by Abigail Mann
With half an hour until I’m legitimately allowed to leave, I head across to the lobby under the guise of checking for post in the locker room. Just as I input the door code, the handle clicks and swings open, bringing me within three inches of Rodney’s impassive face, half hidden behind a stack of padded envelopes.
‘You all right with all that, Rodney? Look, I’ll take some off you. I came to see if anything needed bringing through anyway.’
‘No, no. These are mine. I post them.’
‘Right, er … got lots of birthdays coming up?’
‘No,’ he says, blinking furiously.
‘Cool.’ I step to one side to let him through, but he moves with such a painstakingly slow tread I’m convinced moss will grow on him before he gets out the door.
‘If you want to get home on time you’re going to have to let me help you,’ I say, attempting to sound altruistic, but really concerned about not making it to the doughnut shack down the road for when they start discounting the day’s leftovers. Rodney narrows his eyes and contemplates me.
‘Okay. But you can’t tell anyone about this.’ I roll my eyes and take half of Rodney’s envelopes from the pile, balancing them on my hip.
‘Going by other discoveries from the past few weeks, this hardly registers on the scale of illicit affairs of the workplace. What are these, anyway?’
‘Computer parts.’
‘For …?’
‘I sell them. My mother sends me parts in bulk and I have additional agents for particular items she can’t source.’
‘Are you running a black-market operation?’ I say in a strained whisper as we cross the lobby.
‘No. All legal. Side hustle.’
‘But there must be … forty parcels here, Rodney.’
‘This is half of normal volume. Spring is always slow for business.’
‘Is it … profitable?’
‘It covers my rent.’
‘Christ, good going Rodney,’ I say, silently chastising myself for not being more naturally business-minded.
It takes us a good few minutes to shove them all in the postbox. When we’re done, Rodney wipes a sheen of marbled sweat from his forehead with an index finger. ‘Remember my appreciation for you not to speak of this. It is disloyal of me to use the store cupboard for personal use, as stated in the code of ethics. I appreciate your discretion.’ With that, he turns and quicksteps back into the building with arms pinned straight by his sides.
Back at my desk, I brush crumbs off the keyboard and wiggle the mouse to boot my screen back to life. I don’t know why Rodney thinks I’d be a stickler for company policy, because I’m pretty sure I flout it several times a day. Anyway, I’m hardly the worst offender. Mitchell and Rhea have a lot to answer for.
I log into my personal email account (another misdemeanour) and amongst the adverts for mid-season sales I spot a name that sends a jolt to my stomach. It’s Richard. The Richard. Richard-Who-Won’t-Speak-To-Annie-And-Is-Probably-A-Tosser Richard. My heart is pounding. Up until this point it hasn’t felt real, and right now I’m feeling more Emma Woodhouse than Nancy Drew. Shit. I bite my bottom lip and click through to his reply.
Elissa,
I’ve been sitting on this for a fair while now and must have rewritten the lot half a dozen times. To be honest, I thought this might have been some sort of scam, but I can’t see how you’d know the little details about my mother and the area I grew up in otherwise.
In truth, I have been thinking about her a lot, as much as I don’t care to admit it. Perhaps it’s something to do with fatherhood. Seeing two boys into the world has given me a whole lot to think about and I can’t help but reflect on my own Ma and Pa. I was quite happy to leave things be and move on, but like I said, becoming a father has given me a perspective I didn’t have before.
Now, I don’t mean to say that I was wrong to blame my mother for a lot of what happened. I gauge from the tone of your email that she hasn’t been forthcoming about it all. I feel bad for saying it, but it pleases me that she still feels guilty. I know I might sound like a prize-winning arsehole, but just because she’s older now it doesn’t mean she automatically has her slate wiped clean.
Jackie’s parents help out with Jackson and Codey (my sons) a lot. It’s great they’re so close. But at the same time a creeping sense of homesickness has set in that I can’t seem to shake.
