by Abigail Mann
‘Jesus Christ! You sound like George when he’s brought home the wrong butter for Margaret. You going out and being two sheets to the wind is hardly a crime and it’s got nowt to do with me. You’re young, but you are a bugger for talking about yourself like you’ve just turned eighty-six, not twenty-six. If I wanted to have some prim and proper yuppie come live here, I wouldn’t have chosen you. D’you know what?’ Annie continues, holding her cup of tea with two hands. ‘Yesterday I heard someone on the radio talking about Tinder and I knew what they were going on about. You help keep me in the loop and I haven’t felt like that for a while, so you can stop this pity party, all right?’ She pulls her chin into her chest and raises her eyebrows at me until I nod in agreement.
‘I take it this Freddie bloke wasn’t much to write home about?’
‘Oh, no. Definitely not. He doesn’t exist. Or, he does, but he doesn’t. He basically dropped off the face of the earth just before we were due to meet and has become untraceable.’ I stop short of telling Annie about my most recent theory: that he was covertly working for MI6 and got called away on a secret mission moments before getting to the pub. It’s definitely too pathetic to say aloud.
‘So, er … when was the last time you spoke to Richard?’ I say, trying to act casual by blowing on my toast to cool it down, like that’s a normal thing to do.
‘Not since the last grandchild was born. His wife sent me an email with some pictures in, but I didn’t see it for months and months. I couldn’t remember my chuffing password. I found it when I had to register for some council thing, written into the back of an old address book. I did send an email back, but I’m not sure it got there.’
‘You might have typed in the email address wrong.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Have you tried video calling? My parents aren’t great with technology, but we do chat occasionally when they’re on a stopover in the Bay of Biscay.’ I think back to the last time I called. Mum said I could go back to Hereford for Easter if I ‘needed a break from London’, but that would be giving in and I can’t do that.
Annie starts wiping down the kitchen counters, her back turned towards me. ‘I know what you’re saying, love. But Richard has made it quite clear that he’s got his life out there in Australia and he doesn’t want me in it. I’m not in the business of causing any more pain than I have already.’
‘But … your grandchildren. I’m sure they’d love to get to know you.’
‘They’ve got a grandma,’ Annie says abruptly, clutching the edges of the countertop, ‘and a grandpa. Just next door. They’re not wanting.’ I swallow the last of my toast in one stodgy lump and feel it shifting down my throat uncomfortably. ‘What did you say George wanted you for, the other day?’ Annie says, changing the subject.
‘Oh, he wants to secretly buy some tulips for Margaret, so I said I’d help him find some online. But she might be roasting their yappy dog for dinner as punishment for him digging up the bulbs in the first place.’
Annie giggles and bites her lips, looking towards the open garden doors as though expecting Margaret to be earwigging over the fence. ‘She always been mardy, that woman. They’ve been in Evergreen longer than I have. I’ve only been inside theirs once, when we first got here. You wouldn’t believe it, but she makes the most exquisite cakes. The Bakewell tart we had! I’ve had nowt like it since. What a mean cow, eh? Keeping a skill like that to yourself.’ Annie hangs the dishcloth over the tap and shuffles over to the back door, where the late May sunshine casts dancing shadows on the tiles.
‘But George has always been nice, hasn’t he?’ I ask, pushing a knuckle into my temple.
‘Oh, yeah. We get on. He done a lot for me, back when we first moved down here. And he’s never asked for nowt off of me, even though he could have, a hundred times over.’ Annie scratches underneath the strap of her watch and winces a little as she shuffles in her chair.
‘You don’t seem to speak much nowadays.’
‘Ah, we do,’ says Annie, pulling a dining chair out with a series of noisy jerks, nodding down to the newspapers haphazardly stacked on top of it. ‘See? Still swap the newspapers.’
‘Yeah, well, me and the guy behind the hot counter at Gregg’s are on first-name terms; doesn’t mean we’re mates,’ I say, running my tongue over my furry teeth.
