leg with one hand.
‘Can you move? I need to get my shoes.’
I don’t answer immediately. Tom raises one eyebrow and I have an overwhelming urge to kick his bag across the room. I don’t, though. Of course I don’t. I smile away the tightness in my throat and squeeze his shoulder as I scooch past him to sit on the desk chair – a relic from a previous tenant.
When we first got together, we barely left his bedroom, except to get coffee and walk in the park for an hour before the sun went down. But when Tom got a job I couldn’t explain to my parents on the phone, the broken chairs we’d picked up during lazy mornings at flea markets were put back outside on the pavement, the intention to fix and paint them abandoned as weekends became a negotiation between the office, golf awaydays, and time spent with me.
‘Did you put this in here?’ says Tom, pulling out a disposable camera from a side pocket of his bag. Oh, I’d forgotten about that. I cross my legs, struggle to pull my ankle into my lap, and silently chastise myself for not keeping up with yoga tutorials on YouTube, as had been my resolution this year.
‘Yeah! Thought it would be cool for you guys, like in The Hangover? You could have it developed on the way back and piece together the bits between tequila shots. Pose with Mike Tyson, that sort of thing.’
He sucks on his lips and turns the camera over in his hands. ‘Hmm. Not sure how it would go down with the boys.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say, irritated now. ‘There isn’t anything to “go down”; it’s just a fucking camera, Tom.’
He looks up at the ceiling, his face partway between a smirk and a smile. As he goes to reply, a neat knock at the open door turns our attention towards Shamaya, the most recent addition to the house and – most unnervingly – the landlord’s daughter.
‘Any chance I can interrupt? We’re having a house meeting, so could you come through, Tom? Elissa, you too?’
Not again, I think. If this is another lecture about putting clingfilm on leftovers, I’m going to weep.
***
When we head through to the living room (well, it’s more of a living room-cum-kitchen-cum-dining room) Yaz gives us a nod from the beanbag and ladles a spoonful of chilli into his mouth. I perch on the back of the sofa and Tom sits on an upturned stack of empty plastic boxes, left over from Shamaya’s move last month. The four of us cast glances at each other, no one keen to speak first.
‘I don’t want to make it sound like I’m being, like, the “house boss”,’ says Shamaya, using her fingers to make quote marks in the air, ‘but I thought it might be a good idea to talk about a couple of issues that have come up.’ Oh, no. This doesn’t sound like one of those meetings. Usually, she brings in evidence of our deviances and lays them out on the kitchen counter like a domestic member of the KGB. She’s only been here three weeks and so far we’ve covered morning bathroom arrangements, pungent food items that are now banned from the fridge (basically all the good cheese), and a detailed chore chart that I have completely neglected to obey.
Shamaya leans against the kitchen cupboards and weaves her hair into a braid that drapes over her left shoulder. ‘This has got nothing to do with Dad being the landlord, though. I’d say this in any house I was living in.’ Now that I don’t doubt. She ties her plait off with a twang of black elastic and folds her arms across her chest. ‘Now, I know we all came up with a set of house rules – well, not rules really. What were they? Guidelines? Well, I’ve noticed that we’re not all taking them seriously.’
‘Are you talking about my gym stuff in the airing cupboard?’ says Yaz, scraping at his plate. ‘Because it’s not sweat. They’re damp because I washed them.’
‘No, you’re good, Yaz,’ says Shamaya, tapping her forearm with a row of manicured fingers. ‘It’s more this. All this washing up.’ I notice it now. On the counter, a number of cereal bowls have been stacked up, along with smeared plates and a few mugs, sticky with hot chocolate and marshmallows. My stomach does an awkward little jump. Shit.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Tom looking over at me.
‘Er, I think some of those might be mine,’ I say.
‘They’re all yours.’
‘Right. Okay. Sorry about that, I’ll just …’ I walk over to the sink and reach for the Fairy Liquid, but Shamaya interjects.
‘It’s not just that. And I’m not saying it’s you necessarily, but I’ve noticed that someone’s been using my hair oil in the bathroom.’
‘Definitely not me,’ says Yaz, pointing to his buzz cut.
‘Can’t claim that one. Sorr
y, Liss,’ says Tom. Bloody traitor.
Shamaya raises her eyebrows at me and I root around inside, searching for any semblance of guilt, but … no, I don’t regret it one bit. That oil has been a wondrous gift from the heavens. The curl definition. It defies logic. I’ve been flicking my head about at work so regularly that I’m sure I’ve got mild whiplash.
‘It might have got knocked over?’ I offer lamely.