I don’t know whether it’s hearing about Mum’s fall (I am glad she’s doing okay), but despite it all, I know that I couldn’t live with myself knowing that our stubbornness (it’s a shared trait, for sure) had stopped us from at least listening to each other, even if afterwards nothing changes.
My boys are 7 and 10. I work far too much. I’d like to take some annual leave at the end of the month and bring them over to England to see the dino fossils at the Natural History Museum, the Heath, and some of my old haunts from when I was a kid. It’d be a good opportunity to talk to Mum. I appreciate that you’ve taken the time to set her up with the internet and a mobile (I’ve been there with Jackie’s parents and it’s not a task I’d wish on anyone), but I think I’ve got to see her face-to-face. I said a lot to her before I left for Australia: a lot that I’m ashamed of and some that I’m not. That said, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her I was coming. We can talk about the logistics of it all closer to the time, but for now I’ll just leave you with my thanks.
She won’t think it, but there’s barely a day that goes by where I don’t think of her or Pa. Thank you for reaching out and thanks for keeping an eye on her.
Richard.
Oh my God. I’m not sure what outcome I was expecting, but this definitely wasn’t it. At most I thought Richard would give her a call and maybe a birthday card from now on, but a visit? Christ. I’m in over my head here. Although there’s a tiny self-indulgent voice at the back of my brain that really wants to know what went wrong between them. I scroll back and read it over again. No, this is definitely a good thing. Annie’s actually going to meet her grandsons! Who wouldn’t be thrilled about that? Annie makes the best lemon drizzle cake and can whack out a batch of jam tarts like no one’s business; that’s the only credential you need to be a good grandma.
The dull sound of ceramic on wood brings me back into the room. Bismah stands in front of me with both hands wrapped around a cup of tea.
‘You look miles away,’ she says, blowing on her mug. It’s really sweet that she’s made me a drink (it never usually happens), but it also means that I’ve got to stay for at least another twenty minutes because I can’t drink tea until it’s lukewarm, and for that I’m resentful.
‘Oh, tomorrow I’m not in. If Mitchell asks, can you say I looked a bit peaky this afternoon?’ Ah, this is why I got a tea. ‘I’ve got an interview. I know I’m meant to have told him, but I honestly couldn’t face the hassle of him throwing a strop and going off on one. I’m not expecting to get it or anything – just a precaution, yeah?’
‘Yeah, yeah, of course,’ I say.
Bloody hell, Bismah has a legitimate sounding Plan B, Rodney has been working on his hardware empire since he started, and it seems highly likely that Adam is silently cracking on with his CV knowing Mitchell is out of the office. This must be what all the podcasts talk about when they go on about having ‘alternate income streams’ ready. It hasn’t crossed my mind at all.
I rest my chin on my hands and look around the workspace. At a guess I’d say that everyone else is giving zero fucks about the future of Lovr and I can hardly blame them for that. I can’t afford to sit around and hope for the best. Not any more.
***
That evening I get back to Hampstead amongst a crowd of Londoners half drunk on the false promise of an early summer. Young professionals sip prosecco from plastic cups with suit jackets slung over forearms, the sunshine deliciously warm on bare skin.
I head up the hill to Evergreen Village using slow, lolloping strides, lingering beneath a tunnel of trees, now devoid of blossom, but pr
icked with waxy leaves. Its ring of Gothic-style houses looks strangely austere in the face of such joyful sunshine. As I near Annie’s house I’m reminded of the impending arrival of Richard-Who-Actually-Seems-Quite-Nice and my stomach twists unpleasantly. Before my fingers find the gate latch, George trundles up the path that runs alongside his house and raises a hand to slow me down.
‘Glad I caught you. Golly!’ He wheezes and takes out a white handkerchief to dab his forehead. ‘I am terrible for getting puffed out these days. Margaret has said I must exercise restraint when it comes to Scotch eggs, but I’m far too old to turn down the simple pleasures of life.’ He chuckles and twists the ends of his moustache. ‘I have much to thank you for, Elissa, and a little to be cross about.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘The tulips.’
