by Abigail Mann
I open my phone and ping a message to Maggie, copying the same text to Suki even though there’s a very slim chance either will be free tonight. I should have made plans knowing Tom was away, but I think part of me left it late on purpose. At least if I’m stuck on my own, it’ll be down to bad organisation. The thought of being cancelled at the last minute for a better Friday-night offering is too much.
When did it get so hard to socialise? When did I have to start bargaining with myself to make plans? If you go and have a coffee with that snooty girl from your last job, you can read in a café by yourself for two hours afterwards. If neither Maggie nor Suki messages me back, I’ll buy a bottle of wine on the way home and have a bath, even though there’s a strong chance that it’ll need a deep clean before I can possibly put my bare arse in it.
I hoick my tote bag up onto my shoulders and pick up my phone as it pings. It’s a voice note from Suki:
‘Yo, birthday bitch! Sorry I can’t come out tonight. I’ve got a ceramics workshop. Forgot I booked it for my ex, didn’t I? Long story short, Jazz now thinks I’m into romantic surprises, so might have shot myself in the foot, there. Snatch night tomorrow, though! Ah, that reminds me. A mate of mine is a curator at a gallery in Mayfair and there’s a charity art auction in a few weeks’ time if you fancied coming along. It’ll be packed to the rafters full of tossers, but free booze, right? Let me know. See you soon, bud!’
I smile and play it again, listening to her shoes scuff the street amongst the guffaws of City boys who drift in swathes to Shoreditch for Friday drinks, having only worked two hours either side of lunch. The sound of Suki’s voice drowns out as Pamela, the cleaner, starts dragging a Henry hoover across the floor. Why is it that his creepy cartoon eyes always look slightly … mocking?
***
When I get to our flat, I hear the rumbling bass of a bloke talking and the distant chatter of a crowd. I tentatively push the door open to our kitchen-cum-dining-cum-living room as a swell of cheering swiftly merges into an incomprehensible football chant. Yaz jumps in front of the screen, which replays a goal I presume he just scored on a video game, and is about to pull his T-shirt over his head when he spots me.
‘Oh, hey, Els!’ he says somewhat sheepishly. The leather sofa creaks as his mates turn to look at me too. He pulls his shirt back down and makes finger guns with his hands. ‘I got you a birthday present!’
He did? I didn’t even know Yaz knew when my birthday was. He scoots past me to the fridge and pulls open the door. A sausage roll sits insipidly on a plate with a single candle stuck in the top. Sweet, really. I know we might not have exchanged much in the way of heartfelt discussions, but if there’s one thing I haven’t kept secret it’s my love of ‘so-cheap-it-can’t-be-real’ meat wrapped in flaky pastry. ‘Oh thanks, you shouldn’t have!’ I say, feeling a tad embarrassed as his mates, exclusively wearing a combination of white shirts and ‘nice jeans’, start a rowdy version of ‘Happy Birthday’, with added fist pumps. Yaz scrabbles around in his back pocket and pulls out a lighter. I give it a second or two before I blow it out again and smile meekly.
‘Look, Tom’s checked in with me about everything that’s gone on between yous two.’
This completely throws me. I think about what ‘goings on’ Tom could possibly have informed Yaz about, because as far as I’m aware, we completely failed to talk about the impending reality of my being homeless before he buggered off to Vegas for a long weekend.
‘Mmmm,’ I reply, deciding to play it cool until I’ve got a single fucking clue what he’s talking about.
‘Yeah, so like, I wanted to let you know that you don’t need to worry about finding someone to take the room, yeah? Tom mentioned that he was gonna let you find a replacement so we don’t have to get the estate agent involved – save on those fees – you know what I’m saying?’ Yaz thumps my shoulder and grins conspiratorially. It takes me a little while to process what he’s said. If Tom isn’t planning on staying, which is news to me, why would he expect me to advertise our room, all whilst figuring out how to avoid living behind the trolley stand at Sainsbury’s? That total, total shit! He’s the one who was funny about terminating the rental agreement early.
‘Right! Totally!’ I say. I must look psychotic, because Yaz looks a little scared.
