The Lonely Fajita

by Abigail Mann

  Last time I went for one, I’d had a mini freak-out in the waiting room when I realised the doctor was a man, so I panicked and told the receptionist that I’d left an egg boiling on the stove and needed to rescue it immediately.

  I leave the house with mottled skin from the splash of cold water I’d chucked at my face as I left the flat, and jab Suki’s name into my phone as I quick-walk up the road. Suki picks up on the third ring.

  ‘Suki, I’m in a—’

  ‘Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to—’

  ‘Suki! Suki, I’ve had a ’mare of a morn—’

  ‘– YOU. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ELLISSAAAAAAA.’

  A pause.

  ‘Suki, I’ve—’

  Oblivious to my plight, Suki breaks into a Maria Carey style riff and runs up and down the scales like a has-been 90s diva. ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUUUUUU!’ The last note turns into a screech and I hold the phone away from my ear.

  ‘Thanks, Suki, that was, er … lovely,’ I say, my body straining from the burst of movement I’m forcing it into. I take a breath and glance at my screen to check I’m still heading the right way. ‘Suki, I’ve got a problem. I’ve booked a fucking smear test and I’m already late and I’ve forgotten to tell Mitchell. Is there any chance you could make up something that explains why I’m not in? Like I’ve … twisted my ankle or dropped my phone on a tube track or something?’

  ‘A smear test on your birthday? Fucking hell, Elissa, you know how to celebrate.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ I don’t know if it’s the sharpness of the cold air on my throat, but I’ve got a sudden urge to sink onto the floor and have a bloody good cry. She’s laughing down the line and I force a smile even though I know she can’t see me.

  ‘I absolutely would – in a heartbeat – but I’m not in the office, babes. Louis’ got some bloke over from Seattle and he’s using my desk. I’m working from home. Well, I’m playing Street Fighter with Jazz at the minute but I will be working. Soon.’

  ‘Okay.’ I take a ragged breath and hear my voice crack on the line. ‘Okay, don’t worry. I’ll sort it out.’ I try to feign enthusiasm, but it sounds like I’m in a hostage video with a rifle-clad soldier standing just out of shot. ‘See you tomorrow then!’

  ‘Snatch night, babe!’

  ‘Can’t wait!’ My voice wobbles and I bite into the casing of my phone to stop myself from screaming. A man walking in the opposite direction recoils, flicks up the collar of his navy woollen coat, and quickens his pace. My phone now reads 8.26 a.m. and according to the map I’m ten minutes away. Lurching into a quick walk with a hop every other step, I dial Mitchell’s work number and wait for him to pick up. I chew my top lip as it rings for the fourth time.

  Just as I’m about to celebrate the far less intimidating prospect of explaining myself to Mitchell’s voicemail, his clipped, nasal voice breaks across the hum of rush-hour traffic on Clapham Road.

  ‘Mitchell Chandler speaking.’

  ‘Um, hi, Mitchell, it’s Elissa.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Elissa. Elissa Evans?’

  ‘Oh right, Els, what’s going on?’

  My rehearsed explanation slips entirely out of my head.

  ‘Are you running?’ asks Mitchell.

  ‘Yes, well, no, I mean, I am running but I’m not on a run. Hahahaha!’ Come on, Elissa, initiate brain!

  ‘Unless you’re about to give me a visual description of your sports bra, I’m not interested, darling.’

  ‘I’m phoning to … I’m phoning because … I’m having a …’

  ‘I’m having a fucking existential crisis listening to you. Would you please get to the fucking point?’

  ‘I’m a … I’m … It’s my vagina! I’ve got vagina issues! It’s a vagina thing!’ I scream down the phone.

  What. The. Fuck. I’ve lost it. I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at it in disbelief, gaping as the call lengthens by the second. I want to shove my whole fist in my mouth. I’m effectively fired now, aren’t I? And if I’m not fired I’ve got to quit. And move cities. Possibly countries.

  ‘I’ll be in later. Thanks, Mitchell! Doctors, you know, the appointments always run late, what can you do! Okaythanksbye!’

  Well, that’s one way of dealing with it.