‘Haven’t they turned up?’
‘Oh, no, no. Boy, did they turn up! One small issue … You were so kind as to set me up with an account and then, of course, you found a grower in Holland on the Amazon – not the river – I realise that now. But when a nice Polish chap asked me to sign for the delivery, I was a tad confused at the size of the box. Now, I don’t know how it happened. I did everything you told me to. I had your instructions written down right in front of me, but, alas.’ George turns to walk back down the alleyway and beckons for me to follow. When we step out into the garden, I blink at the riot of colour that pops up out of every tub, border, and hanging basket either side of a neat gravel path. Inside, Aurelius sits with his nose pressed up against the back door, his back legs spread out behind him like a trussed turkey.
‘Crikey. You’ve gone to town, George!’
‘Well, this is my predicament, you see. I only intended to buy ten plants, but I mustn’t have been wearing my varifocals when I was ordering, because 100 arrived. You see the lilac-fringed tulips over there?’ He points to an old wheelbarrow likewise filled with flowers. ‘They included twenty of those as thanks for my custom! I’ve barely sat down since they arrived. The ol’ knees are shot to bits.’
‘And Margaret is happy?’ I ask, looking at the grid-like planting method George has employed along the borders before he clearly got a little frantic and started shoving them anywhere, including into welly boots and an old colander.
‘She’s thrilled. Doris over at number 11 can see them from her bathroom and brought the ladies from Bridge Club over to have a look. Astonishing, really –’ George lowers his voice, glancing at the upstairs windows ‘– seeing as they haven’t spoken since 1998. A misunderstanding over some rat poison and an elderly cat. Nasty business. But it’s all forgiven now,’ he says, chuckling. ‘The only thing is, I’ve had five calls from other folks asking me to set them up on-the-line. I’m really at the edge of my capabilities, Elissa. We’ll run Amsterdam out of tulips if I make this mistake again.’ He gestures to the garden and steers me back down the alley. ‘So, if you were open to the idea – and you really mustn’t feel obliged to take it on – I was wondering if you might host a little “surgery”. Bring some of the old folk up-to-date. What do you say?’
I put my hand on Annie’s garden wall and tap the front of my teeth. This is perfect.
‘I think I can do one better than that,’ I say. ‘No, I can. I can definitely do one better than that. Do you reckon I could have the phone numbers of all those people you mentioned?’
Chapter 29
‘You’re in a bright mood,’ says Annie, hooking her gardening fleece on the back of the pantry door.
‘Do you know what? I am.’ I put my bag on the floor and lean against the washing machine as it spins noisily and jiggles my bum.
‘Praise the Lord, it were bound to happen soon enough,’ she says with a wink. ‘Something good happen at work?’
‘Oh God, no. Work is still horrendous, but there’s a sense of calm, like when that string quartet start up as the Titanic is sinking, even though people are jumping overboard and getting hit by its giant propeller.’ I unzip my rucksack and slide some groceries onto the kitchen counter. Kidney beans, tomatoes, jacket potatoes, and a bag of spinach that we’ll inevitably only use half of before it turns soggy and brown. ‘You’re looking bright today yourself. Did the doctor come round?’
‘Yes. He’s very happy with how “the recovery” is going,’ Annie says, making bunny quotes with her fingers in faux exaggeration. ‘I’ve got the final all-clear for concussion, so anything I forget from now on is just me going senile.’ She chuckles and stretches her arms up above her head, hands shaking slightly. She really does look a lot better. Her skin isn’t so sallow and her eyes are bright. ‘I went to the shops today. Oh, and you’ll never guess what.’
‘What?’ I say, smiling.
‘Margaret only went and invited me round to have a look at all the chuffin’ tulips George has planted. Can you imagine? Never thought I’d see the day. I feel bad now for all those times I called her “long face”.’