‘My mate Lance is looking for a place and he can move in as soon as you’re ready.’ A guy with a neat haircut salutes me from a beanbag on the floor. His aftershave is so strong I can practically taste it. ‘That’s him! So, we can keep it all between us, but just let me know when I can give him the green light, okay?’
I look down at the sad-looking sausage roll and bite off a huge mouthful. The candle hangs from a soggy flap of pastry. ‘That’s great, Yaz,’ I say, spraying him with crumbly flakes of dough, ‘in fact, tell him next weekend is just perfect. Fuck, if he wants to come earlier, he can top and tail with me!’ Yaz squints, unsure if I’m having a laugh. ‘I’ve actually got something lined up, so tell him he can start bringing his stuff round.’ Yaz takes a small step away. Come on, Elissa, resume normal human interaction.
I swallow the wodge of beige mush and feel it slowly travel down my throat in an uncomfortable clod. This was a bad idea; I can barely breathe. ‘So, you all off somewhere exciting tonight?’ Yaz looks visibly relieved.
‘Yeah, we’re heading to a bierkeller near Borough. You know, two-litre pints, bratwurst, girls in Bavarian costumes …’
‘Ah, beer and boobs, I get you!’ I’m not sure I do get it, though. I’ve been to one of them before. It’s basically a load of blokes who ironically wear lederhosen, whereas the girls have tits pushed up to their chin and pin plaits across their forehead. ‘Have a good one,’ I say to Yaz, who vaults over the back of the sofa and picks up a video game controller.
‘You too,’ he says, giving me a thumbs-up without turning around.
I take a tumbler and head to my room with a bottle of red that I’d hidden behind a bag of lentils, in case of emergency.
***
A few hours later, I hazily sit up in bed and kick off the blanket that I seem to have swaddled myself in. The flat is mercifully quiet, so I pad down the hallway and flick the central heating onto ‘manual’, ignoring the sign next to it, which reads,
LEAVE THE HEATING ON TIMER OR WEAR A JUMPER!!!
Shamaya, who is luckily spending the weekend at her parents’, taped it up as soon as she moved in.
Back in my room, I plug my laptop in and slide under the covers. I clumsily stab at the play button and lunge at my half-drunk tumbler of wine as it slips off the bedside table. Ross Poldark (the greatest period drama hero of all time) is threshing a field topless and it requires my absolute attention. Does he need to be threshing topless? No. Is it a health and safety concern that he’s threshing topless? Yes. Do I know exactly what ‘threshing’ is? No, but that doesn’t matter. I take another swig of wine. It slips over my tongue like velvet, softening the edges of Captain Poldark’s sweaty abs, which are now stuck with bits of straw and muck.
The doorbell rings.
I groan and swing my legs out of bed, pull my hoodie straight, and stand up. Whooooosh. My vision twists and the wall shunts sideways as I scrabble for the door handle and squint down the hallway. The nice fuggy feeling of red wine I’d had in bed with Poldark (I like the way that sounds) now throbs above my temples. As I shuffle down the corridor, the intercom rings again and I knock the phone off the stand by accident, my hand feeling paw-like as I swipe at the cord. From the receiver I can hear a woman’s voice. Oh, standing is so hard. I solve this problem by sliding down the wall until I’m sat on the floor. The receiver swings in an arc near my head and I mentally congratulate myself for making the horribly difficult task of picking up the phone oodles easier.
‘Hello?!’ I shout at the dangling mouthpiece.
‘Elissa? Elissa, is that you?’
‘Yeah wodduwant?’ I slur back.
‘Elissa, buzz me in! It’s Maggie!’ A sharp bub
ble pinches my throat.
‘Mags?’
‘Come on, my love, buzz the door!’
‘Okay, Mags,’ I say in a quiet voice. I stretch and smack the wall above my head until I make contact with the buzzer. A light trundle of footsteps taps up the stairs a few seconds later. By the time she’s squatting down next to me, smelling of the cool outdoors and jasmine perfume, I’m sniffing and crying in long-drawn-out sobs. She encircles me with puffy sleeves from her duck-down jacket. I want to slide my legs out and fall asleep with my head nestled on her chest.
I’m not sure how long we stay there on the hallway floor. I can vaguely sense Maggie cooing at me in soft tones, her hand rhythmically stroking my hair, but it sounds distant, like her voice is playing through a muffled train speaker.