  By the time I arrive at the surgery, I’m puce, panting, and sticky from the run.

  I strip off my coat and fan myself with a meningitis leaflet to try and appear as anything other than a sweaty monster. The waiting room is bulging with elderly people and parents with tiny, sticky-fingered children who squabble over toys and frayed cardboard books in the corner of the room. A mum, straight out of a Boden catalogue except for the slightly swollen and bloodshot eyes, yawns wearily and pushes a pram back and forth, despite the fact that her chubby baby is gurgling happily on her lap. Behind her, a noticeboard hangs heavy with community adverts: kittens for sale, a request for a French-speaking au pair, mother and baby groups, and local litter-picking walks (I will never be a good enough person to do that.) Just as I’m considering whether ‘mother and baby’ groups are an example of everyday sexism, my name flashes up on the obtrusively large LED screen and I’m called through to room five. Gender politics will have to wait.

  Chapter 4

  Okay, not the horror show I was expecting. I could have done without being shown that strange speculum thing before it went in (why does it have to be made of clear Perspex?), but in all honesty I’ve had far more awkward sexual encounters with Tom, so this was an upgrade if anything.

  As I leave the surgery, I tuck into the wall, allowing a man in an electric wheelchair to navigate expertly round the socked feet of crawling toddlers. I hitch my bag up onto my shoulder, but when I do it catches on thumbtacks and dry Blu-tack, sending a flurry of notices to the floor.

  ‘Oh, bollocks.’

  Hurrying over with small clicky steps and a jaded expression, the receptionist helps me pin the adverts back up, some of which are stiff and crinkled with age. I pass her each notice and after a quick glance, she scrunches and drops most of them into a bin that she’s dragged beneath us using the pointed tip of her shoe.

  As I hand over the last one, I waver, and we end up clutching either end of a purple-bordered flyer lettered in bold Comic Sans. From under her thumb, the phrase ‘rent-free’ peeks out at me, along with a picture of a young woman perched on the arm of a winged armchair. In it, an elderly lady sits, her eyes crinkled with a strained smile.

  ‘Hang on, can I keep this one? Is that okay?’

  She looks down at my hands and shrugs, speaking out of the corner of her mouth to save the pins from falling. ‘Sure, saves me some space.’ I look at the flyer and squint to read its sun-bleached words:

  Are you seeking a unique opportunity to care for an elderly member of your community? Are you looking for low-cost accommodation, whilst greatly adding to another’s quality of life? The ElderCare Companionship Scheme could be for you! A rewarding and fulfilling opportunity, our scheme is open to anyone patient, friendly, and helpful (over 25 years) willing to be a live-in companion. Contact the ElderCare team to find out more about matchmaking, locations, and availability.

  It shouldn’t feel aspirational, but the people on the flyer look so … content? I thought companionship would be easy if you lived with someone, but recently I’ve found myself apologising to Tom for asking to spend time with him. It’s like I need permission to be his girlfriend.

  I fold it up and slide it into my back pocket.

  I wind my scarf around my neck and walk out of the surgery feeling oddly proud of myself, kind of like when you use a trolley to go food shopping for the first time. I’d done a grown-up thing! And I hadn’t cried! Yes, the doctor may have referred to the scraping of cells as ‘a bit like caving’. Yes, I may have shouted the word ‘vagina’ to my boss, but I have achieved something today!

  I stand outside the surgery, take my phone out, and flip the camera round. I grin and point to the sign above the d
oor, adding a spattering of ‘thumbs up’ emojis around my face along with the caption:

  I had a smear test and it wasn’t horrendous!

  I send it off to Maggie. Within seconds she’s pinged one back, her face grimacing in front of a plywood stage.

  Well done Supergirl! I’m auditioning Year Two for the Easter musical. All trying very hard but tone deaf. Only one recorder so far! Bless them!

