‘Yup. You’ve missed your mum’s bake sale. She called me an hour ago when she couldn’t get hold of you for two days straight. I turned your mobile off, by the way.’
Faith pours me a glass of water – and puts the kettle on. Her tousled hair has that just-got-out-of-bed sexiness they tout on shampoo commercials. Her cleansed, toned and moisturised skin is clear and dewy-looking. She smells like rosewater and jojoba.
My hair feels like an oil slick and my mouth tastes like the bottom of a birdcage.
‘Oh dear...’
‘She also passed on the message that June Whitbury wants to evict you. It’s been a busy morning while you slept, darling. I was just about to wake you.’
I slump myself onto a kitchen stool.
In the cold light of day, I wrap my sober head around recent events. Jordan made Benny sick. Benny destroyed the flat. That pushed me to finally end things with my selfish twat of a boyfriend and I kicked him out. I attended the opening of a new club, in a ludicrous outfit, where I got drunk with Faith and Poppy and high with Harry’s half-sisters, sort of hit on Harry and then passed out. I’ve lost a day and a half sleeping it all off in Faith’s spare bedroom. This morning, I missed helping my mother with her bake sale at the charity shop. Now, June Whitbury is evicting me?
She must know about the carnage made in the flat she rents to me for a generously low sum, on the proviso I care for it as well as her dearly departed mother always had.
I imagine the state is far worse than when I left it Thursday morning. Putrid and festering, stinking of poo.
‘Yup,’ Faith repeats, as if reading my mind. ‘You told me Benny had a touch of the runs? June believes her place is completely destroyed.’
‘Why was June at my flat?’
June Whitbury doesn’t drive and she won’t take the trains, let alone the Tube. She hasn’t left Redhill in decades.
‘According to your mother, her solicitor attended to let in an electrician. Something about installing a fire alarm without delay for insurance purposes. You weren’t answering your phone, so he popped by with the key.’
Benny jumps onto the bench and sidles affectionately close to Faith, rubbing his mouth against her hand.
‘Apparently, he’ll be back at the flat at 5 p.m. today to give you a stern talking-to and your notice. So, let’s get dressed and get the place cleaned up before he arrives. Then we’ll see what we can do about this eviction.’
I take a moment to take it all in.
‘I can’t ask you to help me clean, Faith. It wasn’t Benny’s fault.’
Jordan, on the other hand, can go and do one.
‘You’re not asking. Also, I should have known it was a stupid idea to send a cat for a sleepover.’ Beside Faith, Benny is roly-polying on his tummy, being tickled. ‘And I’ve promised your mum – I told her you’ve been sick with a tummy bug and I’ve been babysitting you through it, by the way. You’re off the hook for missing the bake sale.’
‘Thank you, Faith, for everything. About last night—’
‘It was Thursday night, and I’m not sure I want to talk about it.’
‘Okay. But, I am so sorry.’
‘Will you go and get in the shower now please? I’ll have a cuppa ready for when you get out. You can borrow my yoga top and pants. Come on. We’ll leave in half an hour.’
Faith is wide-eyed at the stench – or the sight, they’re equally grotesque – as we step inside my flat. She takes in the scene of ripped boxes, scattered clothes, de-railed curtains and faeces-streaked furniture.
‘Benny did all this?’
‘The shopping fell out of the cupboard on its own.’
‘He’s never so much as peed in my pot plants.’
I remind her Benny was in strange surroundings, without her, and most unwell.
‘Just so you know, you’re never borrowing him again.’
‘Believe me, Faith, I’d never ask.’
She returns from the kitchen wearing rubber gloves and carrying an assortment of cleaning products. She sprays copious amounts of air-freshener and opens the windows in the front room. Removing her high-heeled boots, Faith rolls up her skinny jeans as far as they will go. She looks like a sexy cleaner who’s about to leap into porn-star sex moves when the husband randomly comes home early while his wife is out.
Faith has a cleaner attend to her flat almost daily. In my stinky flat, with my champagne-cocaine abused body still on the mend, I have never been so grateful or felt so loved.
‘Where shall we start?’ she asks.