‘Come on then, up we go, one, two, three!’
She lifts me up to my feet and we stand there a while, swaying and hugging. It feels so nice. This is the first time I’ve been properly touched or held in weeks. Not in a sexy way, obviously. I feel as sexually appealing as Mr Bean, and Maggie is my oldest and most platonic friend. She gives off a very maternal, matronly vibe, which is something I did tell her once, but she didn’t take it very well. I meant it as a compliment.
‘Oh, you’re such a pickle, aren’t you?’ she asks me after making me drink a pint of water.
I nod at Maggie, my head a little less cloudy now.
She smiles at me sadly, her red hair falling in a feathered curtain as it slips from behind her ear. She tucks it back. ‘Come on, let’s get you into bed. And if you drink the rest of that water, I’ll bring through something nice for you.’ Maggie walks me to my bedroom, her thumb moving in little circles on the small of my back. I climb under the covers obediently.
‘How come you came here, Mags?’
‘Have you looked at your phone? I sent you so many messages! I was going to come over here and surprise you! I thought you might need a cheer-up. And I needed some adult company. Just after I texted you this morning, one of the girls in Year Two got the pre-audition jitters and turned into a vom-cano during a rousing performance of “This Is Me” from that circus film.’ She smiles through a grimace. ‘Els, it was awful. Her bonkers mum insisted on coming in at breaktime to rig up these aerobatic ribbon things,’ she gesticulates in front of her, ‘and then plied her with Skittles before shoving her on stage.’
‘Well, that’s one way of encouraging talent,’ I say.
‘It’s the “drama mums”, they’re worse than the “sports mums”. Although I suppose in their way they’re being encouraging and supportive. And they pay for the costumes,’ Maggie says with a guilty smile.
‘Sounds like child exploitation.’ Maggie side-eyes me. ‘What kind of show are you putting on? It all sounds a bit serious.’
‘It’s a musical version of King Lear,’ Maggie says, blinking erratically.
‘Is that appropriate for seven-year-olds?’
‘Not entirely, but I had to chair the PTA meeting and my idea of Hansel and Gretel set in a dystopian future got completely shot down. You’ll never believe this, Els …’ She shifts to face me and puts the plate down, looking mischievous.
‘What?’ I turn my head on the pillow towards her, a surge of affection tickling my ribcage. I don’t want to be around anyone else right now or talk about anything other than the deranged parents of her students. I hug her arm and put my head on her shoulder, smiling contently.
‘Giselle’s mum – she’s the self-appointed spokesperson – she actually said that the set design for a house made of biscuit could be triggering for some of the students with gluten intolerance.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Honestly! She did!’
‘I’ll come and watch it, Mags.’
She squeezes my hand. ‘Ah, thank you, peach. Anyway, that’s how Giselle ended up spraying us all with rainbow vomit. And that’s when I decided that I’d had enough of anyone under four feet tall, so I decided to come here and hang out with you.’
‘You’re too good.’ I put my head on her shoulder. ‘This reminds me of when we used to get in after a night out, except no one’s lost a shoe.’
‘It’s a bit early for that. We wouldn’t have left for the club yet.’
‘What?’ I scrabble for my phone and see that it is, indeed, 22.04. Messages from Maggie dominate my notifications, including a public tweet asking after my whereabouts. Best hide that before work on Monday. ‘Oh my God. I’m an embarrassment. I hope the next twenty-six years of my life aren’t as pathetic as this.’
‘Don’t say that! You’re doing great! You’re a big-shot Twitter person who gets all the gossip on dating and love! You’re pretty much a fairy godmother, except you have an algorithm rather than little mouse helpers!’ I smile sadly. She’s being so nice, I don’t have the heart to tell her how unlike my life that sounds.
In a haze of incomprehensible spluttering, I tell Maggie about Shamaya wanting me to move out, but leave out the part where Tom does absolutely nothing to comfort me. I’m not ready to talk about it.
‘If you want to get away for a bit, I’m sure Mum and Dad won’t mind if you come to ours for a few days,’ says Maggie.
