by Jim Jennings
Having packed his bags and left, Laurence returned to his mid-town flat, a small but cosy dwelling which he shared with his friend Richard. He had hoped to slumber amongst the comforting bubbles of a luxurious bath and hear some encouraging words from his flatmate, but as he pushed open the stern door, he observed that Richard was doing some packing of his own.
‘What’s going on?’ He asked in a surprised manner. Cardboard boxes were strewn about the living room; some were full of Richard’s belongings and some were in the process of being filled by Richard’s girlfriend, Carla, who had never really taken to Laurence; partly because he had set fire to her favourite top by leaving the iron on it, and partly because he had accidentally hit her cat with his bicycle one morning when he was particularly late for work. Ever since then, Carla had been plotting her, and Richard’s, escape from the walking cataclysm that was Laurence Swift. Now it seemed she had finally got her wish. Richard, wearing a checked shirt over a grey t-shirt, lifted his head from his suitcase and placed a hand on Laurence’s shoulder, saying,
‘I’m sorry, mate, but I’ve decided to move in with Carla.’ His voice wore a mellow, resigned tone of guilt. He didn’t make eye contact with Laurence, merely giving his shoulder a light and rather patronising pat before shuffling over to a shelf covered with picture frames. Carla entered from the kitchen carrying about a dozen ‘How to Cook’ books she had bought for Laurence, to whom she gave a snort of disdain and such a glare that would make you feel that you were looking at the Devil himself.
‘Since when?’ asked a perplexed Laurence. Carla gave Richard a push in the back as if to urge him on and he replied in a more stern voice by saying,
‘It’s been a long time coming, buddy. I’m sorry, but things are…you see I’m…’ He glanced over to Carla, a shrew of a woman who fired an icy stare back at him. ‘I’m going, that’s just the way it is.’ Richard cleared his throat, paced over to a box and shone a quick smile at Laurence’s distraught face. The recently fired tour guide nodded in appreciation and went to find a quiet corner of the flat where he could reflect and reminisce. He slung his satchel bag over a kitchen chair. The bag was empty, empty, just like Laurence’s flat would now be. Just like his life would now be.
In moving to London from his family home in the secluded village of Woodmancote, a veritable hive of the elderly, he had called Richard, a friend from university, and asked whether he would live with him. As Richard was of wealthy family, generous nature and unhindered by any responsibility or desire to work, he agreed. For a few months life was bliss; they stayed up all night together watching martial arts movies, failing to win pub quizzes and generally reliving their student days. All this came to an end the day Carla moved in. She was the kind of woman it was impossible to say no to, for the slightest sign of defiance from Richard was usually met with a temper tantrum from Carla. Try as he might to make him see sense, Richard only found Laurence’s attempts to advise irritating and unwelcome. Over the past few weeks their relationship had been anything but friendly. Not that it mattered anyway, Richard was leaving and it seemed their friendship was over.
A few hours later, Richard’s packing was completed and, as Carla waited impatiently in the loaded car outside, he went into the kitchen where Laurence was now sitting, looking rather forlorn. They shared some meaningless words about how they would keep in touch and how Laurence didn’t blame Richard for moving out. Laurence pursed his lips together in a vain attempt to find some words that would compel Richard to stay. They didn’t come and so he slumped back down into his chair in despair. Each part of his life was falling apart with every cruel hour that passed. The two of them briefly joined together for a farewell hug and then Richard left, dropping his keys on the kitchen table. The metal clanged harshly on the wooden surface, and Laurence was left to reflect on his day alone. The apartment was now cold and its soul seemed to be sucked away as soon as Richard closed the door. What was once a lively hive of friendship and activity was now an empty, barren, tomb of loneliness. A shadow of depression hung over Laurence. The forlorn former tour guide walked lethargically around the living room space, wiping the dust off the mantelpiece where Richard’s DVD’s had one lived. He went over to the CD player but it wasn’t there. No, it had belonged to Richard, and he had taken it with him. Laurence thought sleep might bring a temporary end to his sorrows and, knowing the sofa was around the corner, the sofa that had so often been his refuge after a day at work, he ran round and collapsed onto it, or he would have done, had it belonged to him and not to Richard, who had taken it with him. So Laurence picked himself off the floor and nursed his now sore back. No solace was to be found here. Solace could be found at the local pub, however, and that was where Laurence headed.