She had been looking for a man for forever, why didn’t she give up now? What was the point of trawling these dating websites and meeting these hopeless people? She would still be single, Maria was sure of it, no one could get that lucky. Maria hadn’t deserved luck, and meeting Albie had been that. She hadn’t been worthy of it, the karma from her past had finally caught up with her.
‘…expensive, right, and I don’t normally get a starter because it only prolongs it if it’s awful but I’ve heard the goat’s cheese salad is basically to die for so I can’t say no, I’m a sucker for a starter. Nina can keep her sweet tooth, I’m all about cheese. Cheese for starter, cheese board for the end…’
Maria let the words wash over her, watching Mandy dry and tease her hair. She had to admit, the crown was glossy, the ends healthy, sitting just above her shoulders, the soft grey lovely under the lights of the mirror. Who was she going to see with hair like this? What a waste of time and money! Why had she come? It wouldn’t exactly have made a dent in her new fortune – she could miss a thousand hair appointments and not do that. But that thought didn’t comfort her one bit.
She answered Mandy in monosyllables and was glad to be paying and leaving, accepting her coat from Nina without a second glance.
‘I hope everything’s alright?’ Mandy held out the change. Normally, Maria would wave it away for the tip jar, but today she found herself pocketing the money, making an abrupt goodbye.
‘Of course,’ Maria snapped back without a pause, watching in satisfaction as Mandy flinched.
Turning, she moved back across to the door, feeling Mandy’s eyes on her as she stepped out into the street, a breeze buffeting her new hair, mussing it up. She felt uneasy, knowing she was being cold, unfair, yet still unable to turn and fix it all with a farewell smile.
She headed home, feeling empty, moving through an unfamiliar mini-market to buy bread and milk, not buying anything else, unable to think about what she needed. Toast and tea would suffice and what was the point of continually cooking meals for one person? She could get by, she’d buy multivitamins. Although they were probably a rip-off, who really knew what was in those tablets? Paying for her shopping and making her way home, she lingered over the resentment at paying 5p for a carrier bag, even though it wasn’t like she couldn’t afford it.
The day stretched ahead of her, with nothing to do. She was walking quickly, tutting at someone idling in front of her, a young Asian man who kept staring at his mobile. She didn’t have a mobile phone, there had never been any point. Who would she have called? Albie had once asked her for her number, and for a moment she had wished she had had one. The man was still staring at it. What would happen, she supposed, if he didn’t check it every minute? This generation were obsessed with technology. She found herself annoyed with all of them for that fact. She muttered as she passed him, noticing he appeared to be staring at a small map on the screen. Normally she might have summoned up the courage to ask whether he needed help with directions but she found the words frozen somewhere inside her. She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to help. He would find where he was looking for somehow. No one needed her to hold their hand.
The café was up ahead, the large letters just visible, someone’s face framed perfectly in the inside of the ‘O’, and she found herself heading there automatically. That was where it had all begun. She was stung again with the facts: the modest, joyful Albie she had known in that café not squaring with the wealthy benefactor who had kept his secrets to himself. She had thought she was close to him and yet this enormous, fundamental fact about himself, he had hidden. And now it was too late: he couldn’t explain because he’d gone, he’d left her. She didn’t want his money, she thought for the thousandth time, she didn’t want to keep the connection, keep thinking about him. She had finally, after all these years, let someone in and they had left her too. She found she couldn’t forgive him.
The place was quiet. Their table along the furthest wall was wiped down and empty and Maria stared at it. So many Thursdays sat in those chairs. She sat down quickly at the nearest table to the door, checking her watch, the hands seeming to drag. How interminably long could today be?
Pauline approached the table looking tired, bags under her eyes as she stepped over, a biro sticking out of her shirt pocket, a pad in her apron. ‘The usual?’
‘No, just a water.’
Pauline raised one eyebrow and didn’t bother to write the order down. ‘Are you on your own today?’
