by Hayley Doyle
‘There’s no catch,’ the producer had said.
God, I keep replaying those words over and over. Commercial radio stations are a bitch for pulling pranks on their listeners. How can I be so sure that this competition is legit? What happens if there’s no car wrapped in a red ribbon for me to take home? I should prepare myself for another phone call in the morning, Connie and Carl laughing their arses off, informing me that I’m the biggest joke on Merseyside.
‘Ethel brought some Jaffa Cakes round,’ my ma says. ‘Put them on a plate, love.’
I strip off my fleece and head into the kitchen. Clothes remain damp in the washing machine, a bowl with the dregs of soggy cereal sits in the sink. The bills, held up against the fridge by a novelty selection of magnets, are in the wrong place for me to ignore. Debts. My ma’s run up a fair few since my dad died, not quite registering the way a credit card likes to work, to bite you in the backside. She’s still paying for birthday pressies for our Emma’s kids years after they’ve outgrown them, but she’s too delicate to know, to be told. So, I take care of it. I glance at the mail: bills, more bills, and a postcard from Florida.
‘What you reading at the mo?’ I ask, placing a cup of tea and a plate of Jaffa Cakes on the little side table next to my dad’s armchair. ‘Anything decent?’
‘It’s upstairs on the bed, the name of it escapes me. Something about a family buying an old farmhouse in Scotland. The mother’s gonna have it off with the recluse who lives on the other side of the loch. Obvious. Bloody good, though.’
I turn the heating down and perch on the arm of the settee, eat a Jaffa Cake whole.
‘How’s the Gene Wilder one going, love?’
‘Great. He was really into the craft of acting.’
‘You’re the spit of your dad, loving all them real-life stories. I prefer the made-up ones.’
I wonder if my sisters are still passionate about reading. Their faces look directly at me from the wall – Lisa drenched in white lace at her Holy Communion, Emma’s senior school portrait, the shoulder pads of her blazer shrinking her head to the size of a pea. And how they both look now, Christ. I haven’t seen either of them in person since our dad’s funeral. After their cruise-ship days, they settled in Florida and set up a dance school, the promise of a stateside get-together still in the pipeline. I bloody hate this shrine to them, their American teeth and blow-dried hair a lifetime away from the Scouse girls they once were.
Which reminds me.
‘A postcard came today,’ I say.
‘Ooh, go and get it then, soft lad!’
My ma holds the postcard an inch away from her face, squinting, then after studying the sketch of Mickey Mouse holding a pumpkin, turns it around to read our Emma’s writing.
‘She says, “Tell Jim I’ve emailed him photos of the kids in their Halloween costumes”.’
I never check my emails. My phone’s data package is useless and I don’t own a laptop. In fact, I only recently got Wi-Fi in my flat so I can watch Netflix, an outgoing which I know I can do without, but it feels worth it.
My ma’s doing a little hmm. Hmm. Hmm.
‘They don’t half mention Jesus a lot in these postcards,’ she says.
‘You did bring us up Catholic,’ I point out.
‘Yes, I know, but since when did any of you talk about Jesus willingly? I had to bribe you all with a bag of cola pips to get your backsides to mass.’
A strong whiff of floral body spray floats into the room, paired with a voice that makes nails on a chalkboard sound like Mozart. I nearly fall off the edge of the settee. A large woman lingers at the bottom of the stairs.
‘You’re out of toilet roll,’ Ethel Barton announces.
‘Bloody hell, Ethel, where did you sneak in from?’ I ask.
‘Well, where else does your mother keep her toilet roll?’
For a woman turning eighty-four, she’s made of the sort of steel that comes from surviving the Home Front as a child. My ma, a decade younger, wilts in comparison.
‘Now, are you bringing your mother to our Yvonne’s sixtieth tomorrow night?’ Ethel enquires. ‘Or do I need to pick her up? It’s at the club, we’ve got a buffet and everything.’
‘She’s never sixty,’ my ma pipes up. ‘You wouldn’t think she was a day over forty. Not a wrinkle or a grey hair in sight. And I’ll get a taxi, thank you. Don’t be ferrying me around. Jim goes the Pacific Arms with his mates on a Friday, don’t you, love?’
