He tore at a loose flap of skin on his finger with his teeth, jiggling his knee, struggling to relax. When Cameron Yates finally appeared Andrew felt certain he’d met him before. He was about to ask if that was actually the case—perhaps he’d be able to use it to curry favor—but then he realized that he only recognized Cameron because he was a dead ringer for a young Wallace from Wallace and Gromit. He had bulbous eyes that were too close together and large front teeth that jutted down unevenly like stalactites. The only real differences were his tufty black hair and home counties accent.
They exchanged some awkward small talk in the coffin-sized lift, and all the while Andrew couldn’t tear his eyes away from the stalactites. Stop looking at the fucking teeth, he told himself, while staring directly at the fucking teeth.
They waited for someone to bring them two blue thimbles of lukewarm water before finally the interview began in earnest. Cameron started by rattling through the job description, barely pausing for breath as he outlined how, if Andrew were to get the role, he’d be dealing with all deaths covered under the Public Health Act. “So that’s liaising with funeral directors to organize the services, writing death notices in the local paper, registering deaths, tracing family members, recovering funeral costs through the deceased’s estates. There’s an awful lot of the old paperwork malarkey, as you can imagine!”
Andrew made sure to nod along, trying to take it all in, inwardly cursing Jill for neglecting to mention the whole “death” thing. Then, before he knew it, the spotlight was on him. Disconcertingly, Cameron seemed as nervous as he was, switching from simple, friendly questions to meandering, confusing ones, a harsher edge to his voice—as if he were playing good cop/bad cop by himself. When Andrew was afforded a second to respond to Cameron’s nonsense, he found himself stumbling over his words. When he did manage to string a sentence together his enthusiasm sounded like desperation, his attempts at humor just seeming to confuse Cameron, who on more than one occasion looked past Andrew’s shoulder, distracted by someone walking past in the corridor. Eventually it got to a point where he felt so despondent he considered giving up on the spot and just walking out. In among his depression at how things were going he was still distracted by Cameron’s teeth. For one thing, he’d started to question whether it was stalactites or stalagmites. Wasn’t there a thing about pulling down tights that helped you remember? It was at that moment that he realized Cameron had just asked him something—he had no idea what—and was now waiting for an answer. Panicked, he sat forward. “Ermmm,” he said, in a tone he hoped conveyed that he was appreciative of such a thoughtful question and thus needed to give it due consideration. But this was clearly a mistake, judging from Cameron’s growing frown. Andrew realized the question must have been a simple one.
“Yes,” he blurted out, deciding to keep the answer short. Relief flooded him as Cameron’s trampled Wallace smile reappeared.
“Wonderful. And how many?” he said.
This was trickier, though Andrew sensed a lightheartedness in Cameron’s tone so this time plumped for a general, breezy response.
“Well, I suppose I sort of lose track sometimes,” he said, trying a rueful smile. Cameron reacted with a false-sounding laugh, as though he couldn’t quite tell if Andrew was joking. Andrew decided to fire back, hoping for more information.
“Do you mind me asking you the same question?” he said.
“Of course. I’ve just got the one myself,” Cameron said enthusiastically. He reached into his pocket and started rummaging. The thought briefly crossed Andrew’s mind that the man interviewing him for a job was about to pull out a lone testicle, as if he asked this question of every man he met, hoping desperately for a solo-ball owner. Instead, Cameron produced his wallet. It was only when he brought out a picture from within of a child trussed up in winter gear with skis on that Andrew understood what the question had been. He quickly replayed the conversation from Cameron’s perspective.
“Do you have kids?”
“Ermmm . . . Yes.”
“Wonderful. And how many?”
“Well, I suppose I sort of lose track sometimes.”
Christ, had he just given the impression to a potential new boss that he was some sort of prolific Lothario who’d spent his life shagging around town and leaving a succession of women pregnant and homes broken?
He was still just looking at the photo of Cameron’s child. Say something!
“Lovely,” he said. “Lovely . . . boy.”
Oh good, now you sound like the Child Catcher. That’ll go down well. You start on Monday, Mr. Pedophile!
He grasped his plastic water beaker, long since empty, and felt it crack in his hand. This was a fucking disaster. How could he have blown things already? He could tell from Cameron’s expression that he was past the point of no return. Quite what he’d say if Andrew just admitted to accidentally lying about having children he wasn’t sure, but it seemed unlikely that it would suddenly turn things around. He decided his best option now was just to get through the rest of the interview while saving as much face as possible—like continuing to do mirror, signal, maneuver on a driving test having just run over a lollipop lady.
As he let go of the plastic beaker he noticed the graze on his palm and thought about the girl who’d helped him that morning. The wavy brown hair, that inscrutable smile. He could feel the blood starting to throb in his ears. What would it be like—to have a moment where he could just pretend. To play out a little fantasy all for himself. Where was the harm? Where, really, was the harm in spending the briefest moment imagining that everything had actually worked out fine and not fallen to pieces?