‘Hmm. I don’t think so, do you?’ says Shamaya. Ouch. ‘Look, I’ve been helping Dad out with some of the property maintenance, and to be honest, this place was only ever meant for three tenants. Technically, it’s me, Yaz, and Tom on the lease. Oh, and the utility bills,’ says Shamaya, trying and failing to seem like she’s only now remembered a clearly rehearsed piece of evidence. ‘So, I don’t know what you guys want to do, but according to the multiple-occupancy license, two adults sharing a room need a minimum bedroom space of 10.22 square metres, which we can’t provide for you here. It would be different if it was just Tom, but when you moved in …’ she trails off, angling her head towards Tom, who sits on his hands and refuses to look up.
Is she … is she suggesting I move out? because of a few crusty dishes and some fucking argan oil?
‘Look, this hasn’t been a problem before. We’re fine! I’m sorry about the dishes – seriously – but me and Tom have an arrangement about the bills and stuff. Don’t we?’
The sound of crunching polystyrene balls comes from the corner, as Yaz does his best to sink deeper into the beanbag.
‘Don’t we, Tom?’ I repeat.
He looks up as though I’ve yelled his name from across a park. ‘Well, yeah. I mean, we said I’d pay for both of us until you got a job and then we’d move somewhere nicer. No offence, Shamaya,’ he says, turning to her briefly. She shrugs. ‘And, well … you’ve got one now—’
‘– that pays me enough to get the tube to work and buy a Freddo at the end of the week. I’ve hardly got enough to start banking in the Caymans,’ I say. Tom always complains about the fact we live somewhere grotty when he could afford a place without lino on the floor. He likes lingering at estate-agent windows – a pursuit I’ve never seen as anything other than self-flagellation. Although it increasingly seems like fantasy, Tom knows I want to share the rent equally.
‘The thing is, Elissa, it’s not a case of wanting you out, but Dad would have to apply for a new license from the council, which he’s not keen on,’ says Shamaya.
‘That sounds sort of … fair enough,’ says Tom, shrugging.
‘Yeah, I mean, if we have to find somewhere else, that’s that,’ I say. I look over at Tom. He’s cleaning muck out from underneath his nails.
‘Look, I know this is awkward.’ Shamaya exaggerates a grimace. ‘But there are probably loads of flats happy to take a couple. Elephant and Castle is on the up.’
‘We could, yeah,’ says Tom, slowly. ‘But if we break the lease early, we’ll have to find someone to take our room.’
‘What difference does that make?’ I say.
‘I’m just gonna—’ murmurs Yaz, easing himself up from the floor to slip between us, silently leaving through the kitchen door.
‘Well, it’s a lot of faff, isn’t it?’ says Tom.
‘Yeah, but we’d have to do that in a few months anyway,’ I say. The strip lighting of the kitchen feels razor sharp and I notice the beginnings of a headache pinching at my temples. I have an overwhelming desire to sleep, and to keep on sleeping until everything is simple and soft and uncomplicated. Shamaya clears her throat.
‘It’s inconvenient, that’s all. I’ve got a lot of work stuff coming up,’ Tom says.
I have a vision of tense room viewings sandwiched between arguments about affordability and yet another conversation, instigated by Tom, about asking my boss for a wage. If he’d met Mitchell, he’d know you can’t just ask him something like that.
‘I’m just the messenger,’ says Shamaya, wide-eyed and slack-lipped with concern, ‘but if you wanted to get your own hair products, you know, until you figure out the room thing, that’d be great.’
£17.50 for a 100ml bottle of perfumed oil? She must be having a laugh.
Tom gets up from his plastic-box perch and clicks his fingers absent-mindedly. I’m chewing on the skin around my little finger and don’t notice him near me until he’s slipped his hand into mine, pulling me over to stand beside him. His grasp is a little too tight around my fingers and I can feel his rough, bitten nails digging into my palm.
‘We’ll have to sort something out,’ says Tom, breathing through his nose. I twist my hand free, feeling heavy and hollow with the realisation that my housemates clearly find me an utter drag to live with.
It’s true that I haven’t really made an effort with Shamaya, but to be honest, passive-aggressive Post-it notes about ‘bin etiquette’ aren’t the best foundation from which to build a friendship.
‘Come on, we don’t need to decide on anything right now,’ says Tom, his voice soft, eyes insistent. He gives me a little tug and motions towards the door. As we turn to leave, Shamaya puts down her bowl with a loud clunk.
‘Oh, one more thing. Could you also remember to separate stuff for the recycling? I found an After Eight box stuffed in with the milk cartons yesterday.’
