The Girl Across the Street

by Vikki Patis

  ‘You’re not voting?’ I say finally, trying to keep my tone light.

  Beth shrugs, colour creeping up her neck, and I feel a wave of shame pass over me. Who am I, to stand in judgement over this woman?

  ‘I’m just popping to the shop actually,’ she says, moving away. ‘Need some more fags.’

  ‘I’ll come too,’ I say. ‘I could do with something to drink.’ I realise that my mouth suddenly feels dry.

  We enter the shop together, stepping through the creaking door plastered with LOST CAT posters and WANTED ads. I head for the fridge and grab a bottle of Vanilla Coke. Beth steps up behind me.

  ‘I haven’t had that for ages!’ she exclaims, laughing. ‘I thought they’d stopped doing it.’

  I hand her the bottle and reach in for another one. ‘It’s my favourite,’ I say, amused at her excitement.

  We go over to the counter and pay for our items. Beth also buys a scratch card.

  ‘You never know,’ she says, winking at me as we exit the shop. ‘Got a penny?’

  I rummage in my handbag and come up with an old, dirty penny. Beth tucks her bottle of Coke between her legs and scratches the coin against the scratch card. She holds it up when she’s finished.

  ‘All right, a tenner!’ she laughs. I grin at her excitement.

  ‘I’ve never won anything on one of those,’ I say. Beth hands me the penny, which I drop into my handbag, to get lost once again amongst the detritus.

  ‘Better go and collect my winnings,’ she says, and wanders back into the shop. I open my Coke and drink deeply, then light a cigarette. I can hear children playing in the park down the road; cars whizz past on the dual carriageway. The smell of McDonald’s drifts over towards me.

  ‘Ah, I’m so used to that smell,’ Beth says, making me jump. ‘Can’t have your windows open in summer without your whole flat stinking of burgers.’ I laugh.

  ‘Do you fancy one?’ The words are out of my mouth before I realise what I’m saying. I haven’t had a McDonald’s in years. I remember the greasy meat, the salty chips, the sickeningly sweet milkshakes of my youth. Beth stares at me for a moment and I falter, open my mouth to rescind the invitation.

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ she says finally, and I let out a breath.

  She takes my arm as we walk through the alley towards the restaurant, reminding me of my schooldays, when my friends and I would link arms as we strolled through town. How close we all were: inseparable. Or so we thought. Was that the last time I had a close friend? A friend I could stay up late with, plaiting each other’s hair, smearing our cheeks with face masks that closely resembled mud? Giggling under the duvet, talking about boys and clothes; dreaming up careers for ourselves, husbands, families. How easily I slipped into those friendships, bouncing as I did from school to school, house to house. How different my life has become, I realise now, glancing at Beth. How very different.

  The drive-through is packed; cars block the junction around the roundabout, to a chorus of beeping horns and angry swearing. I feel like laughing. I like the sensation of Beth’s arm linked through mine, like we’re teenagers. Strands of her hair emerge from her braid; they merge in the breeze with my curls, chocolate with caramel.

  Inside, I stare up at the menu boards. I have no idea what anything is, can barely remember what a Big Mac tastes like. Beth leans in close.

  ‘You should get a Big Tasty,’ she says, her breath tickling my ear. ‘They’re delish. But without bacon.’

  I nod, and together we step up to the counter. Beth orders – a Quarter Pounder with cheese for her, a Big Tasty meal for me – and I pay, tapping my debit card against the contactless machine. I have chosen a strawberry milkshake; I suppress a sigh when I see Beth grab two plastic straws from the counter. I forgot to bring my reusable straw with me.

  We find a table and sit opposite each other, grinning over our trays of food. I feel ten years younger; carefree, sharing a meal with a friend. Beth opens her burger and tosses the gherkin into a napkin.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ I ask. She shakes her head, sticks out her tongue. ‘Me neither.’ I open my own burger and check for gherkin, finding the offending articles hidden beneath some lettuce. I throw them on the napkin as well. Beth grins around a mouthful of chips.

  I close my burger and bring it to my lips. It smells delicious, though I know there’s nothing good inside it. When was the last time I ate meat or cheese that wasn’t organic?

  ‘Go on, dig in!’ Beth exclaims, and I take a huge bite. She cheers. ‘You’ve got a little…’ she says, indicating the side of my mouth.