Annie twists her lips into a tight pucker and narrows her eyes. ‘Feeling bold this morning?’ she says, the hint of a smile playing in the corner of her mouth. I stick my tongue out. Annie does the same back. ‘I know what you’re saying, pet. George is a good egg. It was hard coming down here, giving up my studies. I wanted to do a master’s, but by then we thought a baby might be on the way, and … well, there were eventually, but it wasn’t easy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ah, you know. I was on my own a lot. For quite a while. That does something to you, burrows itself somewhere in your chest. For me, anyway, it weren’t just when I was rolling about here like a tin can in a car boot. Arthur was often … disappointed in me. Frustrated when I didn’t laugh at his colleagues’ jokes about Renaissance carpenters. He’d give me the silent treatment when I didn’t have his favourite cut of meat for dinner. So, I weren’t just alone when I was alone. I did something that made it worse. He never let me forget that. He died such a long time ago – must be over twenty years now – that I’ve got used to it again. Being stuck in my own head.’
Standing at the sink, Annie smacks the bottom of a Fairy bottle to release a goop of washing liquid. ‘You’re making it harder, though. To keep everything up here,’ she says, motioning to her forehead. I smile, which turns into a grimace as I swallow another gulp of Berocca, the inside of the glass slick with an oily tide mark from where the bubbles have fizzled out.
‘But there’s Gloria too, isn’t there? The one from yoga?’
‘I’m surprised you remember her; you were barely conscious,’ says Annie, pulling the tea towel through a cupboard handle.
‘Ha. Well, her trousers were hard to forget.’
‘Hmm, so is she, and not for a good reason. She’s one of those people who asks you a question just so she can answer it herself. It’s all “Oh, you going anywhere nice during summer? Oh, well, my daughter is taking me to Guernsey for a week. Isn’t she good?” It’s like, all right, Gloria, calm down.’
‘Did you just say “like”, Annie? You’re starting to sound like me.’
‘Perhaps I am. Not quite as cynical, though.’
Annie shuffles into the hallway, where I can hear her sifting through coats and jackets.
‘I’m not cynical.’
‘Well, might I remind you about the other week, when I asked if you wanted to invite that nice Maggie around for dinner?’
‘Mmm.’
Annie comes back, one hand on her hip, the other at her brow. ‘You said she was busy before you’d even asked her.’
‘Yeah, well, she would have been.’
‘Mmm,’ replies Annie, mimicking my tone of voice. I put my glass in the sink and stand in the doorway to the pantry, scanning the shelves to look for something beige and stodgy I can take back to bed with me.
‘If your laptop has been playing up, why don’t I have a look at it? We won’t have to keep relying on the Scrabble book when you’re trying to pull a triple word on me again. It’s all online.’
‘Only if you can’t think of anything more interesting to do today.’
‘I can’t, honestly.’
‘Knock yourself out.’
Chapter 27
When you’re a kid, Sunday afternoons are for lying on a blanket in the garden as your hair, damp from swimming lessons, turns crispy in the sunshine. Later, they’re for sitting through family roasts, trying to keep down oily potatoes as the remnants of alcopops and cheesy chips sit high in your stomach. It’s packing up leftovers for Monday’s lunch, playing cards with your nan, and painting toenails whilst watching reruns of Friends. Up until I left university, Sunday afternoons
were sacred. Nowadays, the hours I spend alone on a Sunday feel crushingly lonely, even though Annie’s in the same house. With Tom, if we binge-watched Swedish detective series all day, we were doing it together. Surely, I’ve got fewer reasons to feel so needy now? Dinner with Annie and watching True Crime has become a routine of beautiful familiarity, but there are pockets of time where I feel like a passenger in someone else’s life and it prickles in the centre of my chest. On Sunday afternoons it hurts the most.
They’re not for rearranging your underwear drawer whilst sinking into a spiral of despair about what the following week will bring, which is the exact task I abandon before meeting Maggie on the South Bank, just as every tourist in London decides to swarm the banks of the Thames.
‘They say they don’t do reservations, but every single place is full! Where’s the democracy in that? We don’t all have time to queue for sushi.’
‘I know,’ I reply unenthusiastically. I’m quite relieved we couldn’t find anywhere to get a late lunch; my debit card bounced when I went to buy a Rubicon from the corner shop and the ten-pound note sitting loose in the bottom of my tote bag has got to last me until Tuesday when my expenses get paid. Instead, we go to a little supermarket where I buy the last soggy wraps on the shelf along with a huge bag of salt and vinegar crisps; much more within budget.
