Can't Live Without

by Joanne Phillips

  What I need is a miracle.

  What I need is a second job!

  I’m about to pay for my coffee when I notice the sign above the till. “Friendly, outgoing staff wanted for evenings and weekends. Apply within.”

  Yes! That is it. I will get a job here, at my favourite coffee shop. It won’t solve all my problems immediately but it has to be a start. And it also has to be fate – I didn’t notice the sign the first time I was at the till because I had been trying to get Paul’s attention. And if he hadn’t left me here all alone I wouldn’t have come back to the counter and I wouldn’t have seen the sign. Fate.

  Funny thing, fate. I’ve never really believed in it before. But I guess when you’ve got virtually nothing left and your life is pretty much in tatters, even the most random thing can seem to have a special meaning. I put on my most engaging smile and ask to see the manager.

  Chapter 6

  As I’m creeping down the stairs on Monday morning, trying to get out of the house without being noticed, I hear my mum crying in the kitchen. I pause, freeze-frame style, one hand resting lightly on the banister, all my weight balanced on my left leg. A memory from childhood reminds me that two of the stair treads creak near the bottom, so when I move forward I do so even more carefully. Down the hall, past the dining room, holding my breath and tiptoeing, I try hard to block out the sound of low sobbing.

  You may think it heartless, ignoring someone so obviously upset. But I have to. I can’t afford to let her into my head at the moment. This very morning I made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror while I cleaned my teeth (usually I do it by feel alone), and the sight was really quite disturbing. Familiar but strange, like a friend who suddenly reinvents herself and you know she’s different but you can’t quite work out how.

  But in my case it was the opposite – like being un-invented.

  I concluded, after much scrutiny, that my life-long policy of trying to avoid emotional problems at all costs was definitely better for my looks and I vowed to return to it immediately. So, you understand, my looks, my health – my entire future happiness – prevent me from going to my mum at this moment.

  And I nearly make it out of the house with this intention intact.

  Nearly, but not quite.

  When I reach the front door I catch an extra loud sob and an involuntary hiccup. Silently cursing my weakness, I turn on my heel and walk calmly back towards the drama.

  The kitchen in my parents’ house is an overly large farmhouse-style indulgence. My mother sits at the enormous wooden table with her head bowed low, arms stretched in a wide circle as though hugging something. She is dwarfed by the oversized ladder-back chair and looks early-morning rough in her favourite fluffy dressing gown.

  She doesn’t notice me at first, which gives me time to take in the source of her anguish. As if I didn’t know already. She has surrounded herself with photographs: images of the family, staged scenes from long-ago holidays, awkwardly posed pictures of Billy and me as children with fake smiles or genuine frowns. But most of the photographs, unsurprisingly, are of my father.

  One picture in particular I have seen her crying over many times before. This one has him frozen in time on the day they met. It is a story she loved to tell us when we were kids, and I remember the faraway glaze that would mist her eyes when she got to her favourite part.

  Margaret Foster – known to her friends as Maggie – worked in a bookshop in a pretty village called Stony Stratford, on the outskirts of what had just been designated the new city of Milton Keynes. It would be another ten years until the magnificent shopping centre opened, so Howard Hill had to order his college books from the local shop: titles like The A to Z of Plumbing and Careers in Construction. Hardly the stuff to turn a girl’s head, but my mum says she fell for him straight away. By the time he asked her to lunch it was a done deal.

  On the way back to the bookshop, Howard nipped into a photo booth. He tried to cajole Maggie to go inside the booth with him but she thought this too forward. She did, however, accept one of the photographs with his telephone number and address scrawled on the back, and gave him her own number on a bookmark.

  She still has the photo, and is clutching it now, gazing out of watery eyes at the likeness of her husband thirty-eight years ago. Did he keep the bookmark? Somehow, I doubt it.

  I walk up behind my mother and place a protective arm around her shoulders. She sinks into me as though melting. I am surprised when, instead of becoming more intense, her tears subside quickly. She still clings to me though, until my back is stiff from bending.