‘It’s quiet in here,’ Maria said, pointedly changing the subject.
Why had she come here? What had she hoped for? The empty tables just acted as a reminder that he was no longer going to step through that door and join her.
‘Thank god! Amrit’s studying and Clive is off sick again, I swear that chef has had every illness going, twice. Hold on, let me grab that water.’
She returned with a glass half-filled with ice and a bottle of mineral water.
‘So, are you well?’
It seemed Pauline might settle in for a conversation and Maria suddenly felt exhausted by the thought. ‘I’ll have the water to go, must get on.’ She hadn’t even removed her coat. She stood and rummaged in her handbag for coins.
Pauline tried to hide her surprise but it was clear she was thrown, handing over the bottle of water and accepting the money in return.
‘Keep the change,’ Maria muttered, not wanting to wait while Pauline moved behind the counter, opened the till, selected the right change.
As she left the café, the pavement spattered with raindrops and she looked up at the grey sky. What a miserable day it had turned into. The clouds were fat and brooding. Soon every surface was damp. The mist-like rain coated her skin, soaked her jacket, wet her new hair, making it go flat. It would frizz when it dried, she thought as she stamped home, wrapping her coat tighter around herself. But then what did it matter? What did any of it matter anymore?
‘I’m a water baby,’ she would repeat to strangers.
How she loved the beach, the sea, squealing as the waves swept in, tiny legs racing to get away before the water caught her.
She would beg us to go there, even in winter, not understanding why the pebbles were deserted, why the sea was a stubborn grey.
The beach had always been a magical place, full of fun and ice cream and games and laughter. Of endless summer: sandy toes and the taste of vanilla. Of her blissful smile as she pulled my hand and dragged me into the shallows. As she wiggled her toes deep into the wet sand and squealed as the water washed around her ankles, sucking and pulling at her.
The thought of the beach had always made my chest lighten, my mood lift.
It was different now.
Nine
Thursday came around again and Maria found herself staying in her bed, the sheets unwashed, another launderette visit skipped, the room not aired, a thin layer of dust on the bed frame, dried watermarks on her bedside table. Her book was still in the same spot, the photo in the frame stood as if accusing her. Who would notice if she simply stayed in bed?
She didn’t run the bath, didn’t light the candles or put on any make-up. She sat, curtains still closed from the evening before, the television on, with no idea what she was watching, a sort of background noise to the fog in her own head. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed but she found herself reaching for the bag from the solicitor’s, opening the envelope with the keys inside, ignoring the note, and turning over the cold, hard metal in her hand.
Albie’s house: her house. She couldn’t start to get her head round it. She’d never even seen it. How could she own something she’d never even laid eyes on? It was absurd, a joke. It made her feel as if the depth of their friendship had been in her head. How could she pretend to know someone really well when she’d never even been to his home, when he had hidden so much from her? What a fool!
The keys sat in her palm and she studied them. More time passed. She could stay here, the television long since frozen,
a square on the screen asking her if she wanted to continue watching. She hadn’t even noticed the absence of noise. She could stay, sit in silence, or she could go and use the keys. A tiny flicker of curiosity ignited inside her: she imagined a palatial house on a tree-lined avenue, bookcases stacked with books, a polished dining room table, a chandelier. Isn’t that how millionaires lived? And Albie had been a millionaire. Her hand closed over the keys in a tight grip and she felt the same swell of hot rage and confusion fill her up as she thought for the hundredth time of the enormous secret he had hidden, that he hadn’t trusted her with. Did she think it would have changed the way she viewed him? That she would have treated him differently? She released her grip, a red mark where the keys had dug into her skin.
Then why leave her it all? Why spring it all on her? Why… She pushed her head back into the headrest and squeezed her eyes shut. She was back to the endless cycle of questions.
She knew she couldn’t stay festering in this chair forever and maybe it would be better to get it done quickly, to try and focus her energy. Getting up, she put the keys in her handbag and, without bothering to glance at her reflection in the mirror, she pulled on the first coat to hand and headed out, letting the door slam behind her.