‘Thanks, Maggie. Honestly, that means a lot.’ I take a deep breath and smooth the duvet cover over my legs. As nice as Maggie’s parents are, they’re very … hands-on. My family thought it was a terrible idea when I moved to London. Impractical gifting of beauty treatments aside, Mum’s favourite motto is ‘what you can’t do on your own isn’t worth doing’ and Dad’s is ‘happy wife, happy life’, so there you have it. I need to keep up the appearance of independence, at the very least.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I add. ‘I’m going to try and figure something out with Tom. Maybe have a look at some new house-shares for us.’ I look around at our unremarkable room and frown at a red-wine stain on the carpet that wasn’t there earlier. Maggie’s smile is a straight, thin line, and my heart hurts all over again.
Chapter 7
It’s still early when I wake up the next day. The universe is targeting every sense as a way to rouse me: the early Spring sunshine hits my eyes in a retina-scarring blast, my pyjamas stick to my back and legs, and a repetitive ringtone is trilling so loudly it’s like rusty spoons are scraping in my earhole.
Maggie, an annoyingly heavy sleeper, is lying comatose beside me, her forehead dewy. My temples feel like they’re clenched in a vice. Hangovers never felt like this before. What would my twenty-one-year-old self say if she could see me now? Eurgh. I can’t even have a sad, drunken night alone successfully.
I lean over Maggie, who turns away from me and pulls the cover up to her chin, despite the sauna-like temperature of the room. I guess I forgot to turn the heating off last night. Shamaya would go ballistic. I groggily pick up my phone and see that it’s a London number. To answer, or not to answer; that is the question (for anyone my age, so it seems).
I press the green button and clutch my forehead. ‘Hello?’ I croak. If this is an advert for PPI repayment, I swear I’m never answering my phone again.
‘Hello? Is that Elissa Evans?’ says a bright and offensively cheery voice.
‘Yep, Elissa, I am her, I mean yes, Elissa talking. I mean, Elissa speaking,’ I garble back at her. By now I’ve woken up Maggie, who blinks at me from under the cover with small, puffy eyes.
‘Sorry!’ I mouth at her.
‘It’s Alina from ElderCare. Sorry to call on a weekend! I’ve got the graveyard shift. How are you?’
‘Alina! Yes, I’m great, thanks!’ I lie. She must notice my voice, which sounds like Tom Waits if Tom Waits was into heavy metal and liked taking meth of an evening, because she says, ‘I haven’t woken you up, have I?’
‘Ha! Not at all! I was just making pancakes, actually!’ Maggie wiggles her eyebrows at me expectantly, and slowly pulls the duvet down from her face. I shake my head and shrug.
‘Okay, so I’ve got some great news. Are you ready?’ Oh God. Alina take
s my silence as an invitation. ‘We’ve found you a match!’
‘Er, a match?’ My stomach sinks. Have I signed up to some sort of geriatric dating service where homeless girls living in London can find a sugar granddaddy? I’m desperate, but not that desperate. Maggie sits up in bed. She’s clearly eavesdropping and looks increasingly confused.
‘Yes! A match! For the home share? I got your application yesterday and processed it straightaway. It really helped that you were so detailed. Usually I have to phone back and forth to get the right information before I’m happy to set up a meeting, but not this time! I don’t think I’ve had an applicant tell me about winning the “biggest sunflower award” in primary school before. Hahaha!’ Alina’s laugh is gutsy and loud. I feel myself wincing. ‘Just joking with you, sweetheart!’
In total, I spent the best part of four hours filling in the questionnaire, more out of boredom than anything else. I renamed it ‘social metrics for unique user engagement by location’; dry enough to stop Mitchell from snooping on me from his office.
‘I’ve had a lovely lady called Annie on my books for a little while now. We had her matched up recently, but it fell through – nothing to do with her, of course, just a slight issue involving her neighbour and a dog. You like dogs, Elissa?’
‘Um, sure! Dogs are great!’ I mean, dogs are dogs, aren’t they? I can’t say I’ve spent that much time around them, other than the occasional cockapoo at Brockwell Park.
‘Well, that’s great! I should add a “dog question” to the form … Hang on, I’m just writing myself a Post-it note …’ I can hear a scratching sound as Alina jots something down. ‘Right, what was I saying? Oh yes! Annie. She’s a lovely lady. Eighty-three years old. Widowed housewife. Lives in Hampstead – great part of London. Do you know it?’