‘Elissa?’ Tom prompts, half out the door. He nods towards the neatly labelled recycling tubs and yawns. I swallow with immense effort and kiss my teeth.
‘Recycling. Sure. Not a problem.’
When I try and smile, I bite my cheek and wince at the pain.
Chapter 3
Last night whilst Tom brushed his teeth, I climbed into bed and tucked myself as close to the wall as possible, my back to the door. I don’t know what I thought it would achieve. A prompt to pull me closer, perhaps, even though I’m still angry that he hasn’t once mentioned Shamaya’s smear campaign against me. Aside from grazing the back of my head with a kiss, he’s apparently unconcerned. I spent an hour blinking at the flaking plaster on the wall before I gave up and turned over, hooking my arm across his chest. He shuffled back to nestle into the curve of my body, at which point I must have drifted off. When Shamaya woke me up at 5.30 a.m. with her military stomp to the shower, he’d gone.
The pipe from the basin runs along the wall above our bed and, in my half-conscious state, it sounds exactly like a trickle of wee. I would say there are worse ways to wake up, but after the rampant foxes that shag on the green opposite the flat and sound uncannily like a woman being attacked, the pissy shower is a close second.
There’s a small flurry of birthday messages on my Facebook page and I wonder if it was incredibly narcissistic of me to reactivate my account just before I went to bed last night, largely from a fear that otherwise this day would go entirely unrecognised. They’ve ranged from Maggie’s 12.03 a.m. re-post of an old picture of us from school, aged ten and doing ‘girl power’ peace signs at the camera, to a video clip of my mum and dad on the deck of a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean. I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying because of all the wind, but there’s lots of blowing kisses from Mum, and Dad is wiggling around and dancing with his elbows up near his ears to avoid spilling his pint. Other than that, a couple of people I haven’t spoken to since school and a guy called Paul I slept with once at uni (bit weird) have sent birthday wishes. Oh, and my brother, who has sent me an emoji of a birthday cake. Nothing from Tom. I guess it’s early.
I’ve missed my designated bathroom slot, as Shamaya is followed by Yaz, who has been singing in there for a full twenty minutes. Tom so irrationally hates Yaz’s singing it makes me laugh. In fact, I’ve always found Tom’s cynicism and general intolerance of other people’s quirks endearing. But then again, it means he also won’t let you talk during a film, or when Pointless is on, or during the cricket, which is sadistic because sometimes those matches go on for actual days.
Earlier, I’d jumped out of bed to put my dressing gown on the radiator and only now manage to slide out of
my marshmallow duvet, straight into the gorgeously pre-warmed robe. It had been my nanny’s before she died a few months ago and I’d brought it back to London with me, seeing as she’d hardly used it before she went into hospital. Tom thought that it was morbid and weird, but I find it quite comforting. The thick towelling material had swamped her when she’d worn it; her little bespectacled face peeked out of the top, the belt tied twice round the waist. With Mum and Dad declaring early retirement a few years ago, Nanny had been the only one I could call for a chat without someone thinking I needed money.
From the midst of my bedcovers I hear the muffled tinkling of my snooze alarm, now on its eighth repeat. I look at the screen whilst scraping my hair into a rough bun:
REMINDER: Friday 8.30 a.m. Smear Test @ Vassal Medical Centre
No! How is that today?! No, no, no!
I look at my phone, which now reads 8.11 a.m., and throw it back down on the bed. Mentally calculating my options, I quickly assess the two most likely. One: I could skip it, but that would mean I’m struck off the surgery’s patient list and I’ll have to sneak over the border into Southwark to register under a pseudonym. Or, two: I could go, somehow explain to Mitchell why I’m not coming in, and turn up unshowered with a faint red wine stain around my mouth.
Why would I have booked a smear test on my birthday?! Happy Birthday, Elissa. Here’s your present: having your fanny winched open in front of a total stranger. In addition to the horrifying fact I’d read this morning (at age twenty-six, your cells decay more quickly than they are replaced, so you essentially begin dying. What a treat!) this has to be the worst start to a birthday I’ve ever experienced. Worse than waking up in my second year of university with a sticky pillow, because my housemate had climbed into bed with me and promptly vomited the previous night’s snakebite all over the sheets.
I’d put off asking work for a late start because I couldn’t bear the thought of having a talk with Mitchell about anything even remotely associated with my vagina. I’d tried writing out different versions of the conversation in my notebook, but I’d torn out all the pages like an indecisive teenager writing a love letter.