She hadn’t meant to head there – Albie’s address was still a further ten-minute walk away – but she found her feet moving automatically, as if it were any other Thursday and they just knew where they were headed. The café looked busy, steam clogging the windows so the inside was a blur of animated faces. She could make out Pauline moving between the tables, vivid red lipstick on a mouth always smiling. She paused outside, biting her lip. This wasn’t any other Thursday, though. Today, she was headed to Albie’s house for the first time – and Albie wasn’t even going to be there. She would need strength but how could she order the tea and marble cake? She placed a hand on the cold glass. She would get an iced bun and a latte with three sugars. Something different, something sweet to spur her on.
She didn’t push open the door though, bit her lip harder. She would have to face the question in Pauline’s eyes. She hadn’t even told her what had happened to Albie – she wasn’t ready to say the words to someone who had known him, someone who would react to the news. She didn’t have the strength to see her own sadness reflected back at her. Her palm was damp on the glass and she removed it, slid it into her pocket. What was she thinking? She didn’t need to do this today. She didn’t need to go to his house right now. She would go home, put her nightdress on, try and get back into her book, try and stop thinking about him every second of the day.
‘Hey,’ a voice said from behind her, ‘it’s you!’
The enthusiastic greeting made Maria spin round and there on the pavement stood a grinning girl, her long hair clipped back behind her ears, a flash of silver as she turned her head.
‘Are you going in?’ Rosie pointed to the door.
Maria took a step back. ‘I was going to, but no, I’m, no, probably not…’
Rosie tucked a strand of chestnut-brown hair behind her ear. ‘You seem a bit distracted, are you alright?’
‘Have you come straight from school?’ Maria tried to direct the conversation away from herself. She couldn’t allow this lovely girl to check on her once again – it should be her being the strong one, she was a million years older for a start.
Rosie nodded, her eyes dancing with energy. ‘So where are you going?’
‘Well,’ Maria said with a pause, and then maybe because she had shared so much the other day she found herself telling Rosie, ‘I’ve got the keys, to the house I told you about, the one my gentleman friend left me. I was thinking maybe I’d go over there… but I’m not sure anymore, I…’
Rosie’s eyes widened as she cut her off, ‘You haven’t been there yet? Oh my god!’ She let out a puff, energy exuding from every pore. ‘God, I wouldn’t have been able to stay away! Just imagine what it might be like. He might have a cinema room and, like, a hot tub and stuff.’
Maria found her mouth twitching as Rosie carried on, the girl’s presence cheering her.
‘He will definitely have surround sound, those bifold glass doors and probably an ornamental garden, maybe a fountain,’ she practically shouted the last word. Maria couldn’t help it as her mouth lifted into a smile.
‘Don’t get carried away,’ she replied in a soft voice, ‘Albie wasn’t like that.’ She stopped short. Albie hadn’t been like that, she was sure of it, but now she doubted that line. Did she really know him at all?
‘Well, if you want some company, I am totally available to check out the pad of a millionaire!’ Rosie stood, eyebrows raised in a question.
Maria squared her shoulders, knowing she should find the strength to do this on her own, that it wouldn’t be right for Rosie to be there, but then she couldn’t help it: the thought of the young girl there by her side as she faced it was an overwhelming comfort.
‘Actually, I’d love that.’ The answer left her mouth before she could stop it.
‘Awesome.’
The word made Maria’s smile even wider.
‘So where is it?’ Rosie asked.
Maria pulled out the address from the solicitor’s information. ‘Not far.’
‘Well, come on then, I want to see how the other half live,’ Rosie said.
‘I…’ Maria looked back in the direction of her apartment and then at Rosie’s expectant face – so innocent and excited – and she found she couldn’t resist, feeling energy for the first time in days course through her. ‘If you’re really sure you want to come…’
Rosie was already moving ahead of her, chatting about her day at school. She talked all the way to the address and it was a tonic for Maria just to be in her company and concentrate on that, not on the task ahead.