He cleared his throat.
Was he going to do this?
“How old is he?” he asked, handing the photo back to Cameron.
“He’s just turned seven,” Cameron said. “And yours?”
Was he actually going to do this?
“Well . . . Steph’s eight and David’s four,” he said.
Apparently, he was.
“Ah, wonderful. It was when my boy Chris turned six that I really started to get the sense of what sort of person he was going to be,” Cameron said. “Though Clara, my wife, always reckoned she could tell all that before he’d even left the womb.”
Andrew smiled. “My wife Diane said exactly the same,” he said.
And, just like that, he had a family.
They talked about their wives and children for a while longer, but all too soon Cameron brought the interview back around to the job, and Andrew felt the fantasy slipping away like water through his fingers. Before too long their time was up. Disconcertingly, instead of trucking out the usual line of whether Andrew had any questions for him, Cameron instead asked whether he had “any last words,” as if he were about to be taken away and hanged. He managed to dredge up some vague waffle about what an interesting role it seemed and how much he’d relish the chance to work in Cameron’s dynamic-sounding team.
“We’ll be in touch,” Cameron said, spoken with the sincerity of a politician pretending to like an indie band during a radio interview. Andrew forced a smile and remembered to make eye contact as he shook Cameron’s hand, which was cold and wet, as if he’d been fondling a trout. “Thanks for the opportunity,” Andrew said.
* * *
—
He found a café and used the free Wi-Fi to search for jobs, but he was too distracted to look properly. When he’d thanked Cameron “for the opportunity” it had nothing to do with the job, it was because he’d been given the chance to indulge, however briefly, in the fantasy of having a family. How strangely thrilling and scary it had been to feel so normal. He tried to forget about it, forcing himself to concentrate. If he wasn’t going to get another council job he’d need to expand his search, but it felt like an impossibly daunting task. There was nothing he could find that he seemed qualified for. Half the job descriptio
ns themselves were baffling enough. He stared hopelessly at the large muffin he’d bought but not eaten, picking at it instead until it looked like a molehill. Maybe he’d make other animal burrows out of food and enter the Turner Prize competition.
He sat in the café for the rest of the afternoon, watching important businesspeople having their important business meetings and tourists thumbing excitedly through guidebooks. He stayed there long after all had left, pressing himself up against the radiator and trying to remain invisible to the young Italian waiter stacking chairs and sweeping up. Eventually he asked Andrew if he wouldn’t mind leaving, the apologetic smile disappearing from his face as he spotted the muffin molehill crumbs that had spilled onto the table.
Andrew’s phone rang just as he stepped outside. An unknown number.
“Andrew?” the person on the end of the line said. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Andrew said, though he barely could with the combination of a blustery wind and an ambulance driving past, siren screaming.
“Andrew, it’s Cameron Yates. I just wanted to give you a call to say that it was really good to meet you earlier today. You really seemed to get the can-do culture I’m trying to build here. So, to cut a long story short, I’m very pleased to say I’d love you to come on board.”
“I’m sorry?” Andrew said, jamming a finger in his free ear.
“We’re offering you the job!” Cameron said. “There’ll be the usual formalities, of course, but can’t see any problems there, mate.”
Andrew stood there, buffeted by the wind.
“Andrew? Did you catch that?”
“Gosh. Yes, I did. Wow. That’s great. I’m . . . I’m delighted.”
And he was. So delighted in fact that he beamed at the waiter through the window. The waiter rewarded him with a slightly bemused smile.
“Andrew, listen, I’m just heading off to a seminar, so I’ll ask someone to ping you an e-mail with all the deets. I’m sure there’ll be a few bits and pieces to chat through, but don’t sweat any of that now. You get home and give Diane and the kids the good news.”
— CHAPTER 4 —
It was hard for Andrew to believe that it was only five years since he’d been standing in that windswept street, trying to take in what Cameron had just said. It felt like a lifetime ago.
He stirred listlessly at the baked beans currently spluttering in the travel saucepan on the stovetop, before depositing them on a crust of whole wheat he’d cut with his one still-sharp knife, its plastic handle warped and burned. He looked intently at the square of cracked tiles behind the cooker, pretending it was a camera. “So what I’ve done there is to combine the beans and the bread, and now I’ll just add a blob of ketchup (I use Captain Tomato but any brand is fine) to make it a tasty trio. You can’t freeze any of the leftovers, but luckily you’ll have wolfed it all down in about nine seconds and you’ll be too busy hating yourself to worry about that.”
