I bought it up with Emma once and she said how I can water the plants if they ever go away together. I’m sorry but: 1) she doesn’t own a single plant, and 2) even if she did, I’m not spending my free time flitting around her girlfriend’s flat like a creepy, green-fingered Mary Poppins.
I mean, what next? Does she also want me to prance round and do all of her washing while they are sunning themselves in Sardinia? Bake her a casserole that she can heat up when she’s back? Organise her bloody post?
I did say all this to Emma but she batted me away and then refused to take the key off my key ring because she said it would ‘ruin her nails’.
I finally manage to free the only key I ever use and jab it in the lock as a fresh burst of cold water splashes on to the crown of my head. I kick the door open.
‘Hello?’ I shout, even though I know that Priya and Emma are both out.
I push my way into the house and drop my sopping bag on to the floor. I glance around at the living room, which looks exactly how I left it this morning, and sink on to our sofa.
I look down at the time.
18.05.
I push my head back against our squashy sofa cushion as my mind pieces together my schedule for the evening.
18.15: Sit on sofa.
18.30: Put colour wash on.
18.40: Start cooking dinner (pasta bake).
19.00: Make lunch for tomorrow.
19.15: Eat dinner.
19.25: Wash up.
19.30: Watch Hollyoaks.
20.00: Watch EastEnders.
20.30: Put on PJs and get ready for bed.
21.00: Watch Made in Chelsea.
22.00: Go to bed and read book.
22.30: Finish reading. Check phone.
22.45: Set alarm. Go to sleep.
As my mind reviews each section I feel myself relax and I sink further into the sofa.
Right, that’s what I’ll do this evening. Sorted.
I look around the empty house and let my phone drop to my side. The house looks back at me, completely silent, only the slight whir of the heating confirming to me that it’s there and not a wild figment of my imagination. I take a deep breath and move my eyes towards the kitchen table. One stale mug is welded to the left-hand corner and a stack of post is slowly towering up on the right. Exactly how I left it this morning, nothing has changed.
Well, one thing has.
I narrow my eyes at the whiteboard propped on the mantelpiece with Priya’s latest scribble.
Used the last, of the milk, sorry.
I feel a small laugh tickle my throat as I look at the heart sketched next to the message with another instruction.
P.S. Don’t forget it’s bin night.
I pull my knees up to my chest.
Sometimes, I think about being alone. I’m sat in the same spot I sit every night. I’m exactly where I’m expected to be.
Nothing changes. I’m always here.
My phone vibrates in my hand and I look down as I spot a text from Emma. I feel a small leap of hope. Maybe she’s coming home tonight after all.
B are you in tomorrow? Me and Priya need to have a chat with you.
My stomach flips over at Emma’s message.
They need to have a chat with me, together?
Why? What could I have done?
*
I drum my fingers on my desk, my mind spiralling as my right hand manically turns a small pencil between my fingers.
I look back down to my notepad, covered in neat scribbles. As I stare down at my list, I feel the twitching in my chest begin to ease.
I’ve made a list of everything I can possibly think of that I may have done to upset Priya and/or Emma. I stare down at the list, my pencil gripped in my hand.
If I know what to expect, then I can manage it. If it isn’t a surprise, then it won’t be that bad.
Things that I could have done to upset Priya and Emma.
1. They could be mad I turned the heating up (even though neither of them were there and it was so cold in the house that my fingers went blue).
2. They could be mad because I didn’t offer to make them any dinner (even though neither of them were here).
3. Emma could be mad that I used her wok last week.
4. Priya could be annoyed that I accidentally woke her up after her night shift last week. (I’m sorry, but I fell down the stairs in a towel so I think I was definitely worse off in that situation.)
5. They could be staging an intervention with me because they don’t like my hair and my experimental French plait phase (which they both promised they thought looked great and wildly encouraged).
6. They could both have decided that I am an insufferable, terrible housemate who they can no longer tolerate.
My eyes scan back over the list carefully as a final thought drops into my mind.
They could be asking if both of their partners can move in.
I feel my heart thump.
Please let it not be that.
I like Josh, and I especially like Margot. But I don’t want to live with them.
For starters, where would I sit on our three-seater sofa?
I chew on my lip as my hand raps the blunt pencil against my desk.
But how could I say no? I mean, I couldn’t, not really anyway. Not if they have both already discussed it and have decided between themselves that they think it’s a good idea. I would just look like the jealous spinster, lurking in my ground-floor bedroom like the village troll.
I think the worst part is that they’ve sat down and decided that they need to speak to me, together. They’ve pre-planned it. And I have no idea what it could be.
I hate not knowing what is going to happen.
‘Bea!’
I jerk out of my reverie and my eyes flit down to the clock.
11.15. Faye’s first visit.
Faye is one of the few people who sticks to my schedule almost religiously. Even though she has never seen it and I’d never dream of mentioning it to her. It’s one of the only features I like about her.
Maybe she has a schedule of her own.
Faye visits my desk twice a day. When she first started doing it, I happily slotted her into my schedule, thinking that she was trying to befriend me.