‘Still living life in the fast lane, Jim?’ Ethel huffs.
Going the pub for three or four pints is hardly the fast lane, is it? During my uni days, yeah, I partied hard, blew my student loan and did soft things like shave my eyebrows off, but God, that feels like a bloody lifetime ago.
‘Although you do look smart today,’ Ethel says, heaving towards the table to pinch another Jaffa Cake. ‘In that pullover.’
‘It’s me uniform.’
‘Well, it suits you. I only ever see you in those t-shirts with the daft slogans on them.’
‘Bands … they’re not slogans, they’re bands.’
‘You’re not a teenager, Jim. You’re thirty-five,’ Ethel exclaims.
‘Thirty-three,’ my ma corrects her.
‘How’s your job going? You’ve managed to hold this one down, haven’t you?’
‘Eight years,’ I confirm.
‘Still, we all had higher hopes for you than a toll booth,’ Ethel says, mid munch.
My eyes wander up towards the framed photo of me in my cap and gown, hanging on the wall above the telly. My ma’s looking at it, too. What a day. On the steps of Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral, my dad wearing his only suit, the shirt having been ironed twice that morning, his burly arm around my ma’s slender shoulders. She wore a polka-dot dress and red lipstick, black shoes with little white bows on the toes. Such a bold outfit for a woman who’s always chosen the shadows over the sun. ‘First in the family to get a degree,’ my dad had sung, gloating, as we all emerged from the ceremony.
‘It’s a shame you’re not coming to our Yvonne’s sixtieth, you know,’ Ethel says, sucking the melted Jaffa Cake chocolate off her fingers. ‘Our Yvonne’s niece is about your age, unattached, works for the Civil Service. I mean, you’d be very handsome if you got your hair trimmed. You would, you know.’
‘Oh, leave him alone, Ethel,’ my ma sighs.
‘There’s lots of nice girls who work in the Asda, you know,’ Ethel goes on, talking to me but looking directly at my ma. Then she looks outwards, as if addressing an audience much grander than two. ‘They all know me in there, you know. They know I get your mother’s bits and bobs for her, you know. They ask how I find the time to do me own shopping, you know. They really do. They’re nice girls, Jim. They are, you know.’
‘I know,’ I say.
‘He knows,’ my ma says. Christ, she looks shattered next to Ethel’s booming energy. Her dark greying hair is damp and fragile, her effort of mascara smudged below her eyes.
‘But aren’t all your mates married? Settled?’ Ethel asks, taking one of her shoes off, followed by the other, cracking her toes.
‘Settled,’ I say, ‘is when you have an argument with someone, and you find a way to reconcile. Or, if a problem arises, you resolve it. So, no, me mates aren’t settled. One’s married, two’ve got kids. I reckon that’s the very opposite of settled.’
Ethel scoffs.
‘Too clever for his own good, this one, isn’t he?’ she says.
I flick the standing lamp on, draw the curtains.
‘Right, I need to get going,’ I say. ‘I’ll speak to you later, Mam.’
‘Everything alright, love?’
‘Everything’s boss. I just need to nip home, get changed for the bonfire—’
‘He’s got a date!’ Ethel butts in.
‘Not exactly …’
‘Oh, that means he’s definitely got a date.’
I rub my eyes, scratch my head. Maybe I do need a haircut.
> ‘I had three children by the time I was your age,’ Ethel tells me, wagging her bloody finger in my face. ‘In fact, it’s borderline selfish that you haven’t given your mother some grandkids who live on this side of the Atlantic. Three children, I had. Three.’
‘There’s two cottage pies in the freezer,’ I say, kissing my ma on the cheek. Then she gives me a look – you know, the sort that only mothers seem to master – that suggests – no, tells me – to kiss Ethel, too. For an easier life, I grit my teeth, oblige. Ethel pretends to get all flustered and fans herself with the sudoku puzzle book lying on the settee, calling me a tease.
‘Wish your Yvonne a happy birthday from me,’ I say, opening the door.
‘She doesn’t look a day over forty,’ my ma reiterates. ‘I mean it.’