  Oh, Maggie. She has oodles of patience and an unrelenting ability to see the best in everyone, even screechy children. At university, she had the reputation for being the ‘mum’ of our group, so naturally she’s fallen into teaching. Whilst we all took advantage of five-for-£10 sambuca deals at the bar, she’d happily nurse a single pint of snakebite and she’d always put us to bed with a glass of water and two paracetamol laid out on the bedside table. She lives over in Richmond and I wish I saw her more, but she’s busy and I pretend to be. When she does moan, it’s about middle-class mums who linger at the school gates to discuss Japanese counting methods or trampolining club. She says I can call her whenever I like, and she does really mean it, but I know I’ll only have her for ten minutes before she has to get back to marking, or the vital stage of a complicated Ottolenghi recipe. I sound quite bitter. I am, I guess. She’s always known what she wants to do and she’s even been putting money into some sort of ISA that’s designed to help you build up a house deposit, which is an alien concept to me.

  Whereas Maggie went straight into teacher training after school, I spent a few years waitressing at a pizza restaurant, gained ten pounds (a calzone for dinner five times a week will do that) and did the odd bit of admin temping until I applied for an internship at Lovr. I’ll admit it: I was seduced by the idea of legitimately working from a beanbag, a Cilla Black for the new age, pinging off witty tweets between coffees (made by the in-house barista, of course).

  I inflated my experience; they gradually deflated my hopes of a decent wage, and nine months down the line I’ve barely anything to show for it.

  ***

  As a birthday treat, I buy myself a meatball marinara sub and clutch it like a baby on the tube platform. The train arrives and I sit down, carefully pulling away the wrapper, at which point the train lurches and a fat meatball plops onto my lap. I pick it up and put it straight in my mouth. I’d be mad not to. This thing cost me £4.

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and scrunch the soggy wrapper into a ball, licking each finger clean before I pull out the flyer I kept from the surgery. I smooth it out on my leg to study in closer detail. The old lady pictured is buttoned up in a lilac cardigan and next to her a woman with pastel hair and a nose ring holds a plate of bourbons between them. It reminds me of the battered biscuit tin my nan kept in a cupboard of her little council house. My chest aches a little at the thought.

  I read over the flyer again: ‘Live-in companions wanted in London.’ This might, might, just be my last resort, if Tom’s still weird about breaking the lease early. Sigh. If it’s only for a few months before we can find somewhere new together, what have I got to lose?

  Chapter 5

  I leave the station as one of a sullen mass, jostling our way onto the streets of East London, until the crowd spreads and splinters down side streets and into glass-fronted buildings. The smell of sweet, fried dough from a churros stand mingles with the remnants of last night’s gnawed chicken bones, which are scattered around Shoreditch’s ‘Silicon roundabout’ – the grubby cousin of California’s ‘Silicon Valley’. They might have palm trees and curated gardens, but we have a hot yoga studio inside a shipping container and baristas who sigh when you ask for cow’s milk.

  I pull out my phone. Am I completely mad? Is this a decision that will frame my quarter-life crisis? I could just get a fringe, or start going to CrossFit classes and then humblebrag about how enriched my new life is all over social media. I hover over the green ‘dial’ button on my phone and press it before I can convince myself that prostitution is also a feasible option.

  It’s ringing. They’ll hear my desperation on the phone, won’t they? From the list of companion credentials, the only bullet point I can mentally tick off is ‘friendly’, but beyond that I’m not sure what I could offer a pensioner. If a burglar tries to break in, I’m hardly going to stop them from nicking anything; I’m about as intimidating as Eddie Redmayne in an arm wrestle. I’ll hang up. Mum and Dad were right. I’m not cut out for London. Maybe if I moved back to Hereford for a bit and took up that job at the garden centre with Auntie Rena and—

  ‘Hello, this is ElderCare, Alina speaking, how can I help you?’

  ‘Um, hi there.’ My stomach lurches. ‘I’ve seen a flyer for your home-share scheme and I wondered if you might, by any chance, still have a need for a companion? You’ve probably got everyone you need, but if—’

  ‘No, no, no, we’re far from full! Thank you so much for calling! What’s your name?’ I tell her, along with how old I am and how long I’ve lived in London, leaving out any details about this companion gig being a very likely temporary situation.

  ‘So, let me give you the rundown about how the scheme works.’

  ‘Sure.’ She sounds so chipper. I wonder, how many people have actually rung through about it?