They arrived at a wide road lined with beech trees, fallen leaves plastering the pavement. They moved down the street, past large Victorian houses with enormous bay windows until they stood outside the address. A communal bicycle rack and a few empty parking spots took up the space in front of a large block of apartments: ‘HARWOOD HOUSE’.
This was it. And yet, this didn’t seem to be a singular house.
She pulled out the sheet once more, realising immediately that she hadn’t read the instructions fully. She saw it now, the line beneath stating ‘Flat 6c’.
She frowned, looking at the paper and the apartment block and back. One flat? Did he own the block? Was Flat 6c an ironic name? Was it the penthouse? She moved slowly towards the large double doors of the entrance way, a list of names and numbers next to letterboxes in a grid, an intercom to the left.
Rosie swapped a look with her. ‘Is this right?’
Maria took a step forward, scanning the list. And there on a peeling sticker were the faded letters: ‘A.YOUNG. Flat 6c’.
Maria nodded. ‘I think so.’
Rosie’s face said it all, reflecting Maria’s own confusion. ‘Well,’ she said, clearly forcing the smile onto her face, injecting some brightness into her voice, ‘let’s take a look.’
Maria pulled out the small set of keys, hands shaking, and inserted the larger one. The door clicked open and they stepped inside. The foyer had a large blue mat, scuffed linoleum and smelt of bleach and motor oil. Two lifts, their outsides brushed silver, were to her right and there was a wide staircase just beyond that. It was hardly a cosy entrance – the clinical grey-white of the walls and a poster asking people not to urinate in the lifts made her eyes widen.
Rosie was biting her lip as Maria turned to face her. ‘What floor do you think he’s on?’
The sudden movement of the lift doors startled them both and a woman wearing headphones stepped out. Rosie stepped inside before Maria could change her mind: ‘Come on then.’
Maria just made it in time before the lift closed once more. There were only four floors with the flat numbers written next to the buttons. Albie had lived on the second floor. The lift juddered and they were off; Maria felt her stomach
gurgle in anticipation. Rosie was leaning back against the wall of the lift, one crooked leg up – so relaxed. Maria realised how much she needed her here to face it all. Who else could she have asked? Who else did she have to turn to? That thought froze her to the spot as the lift doors pulled back.
Albie’s door had been painted a deep blue, a yucca plant was in a pot to the side. Maria’s hand shook once more as she placed the Yale key in the lock, pausing before she turned it.
‘You can do it,’ Rosie said in a gentle voice behind her.
Maria took a breath and twisted the key.
The air was thick, stale, a tangy smell of turps underpinning other scents that reminded her of Albie: orange, wood smoke, books. Maria squeezed down the narrow corridor into a living area, a kitchenette in the corner.
‘It’s quite…’ Rosie appeared beside her and Maria was barely listening as she finished her sentence. ‘…small.’
An upturned mug and bowl on the draining board made Maria freeze. There were still breadcrumbs on a chopping board, the light still red on the washing machine, as if he had stepped out of this room just moments ago.
‘Are you absolutely sure this guy was a millionaire?’ Rosie asked, and with a few steps she was already on the other side of the room, standing next to a leather armchair, worn patches on the arms, a dent in the cushion.
Maria smiled sadly. ‘Apparently so,’ she replied, knowing she was nervous to find out more secrets about this man she thought she had known. How had she imagined his home? As she thought about it, she realised this was what she had pictured, not the millionaire’s place with floor-to-ceiling windows, abstract paintings on the wall, all chrome and marble. She’d imagined this, a haphazard collection of framed prints by his favourite artists, shelves crammed with books and a ridiculous number of teapots – he once told her that he collected them – an altar pew against a wall laden with art magazines and old newspapers.
The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC) Page 7