by Isla Gordon
Bel sighed on the end of the phone. ‘Wow. How did your weird toast buttering come into it?’
‘I do not have weird toast buttering!’
‘Who else in the world slices lumps of butter and presses it between two slices of blackened bread?’
‘Whatever,’ grumped August. ‘I just felt like he was always judging me for it.’
‘Are you sure you’ve split up completely? This isn’t just a fight?’
August knew. She was glossing over the details to her best friend, but they’d said some mean things to each other. The flat had just been the catalyst, a reason for James to put the brakes on like he’d been intending to before things went any further. They’d been on different pages and that was painfully clear now. Yes, four months was early to ask to move in with someone, but August had felt ready. Or, at least, she was willing to be ready if it meant having someone to help split the cost of living in the flat on Elizabeth Street with.
August picked the phone off her cheek and pulled herself into a sitting position. ‘Yes, we’re done. But it’s fine. What are you doing today?’
‘Steve and I had been planning to pop out to Marshfield to visit his mum, but I can come over to yours if you like? We could go to the spa? Or the Pump Room for an afternoon tea, because we haven’t played at being tourists for months?’
‘No, that’s fine, let’s do that soon, when I’m feeling a bit stronger, but for now, you and Steve go ahead to Marshfield.’
Bel paused. ‘Would you like to come to visit Steve’s mum?’
‘No really, I’m fine. I just needed a little vent. Thanks, though.’
‘Okay, sugarplum. Well, take care today and call me if you need another vent,’ said Bel.
‘Will do,’ answered August, and she bid Bel goodbye.
August sat on her bed staring into space, feeling like she wouldn’t look out of place as a background player in a sad music video right now.
Something was bothering her, and it wasn’t just the break-up.
Her eyes scanned her bedroom, resting briefly on the shadows James had left behind on his last visit: a notepad with a message scrawled in his handwriting, a pair of his headphones, a book of hers which he’d taken off the shelf and not put back (stupid prick). Try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself that James, or rather his departure, was what was needling her. It was the loss of an opportunity; the feeling that her long-held dream, which she’d always believed would be a catalyst to her other dreams coming true, was slipping away from her grasp, after being so close.
August’s grandmother’s voice entered her head, as clear as it was before she’d passed away. ‘One day you’ll grow up to be successful enough to live in that house,’ she’d told her, pointing at Number Eighteen, Elizabeth Street while August’s six-year-old self looked ahead in awe.
August stood up. She didn’t need James, not at all. Why the hell should she tangle her dreams up with him? Sure, it would have been easy to rent with him, and logical, she thought, but she could probably, somehow, string together enough rent to keep her going until she did manage to find a flatmate. Perhaps her temp job in the press office of a historical holidays company, which wasn’t actually so temp, if she were honest, would fancy giving her a raise? Or maybe she could try and get some more acting work …
Either way, all she’d need was a little creativity and a stroke of luck that somebody would materialise who would be ready, and willing, to move in with her at the drop of a hat. It would be fine. Where there’s a will there’s a way, and all that.
This had been August’s dream home since she was six years old, and now, aged thirty-one, she had a chance to make that dream real. She wouldn’t let it drift by; she would grab it and force it to become her real life. ‘Come back!’ she said out loud.
Chapter 4
Flynn
Elsewhere in Bath, Flynn woke up, if that’s what you call it when a zombie takes its first parched gasp as it comes back from the dead. That’s how Flynn felt when he came to, following a night – more like half a night – on the lumpiest of all the hotel beds in the world. The hotel wasn’t as close to the bus station as he’d imagined, so he’d ended up wheeling his large case up and down several streets for a good fifteen minutes in the middle of the night, passing a number of more appealing accommodations, before he found it.
His room was hot, but with the window open it was noisy. Inside it was no better, with the people next door shouting at the TV until at least four in the morning. Then, when he finally sank down onto his pillow, he’d not been able to switch his brain off.
His original plan had been to arrive in Bath early evening yesterday, try to stay awake at least a couple of hours before turning in for the night safe in the comfort he was home, even if it was a brand-new home. The jet lag would be beaten almost immediately, and he’d wake bright and fresh on Saturday morning ready to spend the weekend getting to know his new city, picking up some extra homely goods, some additional clothes, stretching his legs. All ready for an early start at his new role at a law firm on Monday, and ready for what he already knew would be two full-on weeks at work, including an all-weekend conference starting on the Friday.
Like many plans that are made, that one had whooshed its way out of the window in record speed, doing a runner at the first sign of delays on the plane. And now he was not bright, he was not jet lag-free, and he was distinctly homeless.
As he made himself a cup of tea in the hotel room, in a tiny white china mug with a crack in it, using warm, long-life milk, he scrolled through a property rental website on his phone.
Studio in city centre, available in two months’ time.
One-bed basement flat, available in December.
Fourth floor apartment in the next town over, over-budget and would cost him a fortune travelling into work every day.
He bookmarked the handful of places available immediately, and once he’d forced down the watery tea, he started making phone calls, setting up viewings throughout the day with all the enthusiasm his zombie brain would allow him.