But I quickly realised that this wasn’t the case as Faye used her five-to-six-minute window to tell me about herself, ask me a question, and then pull out her phone the moment I started replying. I watched her do the same thing with every person in our office (there are fifteen of us – seventeen on the third week of the month, when the finance team come in).
It didn’t take me long to work out that Faye does this as a way of wasting over an hour of her morning before doing any work, and then another hour of her afternoon as she asks everybody what they had for lunch (although this conversation tends to only last about three minutes, even for a professional procrastinator like Faye. There are only limited responses you can have to ‘I had a tuna sandwich and a bag of cheese and onion crisps’).
I look up at Faye as she swans towards me, her eyes flicking over my head to ensure that nobody is going to interrupt her and try to combine morning conversations. She clacks over in her large, chunky boots and I push my notebook under my coffee cup.
Faye has long blonde hair that is usually braided at the back of her head like a horse ready for dressage. Her large brown eyes are always heavily made up and I’ve caught her taking mirror selfies in the company toilet fourteen times since she started working here.
She’s been here three months.
Faye shimmies into a spare seat next to me and glances over at me in acknowledgement as her mouth curves into a smile.
We have a ‘cool, fun’ hot-desk policy at work, which Duncan started about six months ago and I despise. After four days of hot-seating hell, I started getting to work early enough to ensure that I sit in the same desk every day, in the back corner of the office. That way I can keep an eye on what everyone else is doing, whilst being close
enough to the kitchen to sneak myself a cup of tea without having to make one for every single person in the office.
I know that makes me sound like a bad person, but having to remember how fifteen people take their tea – and then having a panic attack about whether you accidentally gave Jane the Vegan full-fat milk instead of soya – is enough to send you into an early grave.
(I never found out if I got the milks the wrong way round, but Jane was off sick the next day. I try not to think about whether that was just a coincidence. Or whether Jane now thinks I’m trying to kill her and wrap her up in pastry like a meat-eating maniac.)
Faye flicks one leg over the other and pulls out her phone. She always does this for about thirty seconds, so I shake my mouse and pretend to look at an email.
I glance back at Faye, and then back to the office clock.
11.17.
I open my mouth to speak when an email from Duncan pings on to the screen. I take a deep breath.
Morning team!!!!!!!!! Here’s to another GREAT day at the OfFiCe PaRtAy!!!!! Team meeting on Friday (breakfast me thinks?!!??) Thanks 4 being THE BEST TEAM EVA!!!!! Duncan.
I blink as I feel my eyes shrivel in disgust.
I cannot, and will not ever be able to, fathom how Duncan is our Editor when he goes to such extraordinary lengths to abuse grammar.
We get three emails like this a day. The first arrives mid-morning (to ‘rare up the team’), the second just after lunch (which usually involves a novelty picture of Duncan eating a sandwich, with Faye pouting in the background as a funny ‘photo bomb’ that they’ll then laugh about all afternoon) and the last one at about four (to ‘spur us on’ for the last hour with some dreadful, inspirational quote. This is when Duncan usually asks me how to spell something.)
‘How was your evening?’
My eyes dart towards Faye, then quickly back to my computer.
Faye asks me this question every day and it still makes my heart pound like an alarm clock.
I should prepare an answer. Sometimes I do. When I notice the clock tick over to 11.00, my brain starts storming the possibilities of how I spent my evening.
I went out for dinner with a friend.
I went to the cinema.
I went out for a drink.
But as soon as I fixate on one lie, my brain can’t keep up, and suddenly I’m trapped in a hamster wheel.
What if she asks me where I went for a drink? And who with? How did I get there? What did I have to drink? What if she was there too? What if she knew somebody there? What if she finds out I’m lying? What sort of person would lie about what they did on a Monday night because they don’t want to admit that they actually sat in on their own until they went to bed, like they do every night?
I look up at Faye as she drops her phone next to her side and raises her large eyes to meet mine. I drag Duncan’s email into a folder and flash a small smile in her direction.
‘Fine, thank you,’ I say, fixing my eyes on my monitor to try to show her how busy I am.
I always hope that if I give Faye lame enough answers then she might leave.
She never does.
‘What did you do?’ she asks, her eyes wandering around the office.
I pause.
What did I do?
I did exactly what I planned to do. I arrived home at 6 p.m., I got in my pyjamas, made my dinner, watched two and a half hours of TV and went to bed.
I glance over to Faye.
I can’t tell Faye that. She’s the type of person who seems to go out every night, according to her Instagram, to attend some fabulous party with an effortless low ponytail (which I can never pull off without looking like Will Turner from Pirates of the Caribbean).
‘Err,’ I say, ‘you know. This and that.’
That’s it. Keep it vague. Like I’m so important that fancy plans mean nothing to me.
‘Like what?’
I take a deep breath as I feel my anxiety begin to stir.
Okay, a lie. This is no big deal. I can lie. It’s only Faye for goodness’ sake, she probably isn’t even listening.
‘I,’ I begin, ‘well, I . . .’
I feel my mouth go dry as the pressure sucks every word I know from my brain like a vacuum cleaner.
Just say something, Bea. Say anything.