  ‘We’re a charity who work within a number of residential villages for the elderly, as well as older people who want to continue living at home, but for whatever reason are struggling to retain the same level of independence they had in their younger years.’

  Oh God, please don’t say it’s wiping bums, please don’t say it’s wiping bums …

  ‘They’re not at the stage where they need a full-time carer, but what they often have in common is a sense of isolation. They might only have the TV for company, not have the confidence to leave the house, or cook proper meals for themselves, because it can be depressing eating dinner alone, right?’

  It sounds like she’s describing me. All the evenings I’ve reheated pasta with a heap of grated cheddar on top, only to eat in bed with RuPaul’s Drag Race for company. ‘Yeah, I can imagine that’s horrible,’ I say.

  ‘So, we’ve established a mutually beneficial arrangement: our companions move into a spare room in the home of one of our gorgeous older people, rent-free, and keep an eye on them. They do small things that make a big difference, like going for a walk, cooking a meal together, getting books out of the library, making sure they don’t rob any banks …’ Alina starts laughing and I join in, now within sight of the office.

  ‘Honestly though, it isn’t too much responsibility. I always say that it’s like living with your grandma, without the uncalled-for observations about weight gain, or how her other grandchildren visit more than you.’ She laughs again and the sound makes me smile.

  This might be the longest conversation I’ve had with a stranger for … weeks? Maybe she’s being too nice. Like she’s trying not to put me off because volunteers are thin on the ground. She needn’t bother, because if Tom doesn’t want to live with me right now, it’s not like I’ve got any other options.

  ‘Elissa?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m here. What was that?’

  ‘I said I’m sending over an application form with all the nitty gritty details in it. Try to be as detailed as possible in the longer answers, because if it turns out that you’re eligible, we use that information to match you with one of our lovely older residents who we’re sure you’ll get on with, okay?’

  ‘Okay, sounds great!’ I say.

  ‘Speak soon, Elissa!’

  I hang up and stand there for a moment, looking up at The Butcher Works, a building I recognise as Georgian from countless Sunday mornings spent watching Jane Austen adaptations whilst nursing a hungover with Maggie. You wouldn’t be able to tell from the inside, what with all the exposed pipes, polished concrete, and surplus of bean bags.

  There could be loads of benefits to moving in with an elderly person, right? I like talking to old people. I feel a bit weepy when I see an elderly man at
the bus stop, especially if he’s got medals pinned to his chest, although you hardly see them nowadays. I used to love staying at my nanny’s house, too. We’d have a dinner I’d never think to cook myself, something like minced beef pie with cabbage and watery gravy. Then again, knowing my luck I’ll match with an old pervert who worked in advertising fifty years ago when it was normal to sexually harass your secretary.

  ***

  Even though Mitchell bangs on about how the ‘hot desk’ system was designed for ‘self-motivated, free-flow work cycles’, everyone ends up in the same spot each day. Rhea spends the morning at the ‘walking desk’ (essentially a slow treadmill with a laptop stand), Jonathon is nearest the kitchen (makes a lot of tea to avoid work), Bismah is next to the radiator (always cold), Adam faces the door (to monitor the attractiveness of incomers), Rodney’s tucked round the corner (sometimes I don’t notice he’s there until the afternoon), and I sit in the middle at an angle (so no one can see my screen and question why I watch so many videos of hamsters eating tiny versions of regular dinners).

  I’ve managed to slip in without talking to anyone. After a lunch that lasts the best part of two hours, Jonathon walks in flanked by a guffawing gang of tech guys, one of whom sways on the spot, having reacted badly to Jonathon’s day drinking. I can’t hear exactly what he’s saying because I’m watching a TED talk about human altruism in an effort to look busy, but it’s clearly hilarious because his little group of cronies laugh and shake their heads. I pull one of my earphones out just in case I overhear something I can add to my secret list of ‘Reasons Why I Hate Jonathon’.

  ‘And then one of you dickheads spilt a White Russian all over the ping pong table. How much did you pay for that again? £15? What a mug!’ Adam, who for unknown reasons was invited to Jonathon’s lunchtime schmoozing – possibly to help legitimise the £500 bill – smiles and shrugs awkwardly.