Flynn showered under a cold drizzle of water and made his way to reception, ready to get out of here and get some decent coffee before his first flat viewing. The receptionist eyeballed him as he got closer.
‘Hello,’ he said, while she ran her eyes up and down him. ‘I’m in room twenty-eight, but I wondered if I could move rooms. My neighbours are a bit loud and there seems to be something wrong with the water temperature.’
She regarded him for a second or two, sizing him up, and eventually she answered with a, ‘No more rooms, sorry, we’re booked out.’
‘You are?’ he couldn’t contain the incredulity from his voice.
‘It’s the summer holidays now, Saturday night, town centre,’ she stated by way of an explanation.
‘Oh. I don’t seem to have any hot water – could someone come in and fix that at least?’
‘No,’ she offered, and added with a shrug, ‘Sorry.’ After the two of them stared at each other for a moment she followed it up with, ‘When the hotel’s full the hot water just runs out. Maybe get up earlier tomorrow?’ Flynn was about to protest when she leaned in closer and lowered her voice. ‘Or I could come up to your room and make you appreciate that cold shower, if you know what I mean—’
‘Lorna!’ yelled a voice from behind a Staff Only door.
Lorna, the receptionist, stepped back and sighed, shaking her head.
As Flynn was weighing up whether he had time to pack up his things and find a new hotel – one with some availability and thicker than two-millimetre walls – the receptionist plonked a paper bag on the counter.
‘What’s this?’
‘Breakfast,’ she replied, and turned back to her computer.
Flynn took the bag and opened it up to find a bruised apple and a box of apple juice. His stomach growled at him fiercely, and he left in search of a good bacon sandwich.
He looked back at his hotel and thought for a moment
that even Yui, who was always trying to encourage him to be more adventurous, would agree this place was crossing a line. Nevertheless, finding a home had to take priority over finding a new hotel in the city.
A decent coffee and a decadent amount of bacon later, Flynn felt revived enough to head to his first appointment. Just about.
Flynn looked at the list of property appointments he’d made on his phone this morning with despair. He’d just seen his seventh flat of the day, and it was almost like Bath didn’t want him to find somewhere to live. He didn’t mean to be a Goldilocks about the situation, and actually he hadn’t told any of the agents a flat-out no, just in case, but if he had to pick between the damp basement studio under the pub, with the hole in the ceiling, or the creepy room inside the terraced house where all the shelves and cupboards were filled with dusty lifeless dolls (that the landlord would like to not be moved, thank you), it would be a tough call.
Bath seemed beautiful – at least what little he had seen of it while he was rushing between appointments. He had no doubt there were many wonderful places he could call home … if he had the luxury of time. And if he’d picked a better time to move over – rather than after the start of the British summer holidays – then maybe he could have got a short-term Airbnb to keep him going, but even those were in short supply unless he considered moving as far as Bristol. It might well come to that.
The business hours of today were drawing to a close. He had one more place to see, which, like the others, sounded maybe promising. But also like the others, it turned out to be a non-starter.
‘Hello, mate,’ the agent greeted him as he got to the top of the hill, the other side of the town from his last viewing.
‘Hi,’ Flynn panted in response.
‘You’re here to view number four Elizabeth Street? I’m afraid that one got let this morning.’
‘This morning?’ Flynn’s mouth hung open. ‘But I only made the appointment this morning.’
‘I know,’ the agent replied. ‘But it got snapped up, it’s a popular road, this one. You sounded keen though so I wanted to show you another place we have that’s not even made it online yet, just in case. It’s a short walk away from here. It’s more than your budget, if I’m honest, but it’s not available until October, so maybe you could look into your finances and see if that would be doable by then.’ The agent started to walk away, expecting Flynn to follow him.
‘So it’s over budget and not available for three months?’ he clarified.
‘Erm … yep.’
If he could have given up, got back on a plane, and pretended that this whole ‘adventure’ had never happened, in that moment he would have. ‘I think I’ll leave it,’ he told the agent. ‘I need something now.’
The agent nodded. ‘Slim pickings for something immediately, I’m afraid. Come back to us on Monday? You never know.’
Monday he would be at work, all day, but he nodded nonetheless, tiredness pulling him to sit on a low wall at the top of the hill.
The agent went to leave before turning to Flynn and shielding his eyes from the dipping sun. ‘I shouldn’t say this because it’s not one of ours, but I saw in the paper this morning that there’s another flat on this street having an open house tomorrow, looking for tenants ASAP. I didn’t pay attention to which place it was, or if it was in your budget, but you won’t find a lot else to go and look at tomorrow so it might be worth a try?’
‘In today’s paper?’ Flynn asked.
‘Yeah, the local one. You’ll find it in all the newsagents.’
He sat on the wall for a little longer, taking in the view before he lost it to the shadows. Then he straightened out the cracks and crumples from his back, and allowed one last trickle of hope back in at finding a place to call home.
Chapter 5
August
On Sunday morning, August arrived on Elizabeth Street early for the open house. Not a little early, but three hours early. It was 7 a.m.