  After a while I stand up straight and push her hair back from her face. She has continued to have it expensively dyed the copper red of her youth, with expertly placed lowlights and highlights. It suits her. One day soon I’ll remember to tell her.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ I say, and see, with a degree of discomfort, that she visibly relaxes. No reprimand from Stella this time. Is that really what she thinks? Is that what she expects from me?

  She nods in agreement to the tea and begins to gather up the photographs, returning them to their black leather box. All except the passport photo; this she brings over to the sink where I’m washing out a cup.

  ‘He was so handsome, wasn’t he, back then?’ she says softly, holding out the picture like a talisman.

  I put the cup down on the granite worktop with a bang, harder than expected, making both of us jump. My fingers are clenched around the handle so tightly I can feel my nails digging into my palm. I should have seen that coming. She never passes up an opportunity to go on at me about my dad. Why don’t I go and see him? Why did I take what happened so personally? Questions that I couldn’t have made it plainer I have no intention of answering. Ever. Now she’ll make a scene, more tears and recriminations.

  Slowly, I uncurl my hand and walk across the kitchen to the fridge. My mother watches me carefully. I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head, feel the weight of all the words she wants to say.

  ‘Skimmed or semi?’ I ask, turning to show her the choice of milk.

  She slips the photograph into the pocket of her dressing gown and leaves the kitchen without another word. I stare at the space she leaves behind for a long time after she’s gone.

  ***

  The next shock of the day comes at eleven o’clock. I’ve just ended a particularly irksome phone call from a disgruntled tenant, when my mobile rings in my bag under the desk. Thinking it might be Lipsy, I grab it and race out to the back of the building – personal calls are frowned upon even by ultra-lenient Paul. I’m still panting as I answer the phone.

  ‘Can I speak to Miss Stella Hill, please?’ Not Lipsy, then.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is Graham Canter from the Fire Investigations Office. We have a result in the investigation into your house fire. That is, we know what caused it.’

  The voice is official and nasal. I fight to get my breath back and try to focus on what he is saying. The only words that register are “fire” and “caused”.

  ‘Was it arson?’ I gasp.

  ‘Was it… no, it wasn’t arson, Miss Hill. Why would you think that?’ He sounds worried all of a sudden. ‘The police gave us no indication of suspicious circumstances …’

  ‘No reason, just wondered,’ I say quickly.

  Of course it wasn’t arson, I just have this uneasy feeling in my belly, and a strong conviction that someone must be to blame. A bad thing happens and it’s somebody’s fault. That’s how it works, right?

  ‘So? What was it then?’ I force myself to ask.

  ‘Your washing machine!’ he announces triumphantly.

  There is a long pause.

  ‘My washing machine set fire to my house?’ I say, incredulously. Visions invade my mind of the machine coming to life and dousing the kitchen in petrol, water hoses waving around menacingly, the round glass door a sinister moon-face.

  ‘Indirectly, yes. It took us a while to figure it out, this faul
t is very rare. But we persevered, took apart every appliance, analysed every possible source of ignition. You wouldn’t believe what you can deduce, even when something is terrifically damaged.’

  He pauses as if waiting for praise or recognition. None is forthcoming so he carries on.

  ‘A rare fault, as I said, seen in machines which are old and haven’t been regularly serviced.’

  ‘But …’ I stammer, ‘but, I – I didn’t even have the washing machine on. I’d just got up, for God’s sake!’

  ‘The machine doesn’t need to be actually going at the time. It was plugged in and left switched on. Something malfunctions, sparks fly, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

  His voice recedes as the world starts to darken. I lean all my weight against the skip behind me and slide down it until I am sitting awkwardly on the ground. A cat, skinny and mangy, sleeks past me and picks at the remains of a kebab still in its wrapper. I watch it through flat eyes. The words echo and crash around my head.