  I grab a napkin and wipe my face, blushing. Beth laughs.

  ‘Good, right?’

  I nod, taking another bite, smaller this time. My taste buds are exploding inside my mouth. I unwrap my straw and shove it into the milkshake, taking a long gulp. The cold sweetness makes my mouth tingle.

  Beth’s phone lights up on the table between us. I see the cracked screen, remember it lying face-up between us that night, the 999 operator’s voice spilling out into the dark.

  I look at the screen saver. ‘Is that your boyfriend?’ I ask, popping a salty chip into my mouth. Beth nods.

  ‘Kyle.’

  ‘How long have you been together?’

  She pauses, chewing. ‘Erm. Seven years?’ She looks stunned, as if she can’t quite believe it herself. ‘Have I really spent seven years with him? Seven years of washing his dirty socks, of him lazing around on the sofa, stinking the flat out?’ Her laughter is bitter.

  ‘Surely it wasn’t always like that?’ I ask gently. ‘He had a job before, didn’t he?’

  Beth sighs. ‘No, you’re right. He used to work; he had a job in a warehouse in Stevenage. He had a car, rust bucket though it was. We paid for Netflix and got takeaway curry and went to the cinema.’

  ‘When did it all change?’ I wonder at my boldness. Would I want Beth to ask me these questions?

  She shrugs. ‘Probably when he got laid off. He started smoking more weed and staying up all night, refused to look for jobs. It went downhill from there, I guess.’

  I’m silent for a moment. Poor Beth. She looks tired, with bags under her eyes. She appears to be lost in thought.

  ‘Where’s he from?’ I ask, nudging her back to the present. She scowls.

  ‘Hertford,’ she says briskly. I draw back, confused. ‘Sorry,’ she adds quickly, softening her tone. ‘People like to ask that question, but they usually mean, where is he really from.’

  Something clicks in my mind. ‘Because he’s black?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, mixed race. His mum is white.’

  ‘Oh.’ I pause, taking another bite of my burger. How ignorant, I think with distaste. ‘Did you grow up together?’

  ‘Yep. Went to the same school.’

  ‘Cute,’ I say, smiling.

  Beth bites back a snort. ‘Not really. Our mums became sort-of friends, so we all used to hang out down the park and that.’

  ‘Did your mum like him?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. I don’t know what she’d think of him now.’

  ‘Where is she?’ I ask gently.

  Beth avoids my gaze. ‘She died when I was eighteen. Cancer.’

  I close my eyes for a second. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, and I am. Why am I probing? This is hardly the time or place for such personal questions.

  Beth glances at her phone. ‘Ah, crap. Better go get ready for work. It’s my early shift today. You finished?’ At my nod, she pushes up from the table, picking up our trays and emptying them in the bin. She deposits the trays on top. I stand and follow her out of the restaurant.

  ‘That was nice,’ I say as we step out into the sunshine. Beth smiles, and I feel warmth spreading through my veins.

  Ten

  Beth

  Beth wakes at ten to find Kyle’s side of the bed empty. She stretches, lifting her arms over her head. Something clicks in her back, and she sighs. She pulls herself out of bed, and, on impulse, begins to st
rip the covers. Bundling them in her arms, she wanders out of the bedroom and throws them into the washing machine.

  While the machine gurgles, she fills the kettle. The kitchen worktops are still littered with used mugs and dirty plates. Rolling up her sleeves, she begins to tackle them. One by one she submerges the dishes in hot soapy water, scrubbing them until they shine and her hands begin to turn red. Her mind drifts as she works; a memory of her mother comes back to her, a memory of them together in the almost identical flat of her childhood.

  Her mother was always cleaning, if not her own flat then other people’s houses. Beth remembers the first residents of Foxholes drifting in, and going out with her mum to post hastily scribbled flyers for her domestic cleaning services. She remembers the manicured lawns, the fake potted plants, the shiny windows. Soon enough, her mother had several clients in the new houses; she came home with stories about their separate living and dining rooms, sparkling new kitchen appliances, plush carpets. It sounded like luxury to Beth.

  She scrubs the kitchen counters with a soapy rag, then washes down the cupboard doors. With a burst of energy, she heads into the living room and throws open the thick curtains. Dust glitters in the morning light. She looks around the room, at the battered sofa, the discarded cans and empty crisp packets. She fetches a black bag from under the kitchen sink and starts tidying up. She remembers Isla’s house, how pristine it is, and envy bubbles up in her throat. Why should she, Beth, live in a pigsty? She realises that she hasn’t seen Kyle yet, and is thankful for it.