Cold drizzle hits me. I welcome its bite and zip up my fleece, my feet picking up a fast pace. I’m going to collect my prize. My golden chalice. It’s like being thirteen again and beating Snowy on the Sega. Christ, it’s better than that. I haven’t been excited about anything for so long that I’ve forgotten how to be excited. Doubt’s a fucker. It clouds my every right to be dancing on the moon, but let’s be honest, it protects me too. Still, I was told I’ve won a car. This is Christmas morning, this is my twenty-first again, this is an ice-cold cocktail whilst lying on a beach somewhere in the Bahamas. This is my turn.
I’m halfway down the street when I hear my name being yelled. Ethel’s standing on the step of my ma’s house, waving her arms.
‘Go and get us a four pack of toilet roll from the Asda, will you? It’ll only take you five minutes if you run. Hurry.’
5
Zara
‘You have reached your destination,’ the satnav announces.
It’s nothing like I’ve imagined. I double check the address, and yes, this pleasant but dull suburban close is Clifton Crescent. Nick’s front door is in my view, third house along. Butterflies dance in my stomach. I know he’ll be there because he works from home. Plus his car is in the driveway. He’s sent me many selfies from that exact vehicle, recorded himself singing Queen songs to me from the driver’s seat as he rested his phone on the dashboard.
‘But it’s a house,’ I mutter. Not an apartment.
On my phone, I find the screenshot I took of Nick’s address below his email signature; Nicholas Consultancy, The Loft, 6 Clifton Crescent. Well, this is it. And it’s big, for a British house. Semi-detached with its own garage, the roof extension, which of course must be Nick’s office, clearly in view. Why had I thought he lived in an apartment? Hadn’t he told me that? A long front lawn spreads beneath a large bay window, well kept with a neatly trimmed hedge and a miniature wishing well. The front door has a cute plaque that says ‘Welcome to the Mad House’.
I adjust the rear-view mirror and give myself a check.
No smudged eyeliner, no goop in the corners of my eyes. Good. I grab my make-up bag and top up my lip gloss, a peachy pink. My scar is still more prominent than my long nose, the first damn thing I see whenever I catch a glimpse of my reflection. But that doesn’t matter. If anyone can see past that scar, it’s Nick Gregory.
Oh my God. I can’t deal with the fact that I’m here. I’m actually here!
I’m too excited to move. I want to relish every little detail. It’s like the moment where you receive a beautiful gift wrapped with a bow: although you can’t wait to open it, you also want to savour it as a mysterious box.
It’s bang on four o’clock; starting to go dark. How is the day almost over before it’s even begun? Mind you, it’s already eight o’clock in Dubai. What would I be doing if I was there, instead of here? Thursday nights are the start of the weekend. Restaurants are filling up, taxis difficult to hail, the traffic moving slowly around Mall of the Emirates. A twinkle of party-time dancing in the air. Not for me, though. Not anymore. I’d be curled up in my PJs by now, watching Grey’s Anatomy, waiting for Nick to call me on Skype. Nine-ish was usual for us on Thursdays; five-ish for him in Liverpool.
I take out my phone. I’ve got three messages from Nick.
It’s almost Fri-yay!
I hate it when he says Fri-yay.
Haha, I know you love it when I say that.
Haha.
So, what you up to today? And how was camping? I miss you xxx.
Thrilling. That’s what this is; absolutely thrilling. Nick thinks this is just a regular day for me, four thousand miles away from him, and yet here I am, outside his house. Everything we have talked about for months is about to start. Now.
I type my reply.
Hey, hey! Camping – meh! Sorry I’ve been off the radar. Phone issues. Boring! I miss you too xxx.
Agh. He’s read it already. And he’s typing.
‘Come on!’ I sing out loud, psyching myself up. ‘Let’s do this.’
I open the door and get out of my little hatchback. Pushing the driver seat forward, I lean into the back seat and grab my army jacket; authentic – apparently – US Army, with badges that have seen better days sewn along the sleeves; I love it. It’s a fond reminder of hopping from festival to festival with an awesome group of people a couple of years ago, partying in green field after green field after green, muddy field. We covered quite a distance, from Suffolk to Budapest, although it kind of rolls into one. Shame we’ve all lost touch. I slip the army jacket on over my denim pinafore and grey t-shirt, patterned with silver stars. I’ve thought about my outfit carefully. And yes, I’m a bit cheesy, but really, the stars are aligning.