  Old machines. Not regularly serviced. Plugged in and left on. But I did this all the time, no one had ever told me not to, told me to unplug every appliance the minute I’d finished using it. And who knew they had to get their washing machine serviced? It breaks down you get it fixed. That was how we did it when I was growing up.

  This is clearly no excuse, however. Reading between the lines, I know exactly what the jobsworth fire investigator is trying to tell me.

  ‘Hello. Hello? Are you still there, Miss Hill?’

  I drop the phone amidst the rubbish and put my head into my hands. He is trying to tell me that all of this is my fault and my fault alone. And the worst of it? I know it’s true. I have burned down my own house through ignorance and neglect.

  ***

  I stay late at the office again, waiting for my second date with Joshua. He called a little while ago to tell me that we’re going to an upmarket restaurant recently opened by some friends of his.

  I ponder his use of the word “upmarket”. Does it mean he thinks my usual eateries are downmarket? Has he observed me bringing in my shopping bags (Happy Shopper? Netto?) and compared them unfavourably to his own Waitrose habit? Am I properly dressed for a meeting with high-flying restaurant-owning friends? Or should I race up to the shops again and buy another outfit, something more upmarket? Maybe just another pair of shoes?

  After much agonising I decide against it. There isn’t much left of the sub Paul gave me and it’s two more weeks until payday. Although I start my new job at Café Crème this Thursday – which I am actually really excited about – I’m planning to use my wages from there to buy something nice for Lipsy. Besides, I really can’t summon up the energy to go shopping again. All those lovely things I can’t afford – it’s just too depressing.

  I undo the top two buttons of my blouse instead and twist my hair up into a pleat, securing it with a purple butterfly clip I find in Susan’s drawer. Lipstick and lashes follow. My reflection in the mirrored panels behind the displays isn’t all that reassuring but it will have to do. What do I care, anyway? It’s not as if I’m really that interested in Joshua. But while I’m waiting for Mr Right I might as well let Mr Probably-Isn’t buy me dinner occasionally.

  Needing a distraction, I take out my list. Over the past week it has become something of an obsession. The act of writing down on paper that which I most want has a magical feel, as though I can conjure items into existence with the power of my desire alone. I desperately need to believe that one day I will own stuff again.

  Sometimes lately I feel weightless. It’s as if I need possessions to give me substance. When I think about the few scant belongings I have left (capsule wardrobe, some teenage memorabilia, a seven-year-old Peugeot slightly the worse for wear), it makes me want to weep. I feel like a vagrant, homeless and possessionless in a world where everyone is judged by the amount of stuff they own.

  Often it will be something small I’ll miss, something triggered by a memory and followed by an achingly empty feeling in my stomach. Like the statue of the Eiffel Tower I brought home from a school trip when I was eleven: six inches tall and made of plastic; worthless and irreplaceable. Or the note on the fridge that had been there for over a year: Lipsy’s careless scrawl, “Broke glass, sorry mum, love you.” Those rare words – real written evidence that once my daughter felt that way about me. Thank God the photos did survive. No matter what Paul says, I would have rescued those from the fire ahead of my kitchenalia if I’d had the choice. I’m sure I would.

  Unable to concentrate on the mountain of filing in front of me, I sit and stare out of the window, one hand on the stack of papers, the other on my list. Outside people are heading back to their cars, jackets flung over shoulders, arms full of shopping. I picture them arriving back at their homes, shrugging off shoes and flopping onto sofas with cups of tea or bottles of beer, and I have to fight back a fierce stab of envy.

  ***

  At seven o’clock on the dot Joshua pulls up outside Smart Homes in his super-sparkling Mazda. I leave the filing in a heap and lock the door behind me. It is a glorious evening, the kind Milton Keynes does really well. A low sun glints off the mirrored buildings and the long road down to the railway station is lined with trees and dotted with smiley people.

  And what better way to enjoy it than from inside a sports car with the top down, speeding along dual carriageways, past lakes and parks. I’m glad I put my hair up (it would soon be a bird’s nest otherwise), but I clocked Joshua’s disappointment when he saw that I was wearing the same outfit as last week. Well, tough luck, Buster. I’m not a specimen for you to show off to your high-and-mighty friends.