  She dusts and tidies, stacking old magazines on the coffee table. In the bathroom, she scrubs the grime from around the sink, pulls hair from the plughole. She fills a bucket with warm water and washes the windows, drying them with kitchen roll like her mum taught her. She looks around the room, grimacing at the state of the carpet. Her mother would be ashamed of this place, of how bad Beth has let it get. She wrestles the ancient hoover out from the tiny hall cupboard and pushes the heavy bastard around until she can see clean lines in the carpets.

  Finished, she leans against the hoover, looking around at her work. She can’t remember the last time the flat was properly cleaned. With a hint of dismay, she glances down at the carpet, stained and worn in places; at the old sofa, given to her for free by someone from the flat below. Nothing in her flat is new.

  The letter box bangs, startling her. Setting her well-earned cup of tea on the counter, she pads over to the front door and scoops the pile of mail off the mat. Takeaway leaflets, a charity bag, a business card for a local gardener. She throws it all into the bin with barely a glance.

  She is smoking a cigarette in the kitchen when a key rattles in the lock and the front door is pushed open. She turns to see Kyle, laden down with plastic shopping bags. He stares at her, at her sweat-soaked pyjamas, her red face, her greasy hair.

  ‘All right?’ he says, hefting the bags into the kitchen.

  ‘You did the shopping?’ Beth asks, bewildered. Without being asked? She bites the words back.

  ‘Yep,’ Kyle says, rustling the bags. Beth extinguishes the cigarette in the sink and throws the butt in the bin.

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘Loads.’ He piles tins of tomatoes on the side, next to a huge multipack of crisps, a bottle of Pepsi. He reaches down for another bag and lifts out four pints of milk and several microwave meals. A huge pack of chicken breasts and two of mince, loose onions and carrots, a bag of peppers, a bottle of vegetable oil.

  Beth stares at his back. What brought this on? she wonders. ‘Wow, thanks,’ she says instead. Kyle turns and flashes her a grin. ‘How much did it cost?’

  ‘The receipt’s in there,’ he says, nodding towards an empty bag. She finds it; is dismayed at the amount. Kyle, noticing her silence, turns to her. ‘It’s for the month,’ he says, a note of defensiveness in his voice. Beth folds the receipt and throws it in the bin. She forces herself to smile.

  ‘Perfect,’ she says, and Kyle’s grin is back.

  They finish unloading the shopping together in the tiny kitchen, filling the cupboards and the fridge. Beth separates the chicken into freezer bags; she puts five bags of two breasts each into the freezer.

  ‘Are you working tonight?’ he asks when they’re done. She nods from her place at the sink, drying her hands on a clean tea towel.

  ‘Yep, six till twelve.’ Thursdays are her shortest shifts.

  ‘Cool,’ Kyle says, grabbing a can of Monster and wandering into the living room. ‘Looks good in here.’ He flops down on the sofa and puts his socked feet on the coffee table. He switches the TV on and picks up his controller.

  ‘I need a shower,’ Beth mutters, tucking the hoover back into its cupboard as she heads for the bathroom. Gunfire sounds as she shuts the door behind her.

  Standing under the lukewarm water, she lathers her hair with the last of the Herbal Essences, trying to savour the gorgeous coconut smell. She’ll be back on own-brand two-in-one now. There’s no money for luxuries like Herbal Essences this month.

  She dries her hair roughly, then wraps the same ragged towel around her body. She cleans her teeth at the sink, wet hair dripping down her back.

  ‘Can you get the airer out of the cupboard, please?’ she asks Kyle as she pads towards the bedroom. He doesn’t appear to have heard her. She sighs and shuts the bedroom door behind her.

  Peering into the grimy mirror hanging on the wall, she applies her foundation sparingly – the bottle is almost empty – then opens the pot of powder. It’s broken, crumbs dropping on to the carpet. Using the handle of her powder brush, she breaks it up into a fine dust, and applies a small amount. A lick of mascara, drying in its tube, and she’s ready. She piles her wet hair into a bun on top of her head, then opens the bedroom door.