We clean. We spray, scrub and dispose. We get the place in order. I also call my mother to let her know I’m fit and well and to allay her fears about the situation with the flat. I assure her I’m confident everything can be smoothed over with June, after I meet the solicitor. She’s relieved to hear Faith’s with me, so she doesn’t have to send my father, who also hasn’t travelled out of Redhill in forever. She tells me she has a lemon poppyseed cake in the oven and will take it around to June’s tomorrow as an apology.
‘June’s my friend.’
‘Yes. I’m so sorry, Mummy. I promise, I’ll sort it.’
‘You’ll let me know, dear?’
‘Of course. Gotta go clean. Love you.’
Faith sifts through the boxes and clothes littered throughout my hallway. I sweat over the stains on the carpet and the sofa. As we go, I tell her everything. About the problems Jordan and I had been having for some time. How lonely I’d felt. How isolated I’d made myself. About the terrible birthday sex and his physical rejection of me ever since. That I didn’t enjoy the cocaine and wouldn’t ever do anything like it again. How I embarrassed myself in front of Harry. Throughout, Faith is patient and empathetic. My best friend doesn’t make a big deal about how, after I collapsed in the club, she worried I’d had a heart attack or a stroke, or that someone had spiked my drink. But she does warn me off getting romantically involved with Harry. Again.
‘Darling, we had this conversation. Harry’s lovely. But he’s our agent. It’s for the best nothing happened. Though, by the sounds of it, you don’t need to be embarrassed, you didn’t exactly shove your tongue down his throat.’
In no time at all, the place is looking – if not yet smelling – decent when, lo and behold, Jordan waltzes in.
‘Is it safe to come in?’ He’s hovering inside the front door. Faith’s in the basement. He doesn’t know she’s here.
He’s wearing his black Versace jeans, white T-shirt and black blazer. His ‘going out’ outfit. He has a three-day stubble on his face.
I’m startled to see him. I’d told him we’re over. He’d packed his bags and fled. There wasn’t a single message from him when I’d turned my mobile on – there were several from Harry.
You okay? H
Just checking in …
Spoke with Faith. Glad you’re being looked after. Text me when you’re up? H
Harry’s texts were about an hour apart. In the cab, on the way to the flat, I’d texted back.
Most embarrassed, but up!
Don’t be embarrassed. All handled discreetly. No harm done.
At least I didn’t do a Britney and shave my head…
Be a Kate. Never complain, never explain.
Harry, I’m the new Queen of Cool?!
Ha! Leave it with me
I’d wanted Harry with me in person after he’d sent that. I’d wanted to look into his warm, darker-than-chocolate eyes as he turned my mortifying misadventure into a funny soundbite, including a reference to Kate Moss. Then, he texted me this:
Ps I’ve had words with my sisters. They’re sorry and send their love x
The kiss was new. Unsure if it was from him or his sisters, I’d speculated if maybe my recollection of Thursday night was inaccurate. If, perhaps, right before I passed out, Harry intended to declare the infatuation with me his sisters had ballyhooed on about all night. If Harry were madly keen on me, beyond being my agent, surely Faith would support us giving thin
gs a shot?
Without delay, I’d texted back.
Not at all. They were wonderful, and looked out for me. Give them my love. Are you on set this week? x
Will try to make it, H
And that settled that.
None of it changes anything with Jordan, I remind myself confidently. We broke up. End of.
‘You said not to come back unless it was to clean,’ Jordan says.
What’s he playing at?
‘It doesn’t change anything else I said, Jordan.’
‘I know, Grace.’ His voice is croaky. He looks exhausted. ‘I’ve been working around the clock. We got a whole bunch of accounts in at once and—’
‘I don’t need to hear about your work.’
‘Right. I was just explaining why I haven’t been back to help with the mess’
The flat is nowhere near as bad as when he left it. Jordan’s never given a toss about helping me with any of the housework. Though it’s only been two nights, a lot has happened to me since Thursday morning.
‘Hello, Jordan,’ Faith says, coming up the stairs.