Maggie leaves half of her wrap, limp lettuce hanging out of the end, and licks the salt off her fingers, waggling her foot to shoo away brazen pigeons.
‘I’ve got to tell you about Annie. But before I do, you have to promise to reserve judgement until I’ve told you the whole grand plan.’ I wiggle my eyebrows to build anticipation, but Maggie doesn’t seem hugely interested. Whilst I tell her about ‘H’’s letters and the mystery of why Annie’s son won’t speak to her, Maggie’s eyes wander down to where the Thames laps at a tiny strip of exposed sand, a.k.a The Saddest Beach in the World. Just as I tentatively reveal what I did before I left the house to come here, Maggie pops up like a meerkat.
‘Is anyone supervising those children?’ she says, craning her neck over the iron balustrade.
‘Yeah, like, their parents or something,’ I reply.
‘There could be all sorts down there. Dirty needles, for one.’ She tucks a leg underneath herself to raise her eye level higher. ‘Sorry, did you just say you hacked into Annie’s emails?’
‘Well, yes and no. I have gone into Annie’s emails, but only because she told me to reset her password. Beyond confirmation emails for council tax and pensions, there’s nothing in there even remotely interesting. I just pinched an email address – that’s all!’
‘Elissa! You can’t do that!’
‘Well, hear me out. I’ve got a plan.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure I should listen,’ she says, covering her ears with her hands. I pull her arms down and laugh.
‘Come on, I swear it’s not that bad. You know I told you that Annie has a son in Australia who won’t speak to her and she won’t say why?’
‘Yes …’
‘Well, I think I might know something about it. And they’re both so stubborn that all it’ll take is a little bit of coaxing and they could have some sort of relationship again. It’s such a shame, Maggie. She’s got two grandchildren she’s never seen and no one here in London, except me, but I’m a stopgap, aren’t I?’
Maggie purses her lips and re-crosses her legs. ‘So you’re going to impersonate her?’
‘Oh my God, no! I’ve emailed him from me – my account – just letting him know how we’re getting on, what happened with the fall, that she’d mentioned the grandchildren … nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Hmm, I don’t know … Don’t you think you’re going behind her back? I know you want to be helpful, but you have to think about why it is she avoids the subject, and what wounds you might be reopening by doing this. I’m not saying that you’re doing a bad thing, but … just be aware of the consequences, you know?’
‘I know, I know …’ I say, squeezing her leg when I notice a tinge of stroppiness enter my voice.
‘Something to think about, that’s all. It’s really nice that you want to make Annie happy. Truly, I haven’t seen you this … settled in a long time. But you’ve had a lot on your plate recently. Everything that’s happened with Tom, and then this campaign at work … Do you think it might be good to focus on that instead? Last time we spoke you seemed really enthusiastic about the relaunch. And I thought you moving in with Annie was a great solution to the whole flat situation, but that’s not the ultimate goal, is it? Maybe it’d be a good idea to redirect some of that focus. You never know, you could impress work so much they’ll think, “Yes! She does deserve a permanent contract!”, and that’ll be one less thing to worry about.’ I have a slouch and I’m sulking, but she’s sort of right. I close my eyes and sigh. ‘Oh, pickle, I don’t mean to sound negative. It’s just … I know how hard you’ve been working at that place and I want you to get what you deserve.’
‘But that’s the thing, Mags. I don’t deserve it. I’ve fucked up everything I’ve done at work in the last few weeks. I lose followers on Twitter more quickly than I gain them, and I can’t even go on a date without making a mess of it. I’m making a difference to … no one.’
‘That’s not true,’ Maggie says, using the teacher voice she subconsciously switches into for consoling and counselling.
‘It is. I’m not looking for sympathy, Maggie. It’s just a fact. I’ve been playing it safe for such a long time, and not just at work. Where has it got me? Annie’s eighty-three and she’s put herself in second place her whole life and she might seem okay, but she’s fucking lonely. She’s the one who deserves more. I want to do this for her.’ I take out the clasp holding my hair back, ruffle my fingers through the roots, and roughly twist it into a tight bun, looking out to where the sun is refracting on the Thames like it’s a broken mirror.
‘Is it for her?’ says Maggie.