  ‘Where’s Steve?’ she asks as she wrestles the airer out of the cupboard and puts it up in the living room. ‘Haven’t seen him in a few days.’

  ‘He does have a home to go to,’ Kyle says drily. Beth almost snorts. Steve is always hanging around their flat, his constant presence evident in the rubbish littering the living room floor and the smell of his unwashed body. Beth shudders. She’s never really liked Steve, has always felt uncomfortable in his company.

  She turns away and begins pulling the damp bedding from the washing machine. Isla drifts into her thoughts as she’s hanging up the last pillowcase.

  She imagines the other woman standing in her kitchen, worktops gleaming, dishwasher gurgling away, agonising over the memory of that night. Did she realise that Beth recognised her husband the other night? Beth remembers her turning away in the restaurant, her eyes flicking down to her uneaten food, while Jake’s fingers burned a line up Beth’s thigh. Does she know what happened afterwards, during that dreadful night? Beth shakes her head. No, she can’t. At least, she can’t know everything.

  Suddenly buoyed, she gets her phone out of her pocket and types out a quick text. Isla responds almost immediately, asking what Beth is up to today.

  Work, yawn, Beth types back. You?

  The usual. Isla’s replies are always short, as if she doesn’t trust herself to say more. She always tries to push the attention away from her, spinning every question put to her back towards the asker. What does she have to hide? Beth wonders as she taps out a reply, remembering that tomorrow is her day to see her father, his twice-yearly visit. It’s a good thing she cleaned the flat, she realises. Seeing my dad tomorrow though, she writes.

  Going anywhere nice? Isla asks. Beth frowns. Her dad always comes to the flat, his nose held in the air, perching on the edge of the sofa and refusing all offers of tea. Why don’t they go out? He can certainly afford it, after all.

  She exits from the messages and pulls up her dad’s number. Breathing deeply, she presses it, and listens to the ringing in her ear. As she’s about to give up, her dad answers.

  ‘Hello?’ he says. Beth can hear noise in the background: children, cars.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ she says, raising her voi
ce.

  ‘Hello, Elizabeth,’ he responds, sounding a bit surprised. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Well,’ she begins, tension creeping up into her shoulders. ‘You know it’s our day tomorrow, right?’ Her dad gives a grunt that could count as agreement. She continues. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to do something? Go out for lunch, maybe?’ She can hear the desperation in her voice. Since he walked out on her when she was young, she has only seen her father occasionally, and for only a few hours at a time. He lives a mere twenty miles away, near Bishop’s Stortford, but their visits are always few and far between, especially since he met Sharon.

  ‘Where did you have in mind?’ he asks after a beat. Beth smiles.

  Beth’s dad gives her a lift back to the flat after their lunch. It went well, better than any of their previous meetings. Her father was in a better mood than she’d ever seen him; he picked her up and drove them both into town, and he seemed pleased with her choice of venue. A new place just opened up, another McMullen’s pub, unsurprising given the location of the brewery in the town, and Beth had been desperate to try it.

  Over a shared starter of garlic mushrooms, her dad spoke fondly of her half-brothers, the twin boys she barely gets to see, thanks to Sharon, her dad’s wife, taking a disliking to her from the beginning. The boys were sixteen now, preparing for their GCSEs. Beth could hardly believe how fast time flew. When you’re having fun.

  ‘How’s work?’ her dad asked while they waited for their mains. She told him about the long shifts, the manager she’s never got on with, but when he frowned, she started talking about her colleagues, about the mischief they get up to on quiet nights. She felt a sense of pride as he smiled and nodded, apparently amused by her stories.

  ‘Do you want to come up for a cup of tea?’ she asks when he pulls up and puts the handbrake on. For a moment she thinks he’s going to refuse, and she’s reminded of all those times he dropped her off when she was a child, outside this very block of flats, her mum waiting nervously in the living room. How strange their relationship was. They were so young, barely adults themselves, when her mum got pregnant and they moved into their tiny flat. Her dad left barely a year later, but her mum stayed until she died, when Beth was still a teenager. His parents had encouraged him to leave, her mum always said, with that sad smile she wore when she spoke of him. They’d had high hopes for him – to go to university, to get a good job, a nice house, a perfect family. Beth’s mum was an anomaly, written off by her dad’s parents as him sowing his wild oats. The fact that there was a child who needed a father didn’t seem to matter very much.