I open the trunk, slide the mop out. Everything else can remain inside the car for now. The mop and I are the same height, neither likely to be described as tall. The bow tie has fallen into the boot, so I fix it back around the edge where the handle is visible below the mop’s head. I place a pair of cheap aviators into the mop’s ropey hair.
‘Hey, you,’ I grin. ‘Shall we?’
And throwing my shoulders back, I march up Nick’s garden path, past the wishing well, and ring the doorbell. The mop stands beside me, proud, like a centurion’s spear. How totally British this house is; the bricks, the grey and white painted door frame, the stained glass patterned panels. I take a deep breath, my future about to become my present.
A little girl with tatty braids and wide blue eyes answers the door.
‘Oh, hello!’ I say, startled.
Another even littler girl hangs off the bigger one’s legs. Both are dressed in sparkly tutus over what looks like bottle-green school uniforms, tiaras hanging out of their messy hair. They look from me to the mop and back to me again.
‘Hey kids,’ I smile, aware of the shake in my voice. ‘Is Nick here?’
‘Mummy!’ the littlest one yells. ‘Is Nick here?’
The older girl just continues to stare.
‘Who’s Nick?’ the little one asks.
‘Mummy’ appears, throwing a towel over her shoulder. A navy-blue baggy tracksuit hangs off her curves. With black shiny hair cut into a short bob, her baby pink lips curl beneath a neat button nose.
‘Nick doesn’t live here,’ she says, clear, with an air of confidence, unless it’s her accent that gives that effect. She looks down at her little girls and pushes out her bottom lip, pulling a perplexed face which makes them giggle.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, checking out the house number again, scanning Clifton Crescent. ‘My mistake, I guess.’
‘Yep. Your mistake,’ the woman says.
‘Her mistake,’ the littlest one says.
Turning to my domestic pal, I give the mop an awkward smile and catching my reflection in the aviator lenses, I feel my face flush. I’m totally lingering on a stranger’s doorstep, and there’s nowhere to go other than back to my crappy car to readdress the situation. Maybe the satnav’s directions were wrong. The wishing well didn’t feel very Nick. There might be many Clifton Crescents on the outskirts of Liverpool. All it takes is one wrong letter to make one big error.
‘Come on, girls,’ the woman says,
and ushers them inside. ‘It’s Thursday, which means?’
‘Egg and chips at Nana’s house!’ the girls cheer, jumping up and down.
‘Let’s go and get ready then.’
‘Sorry … bye!’ I say, but the door slams shut.
Except, wait. This car, here beside me on the driveway, it’s just like Nick’s car. But, God, what do I know about cars? If it’s got four wheels and a roof, it’s the same as the next car with four wheels and a roof. I take in my surroundings. There are three, four, five cars all parked on driveways in this close that are kind of similar. Totally similar. Well, practically identical.
I back away. The sign, ‘Welcome to the Mad House’, is making me feel most unwelcome. The gravel stones on the path are noisy beneath my suede sneakers. I just want to disappear; my whole presence feels so unnecessary, so misplaced, outside this neat yet bland house. The older of the little girls is at the front window now, watching me and the mop. She hadn’t spoken, but her eyes are wide, inquisitive. She waves, and I instantly feel like less of an intruder. I return the wave and mouth, ‘Sorry,’ again, pulling a funny face that says silly me. The little girl smiles, her big teeth wonky, not quite the right fit for her small mouth yet.
The mop slips back into its place in the trunk, poking into the passenger seat via the car’s interior, and I open the driver’s door, wondering what my next move should be. I’ve got no reason to look back; it’s the wrong house. But, without intention, I do it anyway.
And there he is.
Standing upstairs, peering from behind the curtains of the front bedroom.
I blink, my heart pulsating, and I stop dead, frozen between an open car door and the driver’s seat. It’s definitely him. His round, thick shoulders, that cream knitted sweater he wears whenever he feels the cold working in his roof office. His hair, styled specifically to look slightly messy on top.
‘Nick?’ I whisper.
Except Nick doesn’t live there. So who is that man?