August lifted her face to the sunshine, which beamed strong over Bath, a warm pool of summer light even at this time. She sat on the wall at the top of the hill in front of the house and pictured herself coming out through the front door of a morning, coffee in hand, slippers on feet, and breathing in the city. Before her, Bath, yellowed by the dawn, stretched and yawned. The cream stone of the buildings wove like threads beside wide, nearly empty streets and green flashes of parkland. And where the city blended into countryside, the green became denser and took the eye on a journey to the horizon.
This view had always soothed her, in the way that a feeling of home often does. August glanced back at the house behind, and hoped she would, indeed, be able to finally call this home. Just as her grandma had predicted.
Three hours to go.
Hmm. Maybe this was a little too keen. After a while, she needed something to distract her from the anxious merry-go-round of thoughts that whirled through her mind: What if I don’t get the house? What if a bidding war breaks out between prospective tenants and they eat me and my meagre salary alive? What if I do get the house and then can’t find a flatmate and have to go into debt trying to pay for a swanky two-bed flat by myself? What if I do get the house, do get a flatmate, but then don’t have the talent or ability to make any of my other dreams happen after all?
Standing, with one last look at the house, she dragged herself away and made her way back down to the bottom of the hill, for now.
August pushed open the door to the coffee shop with a tinkle, taking a huge inhale of the warm, sweet pastries piled in powdery mountains on the counter. Even her showdown here with James on Friday night couldn’t taint her love for this place, somewhere she considered her ‘local’ coffee shop even though she, at the moment, lived a good thirty minutes’ walk away. Not for much longer, though!
‘Good morning,’ she sang to the barista, whose sleepy face visibly woke up at such a sunny greeting.
‘Morning; what can I get for you?’
‘Please could I have … ’ August looked up at the menu as is compulsory even though she knew exactly what she wanted. ‘A double shot, whole milk latte with whipped cream and hazelnut syrup. No! Vanilla syrup. No! Hazelnut syrup. Extra large. And an almond croissant. Please. Thank you.’
‘Will you be having those in or to take away?’
August checked her watch. ‘In, please.’
‘Coming right up.’
She was the only one in the cafe at this time on a Sunday, though it would certainly be filling up soon, so she took her coffee and croissant to sit at the bench in front of the window and let it frame her beloved Bath for her.
The sun was dazzling in, hitting the pane of glass and glinting throughout the coffee shop, kissing the dangling copper lights, and stroking the hot-chocolate-coloured walls. For a moment she closed her eyes and imagined herself coming here every morning. The door tinkled with another customer coming in, and with her eyes still closed, she smiled. As predicted, the place was already coming alive.
At the sound of a man’s voice chatting to the barista and asking what she’d recommend, August brought herself back to the present, lifting her cup up to her face and taking a big sniff of the delicious cinnamon powder sprinkled atop the whipped cream.
Slightly too big a sniff.
Without a second’s notice, the cinnamon shot up her nose, and expulsed itself back out again as a sudden sneeze that sent the whipped cream topping flying splat onto the window.
‘Bless you,’ said a man’s voice from the counter.
‘Thank you,’ August called without turning around, too busy using her single napkin and her sleeve to try and clean the window, and wipe away her embarrassment.
August left her chair and stepped to the side of the counter to search for some more napkins, peeping in a mirror on the wall en route to mop the whipped cream from her nose. In doing so, she caught a glimpse of the man whizzing back to the counter having wiped the mess clean for her.
‘Oh! Thank you,’ she t
urned, and the man, tall and slim, wearing a suit and with his back to her, half turned his head as he paid for his order, and she saw a flash of a smile.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied.
August dragged her eyes from him, from his black hair, and the way he ran his fingers through it, tousling it ever so slightly, while he awaited his own Sunday morning pick-me-up. Instead, she looked at her whipped-cream-less coffee, which looked a bit sad and naked now. Bugger it, this was a big day for her and she needed that whipped cream (though perhaps not up her nostrils this time). Picking up her cup she swung around to head back to the counter.
Her cup was still very much full of coffee. An extra large serving of coffee, in fact. So of course she was staring hard at it, to make sure it didn’t spill.
Staring so hard at the coffee that she didn’t look ahead.
In fact, she was still staring at the coffee, her eyes widening, as it tidal-waved out of her cup, into the air, and straight towards the man she’d just collided with.
Chapter 6
Flynn
The irony.
Flynn watched with wry fascination as the coffee lunged for his only clean clothing. The suit he planned to wear for his first day at work tomorrow. The suit and shirt he’d worn today because being overdressed to flat-hunt seemed a better plan than showing up in stained and smelly sweatshirts.
He watched as it splashed a milky brown wave across his front, the heat prickling his skin beneath, the scent of hazelnut catching in his nose.
He watched the woman’s face, the one who’d just sneezed her whipped cream all over the window and seemed determined to redecorate this entire coffee shop, as she gasped in surprise.
The last dregs of coffee splashed onto the floor and everyone was silent for a moment, until the barista let out a small sigh.