Nervously, Jordan kisses her hello on the cheeks. He’s every reason to believe she knows every detail of what’s gone on between us.
‘I couldn’t believe it,’ Faith says. ‘This place, usually so immaculate because Gracie is a domestic goddess, looked like a giant litter tray.’
Jordan sucks his breath in and nods.
He launches into a polished explanation about the mishap with Benny, giving a comedic slant to his attempt at making pellet-shaped morsels out of the Pussy Paws wet food with my piping bag. It’s the first time Faith – or I – hear of the incident in detail. Jordan, in advertising executive mode, sells us a story that, despite the circumstances, has Faith finishing off with a laugh that she warned me to stick with his Royal Canin.
‘Regardless, Benny was a trooper,’ Jordan insists. ‘Really helped us out. The team at Pussy Paws were most impressed, and believe I actually have a cat. How can I thank you properly?’ Jordan glances nervously at me.
‘You can help us clean this flat before the solicitor gets here,’ Faith says. ‘I won’t beat around the bush and pretend I don’t know what’s going on with you two. But for your information, Gracie may well get kicked out of this beautiful flat that she’s lived in and cared for since she moved to London. I, for one, am not keen to see that happen.’
‘Crickey. Right.’
Faith explains the exact circumstances of my eminent eviction. Jordan offers to nip down to Tesco and hire a steam cleaner, which is good thinking – for someone who probably couldn’t say where we keep our vacuum, not sure how he came up with it. And I’m still incredibly cross with Jordan. There are hard feelings. But I’m grateful he’s going to help.
The three of us whizz around the place like Mrs Hinche and, by 5 p.m., the sofa is showroom fresh, if too wet to sit on, and the entire flat is sparkling clean. I light some scented Scandinavian candles. The place smells like a Nordic pine forest by the time Philip Maxwell of Maxwell & Maxwell solicitors arrives to enquire if I have any idea how ‘very far off my interpretation of responsible tenancy is from the good and honourable Mrs Whitbury’s?’
Intimidated by his stern demeanour, and unable to shake an image of a distraught June wearing the yellowed wedding dress I last saw her in at Beryl’s dinner party, I rely on Faith to do her thing and step in. As only Faith can, she walks Philip calmly through ‘the situation’, as he keeps referring to it.
In her best business voice, Faith impresses there most certainly has never been an unauthorised pet residing permanently at the address and that the flat is usually kept in pristine condition. Philip acknowledges it’s far more presentable than when he entered yesterday. Then he informs us that, while that might be well and good, events have nonetheless convinced June to sell. I’m to leave within the month regardless.
On such news, Faith leaps into negotiations that see me agreeing to purchase the property outright. I love living here, it’s more than a silver lining result. The price set, though exorbitant, is reasonable. Faith assures me she knows a broker who will sort a mortgage. Within the hour, Philip leaves with a legally binding purchase arrangement – and a twinkle in his eye that I can only attribute to being well and truly won over by Faith.
When Jordan leaves to return the steam-cleaner, I ask him to come back with boxes so he can pack up his stuff in the basement.
Faith leaves to get ready for Drake’s party. I can’t believe I have to go out again tonight.
Jordan returns while I’m showering. Stepping out of the bathroom, I hear music wafting up from downstairs. I dry my hair and put on some slap. For a body suffering from champagne-cocaine abuse, I scrub up quite nicely. Getting dressed, I slip into an old dress, black and not too fancy, that feels refreshingly loose on account I’ve hardly eaten in three days. Jordan is still in the basement, packing his crap.
As I’m heating through a home-made chicken risotto from the freezer, he pops up.
‘How’s it going?’ I ask.
‘Getting there.’
‘Do you want some food?’
‘Um, yeah. Thanks. Only if there’s enough.’
I sprinkle some sumac on the broccoli I steamed as a side.
‘There’s plenty.’ I set out more cutlery and another plate and we sit at the table and eat.
Silence reigns. I’m on my laptop, a ten-year-old MacBook, sending flowers and an apology to June Whitbury. I also send a big bunch of lilies to my mother, which will make her whole house fragrant for days.