  This turns out to be an unfair assessment. His friends are warm and welcoming and completely unpretentious, a couple so obviously meant to be together it makes my heart hurt. Bob explains that he is doubling up as head chef for the night and leaves us with Charlotte, who carefully takes us through the menu. I watch her eyes as she talks, and wonder when was the last time I felt so enthusiastic about food.

  While we wait for the wine to arrive I tell Joshua about the call from the fire investigator. He listens carefully and sympathetically, and then makes me wish I hadn’t told him at all.

  ‘Stella, darling, you mustn’t be so hard on yourself,’ he says. ‘Anyone could have made that mistake.’ This may sound reassuring, but all it does is confirm that it was my fault, my mistake.

  ‘Don’t you leave your washing machine switched on when you’re not using it?’ I ask him.

  ‘Of course not,’ he laughs.

  Why is it funny?

  He sees my face and adds quickly, ‘But that’s because I do all my washing on a Sunday when I happen to be at home all day.’

  ‘You clean your car then as well, don’t you? And on a Wednesday, if I’m not mistaken.’ I am trying for a dig but he takes it as a compliment.

  ‘You watch me a lot, huh?’ He smiles, showing me lots of perfect teeth.

  I shake my head indignantly but his attention has already wavered. Actually, I did watch him a lot, which is why his comment annoys me. I always made fun of his little obsessions, to Bonnie and to Lipsy and to anyone else who was interested, but in a way I found them strangely reassuring. Like the way he always parks his car just so, never at an angle or haphazardly abandoned in the street (like me). And the way he closes his front door and then goes back three times to check it. I’ve seen him do this and it makes me smile – not always kindly, which seems a bit mean with hindsight.

  But I didn’t watch him because I fancied him, as he seems to be implying now. I guess I just didn’t have a lot else to do – and yes, I know how sad that sounds.

  I watch him again as he studies the wine list; we have ordered wine already but he clearly isn’t entirely satisfied with his choice. I notice the way his hair grows straight back from his forehead and how it shows off his hairline, which is receding slightly. I like that in a man; I think it gives the face more definition. I went out with a guy once who
had the lowest hairline you’ve ever seen; only an inch above his eyebrows, I swear. That relationship didn’t last very long.

  ‘I think we’ll have a bottle of the Turning Leaf instead,’ Joshua tells me. ‘It will go better with the chicken.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be a bit rude to change our order now?’

  ‘No, don’t be silly. Bob and Charlotte won’t mind.’

  He’s probably right; they are possibly the most accommodating people I’ve ever met. But still, it seems a shame to abuse that. I keep my mouth shut; they are his friends not mine.

  Joshua tells a passing waiter about his change of mind then turns his attention back to me. He studies my face for five, ten, twenty seconds without even blinking. (Am I as interesting as the wine list?) His almond-shaped eyes make tiny little movements under immaculate eyebrows. I start to feel self-conscious, raise my hand to my face and say, ‘What?’

  He flashes me a smile and reaches across the table to take hold of my other hand. I look at it lying limply in his and notice that I’ve neglected my nails horribly recently. They are uneven and chipped, a nasty sight. Joshua’s perfectly manicured hand makes me want to curl my own up into a fist.

  ‘Stella.’ He squeezes to get my attention. I look up. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this but after what you told me I think I should speak out. Actually, I feel somewhat anxious. I don’t want you to get upset.’

  I’m surprised. I can’t imagine what he thinks he could say to upset me. Plus, he neither looks nor sounds anxious. On the contrary, he is glowing, giving off a shiny heat like a panther I’d seen once at Whipsnade Zoo.

  I smile at the image and have a feeling that Joshua would like being compared to a panther: sleek hair and muscular body, ready to pounce. Not that he’s shown any signs of pouncing. He does seem more attentive than on our last date, though. Almost affectionate. I try to imagine us locked together, naked, in a passionate twist.