‘Well, I’m hardly trying to reconcile Annie and her son so I can put it on my CV. “Wonderful with geriatrics, especially in conflict negotiations regarding historical misunderstandings”.’
Maggie taps my knee with her knuckles. ‘Oi, you know what I mean.’ I don’t know what she means, but I agree anyway. ‘So, how many dates do you still have to go on?’
‘One.’ I pull a face and kick the toe of my sandals against the pavement. ‘Although it was meant to be more. I was supposed to be organising some of my own, but I’m only allowed to pick from the guys who’ve pre-emptively agreed to have their pictures used on the site. That explains a lot, actually.’
‘Sheesh, poor you.’
I pull Maggie to her feet and hook my arm through hers, figuring that Annie will be ready for dinner if I start heading back to Evergreen Village now. Before we reach the escalators inside Waterloo station, I stop Maggie next to an offensively lit advertising board featuring a model whose face ratio is 90 per cent cheekbones to 10 per cent eyebrow pencil.
‘I might need your help with something in a few weeks. Unusually for me, I’ve come up with a plan – of sorts – for when this butchered campaign goes tits up. I’m not sure if I can pull it off, though.’
Maggie tucks us closer to the wall and glances up at the codex of train times on the departure boards behind me. ‘Of course. It’s so nice how much we’ve seen each other recently.’ She pauses and hoicks her satchel up onto her shoulder. ‘We’ve been drifting in different circles for a bit, haven’t we? I suppose it’s the teaching and being stuck in the London bubble – for both of us.’ I can’t think of what to say, so I pull her into another hug and we stand there for a moment, swaying, letting the city move around us. ‘I’d love to help,’ she continues. ‘I haven’t seen you this determined since we had that trifle-eating contest in first year of uni.’ We break apart and laugh.
‘Well, you know what they say: God loves a trier. And look, if nothing comes from emailing Annie’s son, at least I tried. I can cope with a rejection, bu
t she’s obviously reached her limit, otherwise she’d still be trying to reconcile. If Richard still won’t talk to her, she never needs to find out.’
‘I hope for her sake that’s not true.’
Chapter 28
I’ve managed to save money this week by cooking at home with Annie, eating leftovers, and spending the evenings playing Scrabble rather than loitering around for a pint with Suki in the sunshine. As a result, my vocabulary has seen a drastic improvement. I used the word ‘disambiguation’ in conversation with Adam earlier, even though it was out of context. He was satisfyingly perplexed.
Despite it being the most illogical of all office management systems, Rodney sends us our productivity reports on Thursday afternoons, but Mitchell isn’t included in the email chain and so any sense of accountability is well and truly lost. Against all the odds, my productivity is up by 37 per cent, putting me at the top of Lovr’s leader board. As a reward for my focus this week, I use my last hour of work to have an online browse for a spring jacket, the Goldilocks of coats, if you will. It’s that time of year when you wake up with cold cheeks, but find that you have to peel off tights in the toilets by 2 p.m. In the last fortnight I’ve lost two jumpers to the pavements of Shoreditch as they’ve slipped from the handles of my rucksack, and one of them was the perfect shade of mustard. I can’t go through the trauma again.
Everyone is blissfully quiet in the workspace today. Rhea and Mitchell are up in Manchester at a conference (how Mitchell is still invited to speak on panels about ‘Leadership in App-Based Business’ is a mystery), and everyone else has got their heads down on building, trialling, and networking for the new launch in a few weeks, despite none of us being clear on what it is we’re actually relaunching.
The problem I’d anticipated in blogging about my date with Freddie had been solved with the same method my old landlord employed: use fake images and be vague about the details. Adam found me a copyright-free photograph from the internet and edited the bloke in the picture onto an innocuous brick wall background. I had to ask him to tone down his white teeth too; no Londoner would believe he maintained such high standards of dental hygiene. Underneath, I’d constructed a false timeline of events, which ranged from ‘Freddie’ paying for a rickshaw to the gallery (as if you’d spot one of those in Mayfair) to his admirable sense of charity when bidding for a series of pieces done by the children of China’s rural mountain communities (he has a penchant for silkscreen prints, apparently). By the time I’d finished, I’d turned the fictional Freddie into a fairly pretentious caricature – a modest revenge for a man who at the very least deserves a swift knee to the bollocks.