Jordan clears his throat. ‘Grace, I think I can line up something next week, but I don’t have anywhere to stay just yet. Do you mind if I take the sofa? Just until I can sort a place.’
I shut my computer. ‘The sofa will be wet for days. You can’t sleep there.’
‘I can sleep on the rug, on the floor. I don’t mind making do.’
How noble! I don’t scream.
‘Sure. You can have the extra duvet.’ I’m not offering him half of my bed. Jordan wasn’t sleeping in it when he could do. ‘But I want you packed up and moved out within the week.’
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear, by the look on his face, Jordan wishes things could be different. He looks… regretful. All at sea. I guess it’s true what they say: you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.
‘I can keep myself scarce until then. I can work from the office. Where’s your party this evening? You look nice, Grace.’
‘Marylebone. Chiltern Firehouse. It’s a party hosted by Drake. Poppy is beyond delirious.’
‘Drake. Wow. You’ve hit the big time.’
Jordan is impressed. I’d sooner crawl into bed and skip the big time altogether. Aware of both my physical state and my sentiments, Faith suggested we could walk in, get our pictures taken and walk out again. I’d told her Poppy was so excited to see him, I’ll stick to water and stay as long as possible. I was quite rude to them both at The Tricycle Club, abandoning them for Harry’s sisters. I want to make amends.
‘I can’t believe you’re buying the flat,’ Jordan says.
‘The circumstances could have been better, but it’s a sensible thing to do. I’m happy about it. It’s the right thing.’
Jordan nods. Again, sadly. I don’t care. He had his chance. He blew it.
I drop my dirty dish in the sink and go to the bathroom to clean my teeth. I apply fresh lipstick. When I reappear in the kitchen, Jordan is doing the washing up.
‘I’m off,’ I say. What else to say to an ex-boyfriend who I’m still living with? Jordan doesn’t need to know when I’ll be in. Or if I’ll be in (I will be).
It’s odd, how we haven’t talked in any depth about breaking up. Maybe not so odd for us – our inability to communicate contributed considerably to our split. But it strikes me, now I’ve put my foot down, how surprisingly easy it was. How despite the hound dog face, Jordan has accepted as a fait accompli that we are done. All that
angst, for all those months, and here we are.
‘Have a good night, Grace.’
‘Thanks.’
And out I go.
22
At the party, Faith arrives in a sexy gold slip, channelling her inner J Lo. Poppy, in a tiny beige dress and a feather headband, resembles Pocahontas. I’m unassuming by comparison in my trusted black dress but it’s much more me than all those frills and cleavage.
We’re inside and seated at a table for four when Harry texts to say he can’t get out of another engagement to join us. I’m still mortified at my behaviour – I hope I haven’t scared him off. Whether he noticed or not, I laid my feelings for him bare and they weren’t reciprocated. I’ll get over it. Though he’s my first professional agent, I can’t imagine anyone better than Harry. I can’t bear the thought of losing him altogether.
We’ve been here but half an hour when the second-to-last person I want to spend time with, behind Jordan, surfaces: Alex Sutcliffe. Looking dapper, and like the sheep in wolf’s clothing that he is, Alex saunters over with a blonde waif dangling off his arm. Introducing her – Matilda seems as sweet as she is beautiful – he jabbers on about how they can’t stay long as she’s due on a catwalk in Milan tomorrow. When they slink off into the crowd, Faith tells me she turned him down flat the night I left them in the pub. Alex was apparently quite plain with her that, although he has a long-term girlfriend, he’d be happy to go home and screw.
‘Cheating bastard,’ Faith says. ‘She’s stunning.’
‘Girl code,’ Poppy says.
‘I mean, be single and screw who you like,’ Faith goes on. ‘Why lie to someone you’re pretending to care about?’
For a split second, I wonder if Jordan ever cheated on me. I understand the temptation. I’d grown fond of Harry before I was officially single – the circumstances were extenuating, and I didn’t cheat and I hope I never would, but I didn’t exactly put the brakes on my budding attraction. It’s important to watch your thoughts, before they become actions, I remind myself. But it’s action that defines character.
Look At Me Now Page 17