He could hear his neighbor humming downstairs. She was relatively new, the previous tenants having moved out a few months ago. They were a young couple—early twenties, both startlingly attractive; all cheekbones and toned arms. The sort of aesthetically pleasing appearance that meant they’d never had to apologize for anything in their lives. Andrew would force himself to make eye contact with them and summon up a breezy greeting when they crossed paths in the hallway, but they never really bothered to reply. He was only aware that someone new had moved in when he heard the distinctive humming. He hadn’t seen his new neighbor, but, oddly, he had smelled her. Or at least he’d smelled her perfume, which was so strong that it lingered permanently in the hallway. He tried to picture her, but when he tried to see her face it was just a smooth, featureless oval.
Just then, his phone lit up on the countertop. He saw his sister’s name and his heart sank. He checked the date in the corner of his screen: March 31. He should have known. He pictured Sally checking her calendar, seeing a red ring around the thirty-first and swearing under her breath, knowing it was time for their quarterly call.
He took a fortifying gulp of water and picked up.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hey,” Sally said.
A pause.
“Well. How are you, little bro?” Sally said. “Everything cool?”
Christ, why did she still have to speak as though they were teenagers?
“Oh, you know, the usual. You?”
“Can’t complain, dude, I guess. Me and Carl are doing a yoga retreat this weekend, help him learn the teaching side of it and all that jazz.”
Carl. Sally’s husband. Usually to be found guzzling protein shakes and voluntarily lifting heavy objects up and down.
“That sounds . . . nice,” Andrew said. Then, after the sort of short silence that clearly denotes it’s time to move on to the most pressing matter: “And how’s it going with your tests and everything?”
Sally sighed.
“Had a bunch more last month. Results all came back inconclusive, which means they still know sweet FA, basically. Still, I feel much better. And they think that it’s probably not a heart thing, so I’m not likely to do a Dad and kick the bucket without warning. They just keep telling me the usual BS, you know how it is. Exercise more, drink less, blah blah blah.”
“Well, good that they’re not unduly concerned,” Andrew said, thinking that if Sally shouldn’t talk like a teenager he probably shouldn’t talk like a repressed Oxford don. He’d have thought that after all these years it wouldn’t feel like they were strangers. It was still that simple checklist of topics: Work. Health. Family (well, Carl, the only person who came close to a shared family member). Except, this time, Sally decided to throw in a curveball.
“So, I was thinking . . . maybe we should meet up sometime soon. It’s been, like, five years now after all.”
Seven, Andrew thought. And the last time was at Uncle Dave’s funeral in a crematorium opposite a KFC in Banbury. And you were high. Then again, he conceded, he hadn’t exactly been inundating Sally with invitations to meet up since.
“That . . . that would be good,” he said. “As long as you can spare the time, of course. Maybe we could meet halfway or something.”
“Yeah, it’s cool, bro. Though we’ve moved, remember? We’re in Newquay now—Carl’s business, and everything? So halfway is somewhere else these days. But I’m going to be in London seeing a friend in May. We could hang then, maybe?”
“Yes. Okay. Just let me know when you’re coming up.”
Andrew scanned the room and chewed his lip. In the twenty years since he’d moved into the flat barely a thing had changed. Consequently, his living space was looking not so much tired as absolutely knackered. There was the dark stain where the wall met the ceiling in the area that masqueraded as a kitchen; then there were the battered gray sofa, threadbare carpet and yellowy-brown wallpaper that was meant to suggest autumn but in fact suggested digestive biscuits. As the color of the wallpaper had faded, so had the chances of Andrew’s actually doing anything about it. And his shame at the state of the place was only matched by the terror he felt at the thought of changing it or, worse, living anywhere else. There was at least one benefit to being on his own and never having anyone around—nobody could judge him for how he lived.
He decided to change the subject, recalling something Sally had told him the last time they’d spoken.
“How are things going with your . . . person?”
He heard a lighter sparking and then the faint sound of Sally exhaling smoke.
“My person?”
“The person you were going to see. To talk about things.”
“You mean my therapist?”
“Yes.”
“Ditched her when we moved. To be honest, dude, I was glad of the excuse. She kept trying to hypnotize me and it didn’t work. I told her I was immune but she wouldn’t listen. But I
’ve found someone new in Newquay. She’s more of a spiritual healer, I guess? I bumped into her while she was putting up an advert next to Carl’s yoga class flyer. What are the chances?”
Well . . . , Andrew thought.
“So, listen, man,” Sally said. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Right,” Andrew said, instantly suspicious. First arranging to meet, now this. Oh god, what if she was going to try to make him spend time with Carl?
“So—and I normally wouldn’t do this as I know that . . . well, it’s not something we’d normally talk about. But, anyway, you know my old pal Sparky?”
“No.”
“You do, bud. He’s the one with the bong shop in Brighton Lanes?”
Obviously.
“Okay . . .”
“He’s got this friend. Julia. She lives in London. Crystal Palace way, actually, so not too far from you. She’s thirty-five. And about two years ago she went through a pretty shitty-sounding divorce.”
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