Annie walks over to the dining table and closes the handful of clothbound engineering books she’d been working from. She marks her page in one of them with a scrap piece of graph paper and neatly stacks her notes on the bookshelf. Every day since she’s been back from hospital, she’s pulled down a heavy engineering book and worked through it, scribbles of sums, tables, and graphs etched out with a mechanical pencil. She still uses an ancient calculator from the Seventies that’s now so tired it needs a full two hours in the sunshine to boot up its solar battery.
‘Hey, I’m so glad you’re feeling yourself again,’ I say, trying to ignore the feeling of mounting guilt that resembles a squid headbutting my stomach from the inside.
‘Thanks, love. Helped in part by the meals you’ve made, no doubt. And the crumpets with the good butter you brought home last week.’ I smile. Thanks to the sweep of veganism across East London you can’t hope to find marinated tofu on a Friday evening, but butter is a different story. I’m surprised they don’t keep it behind modesty screens with the cigarettes and whiskey.
‘Did you notice I’ve been including more than one type of vegetable in our dinners?’ I ask.
‘I did. You spoil me.’
I nibble at the skin around my thumb nail and watch as Annie bends to the lower shelf, one hand wedged on her knee for support. I should tell her about Richard. It’s not fair to spring this on her.
Annie straightens up and rubs the small of her back. ‘I swear those books get heavier each week. So, who’s the next victim for this dating malarkey? You haven’t got long left now, have you?’
‘There won’t be a “next victim”, hopefully. No one at work knows their arse from their elbow at the minute. Rhea’s stopped sending round the briefing notes each morning and all the feedback I’ve been sending Mitchell gets sucked into a black hole that I never see again. If you’d told me a few weeks ago that the company would be in such a bloody mess I’d probably be happy to see the whole thing fizzle out. Then I could do something normal, like work in a café, or earn commission wrangling hen parties into strip clubs somewhere in Soho, you know?’
‘Ladies go to strip clubs nowadays, eh?’
‘Oh yeah. It’s the Magic Mike effect.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘I’ll show you one day. Maybe. Although if your heart gives out from the oiled abs, I’m not to blame.’ I unzip my bag and wiggle my laptop out, open it up, and put it on the kitchen table.
‘You’re not going to show me now, are you?’ Annie says, putting her glasses on. I laugh and trace lines on the keypad to boot the screen to life.
‘No! We’ll save it for a birthday treat.’ I open up a document I’d been working on in the week whilst everyone else pinged off CVs and registered for job alerts. ‘I wanted to run something by you. Ignore the graphics – I don’t know how to use the fancy design software, so I’ve used clip art.’
‘Right. What am I looking at, love?’ Annie says, pulling a chair up to the laptop.
‘It’s my “nothing-to-lose” plan, or, its catchier
name, the “Lovr X Community Fair”. I could spell “fair” with a “y”, you know, make it oldie-worldie, but that’s negotiable. Remember the idea I had originally: the informal dating combined with community work?’
‘Oh, yes, yes, I do remember,’ she says, nodding.
‘Well, it’s sort of a “spring fair” type thing, with stalls and activities to bring together people in the community, as well as users from the app. But I don’t want it to be a bunch of young professionals rocking up, doing two hours of work, and buggering off again to boast about how charitable they are; it’s a skills and experience swap. I’m thinking gardening advice – George with his roses and “Steve from Islington” who realises how mindful gardening can be whilst he helps shift mulch around. We could do lessons on how to set up video calls, knitting and crochet, chats about career and industry, that sort of thing. And they all happen at the same time, with food and tea as well, so people will want to linger and chat. People my age would happily spend £50 on a permaculture course, but they have no idea that all that knowledge is living round the corner. What do you think?’
Unable to read her expression as she squints at the screen, I bite my lip and glance sideways at Annie. When it was just me planning this, I felt fine, but saying it aloud makes it sound stupid. I pull my sleeves over my hands and scrunch the material up in my palms.