‘I actually ended up . . .’ I trail off as I notice Faye’s blonde head swivel round.
Jemima from sales walks past and Faye jumps out of her seat.
‘Jemima!’ Faye oozes. ‘How are you?’
I close my mouth, a wave of heat washing over me.
Okay. I survived. It’s over. She doesn’t care. She never cares.
I watch as Faye totters after Jemima – they swan past my desk and into the kitchen – and then I move my eyes dully back to my computer screen.
If everyone sticks to schedule then I won’t be bothered now for another two hours. Unless Duncan is trying to write a pitch and needs help spelling ‘astonishing’ again.
Two hours until I am spoken to again.
I slip my headphones in and lean forward on my desk.
I can manage that.
CHAPTER TWO
I stride up to my front door, my only valuable key firmly in my right hand.
18.00. Arrive home.
I pause, hovering over the lock. Anxiety twists up my windpipe as I imagine the weird intervention that I have no control over with supposed friends Emma and Priya.
My eyes flit over to the neat house next door, and I notice the curtain ruffle slightly.
18.01. Collect post from Joy.
I drop my hand down to my side and walk across the garden path. I see Joy every Tuesday, when I pop round to pick up our post (this visit lasts about six minutes), and Thursday, when I stop by for dinner (this visit lasts about six years).
I slip my phone back into my pocket.
At least one part of this evening will stick to my schedule. At least I know how this next little bit of time is going to go.
I stare at the neat, pale blue door and smile.
Joy has lived in number 3 Runnymede Way for forty years (or something like that, she has told me. I was half listening) and has taken it upon herself to look after our post every day, since she realised that we don’t have a letter box. God only knows how she persuades the postman to allow her. I mean, I’m sure it’s illegal.
I raise my hand, and as my left knuckle grazes the shiny wood the door swings open.
Joy is a small woman, with neat copper hair (that she has coloured on the first Wednesday of every month) and wide eyes. She is always wearing a perfectly coordinated outfit, in a different shade of pastel. Today she’s wearing a pale yellow cardigan and light grey trousers.
Her eyes fix on me and I notice our post, neatly piled on her small table ready for me.
She steps in front of it as if I can’t see it. Her body is twitching nervously as her eyes flit across my body.
‘Hello, Bea,’ Joy beams, ‘how are you?’
Her clipped words present themselves as if she’s been rehearsing the sentence for the past hour.
‘Hi, Joy. I’m fine thanks,’ I say, ‘how are you?’
I feel my heavy eyes droop as I look back at her.
We go through this every Tuesday. She always acts surprised at me coming round, as if I’ve just popped round for a chat or to borrow a cup of sugar, even though I come at the same time every week, for the same reason.
‘Oh,’ Joy leans on the side of her door, ‘I’m fine too, thank you. How has your day been?’
‘Okay, thank you,’ I say. ‘How has your day been?’
My eyes flit over to the pile of post behind her. I’m sure there’s a bill on top. Could that be from the electric? Surely my bloody electric bill isn’t due again.
‘Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me,’ she laughs as she gestures down at herself, ‘I’ve just taken a quiche out of the oven. Would you like some?’ She fixes her shiny brown eyes back on me. ‘I’m sure it’s too m
uch for one person. You could share it with Priya and Emma. Is she on nights this week? I saw her get in at the crack of dawn this morning.’
She steps back to welcome me into her home and my feet weld themselves to the floor. I take in her immaculate hallway. There isn’t a speck of dust on her moss-green carpet, and her oak coat rack proudly holds Joy’s single coat on one of its curled arms. The warm, yellow light of her lamp blinks at me and I look away.
I don’t have time to go in now.
I’ve learnt this lesson the hard way. If you go into Joy’s house you will never leave. It’s like the House of the Living Cats.
‘That’s okay,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m fine, thank you. I was actually hoping to grab our post.’
‘Oh,’ she says, ‘of course.’ She reaches over and picks up the pile of post. ‘Here you are.’
I take it from her. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’ve got three letters today,’ she says, as if this is a big scoop. ‘Bit more than usual, isn’t it? I didn’t get any post today.’
My eyes quickly scan the post.
Gas? Urgh. What are you doing in there?
‘Jenny said that she would send a postcard, but perhaps it got lost in the post,’ Joy continues. ‘I’m sure it will arrive tomorrow. You know she’s in Australia now? She sent me this great picture. Shall I show you?’
She turns back into her house. ‘No thank you,’ I say hurriedly, ‘I mean,’ I add, ‘I think I’ve seen it. You showed me a few weeks ago, remember?’
Like I could ever forget. I was stuck in her house for three hours – and two-thirds of that time was spent teaching Joy how to turn the printer on.
‘One of the letters is for you,’ Joy says. She peers over at the three letters in my hand.
I turn the letters over.
Under the unblinking gaze of Joy, I fan the three letters out to satisfy her curiosity.
My eyes lock on to the third letter. I feel my body twitch.
‘See,’ Joy says, her voice dancing with excitement, ‘that one is for you. You don’t usually get handwritten letters, do you?’
I hold the letter in my hands as I look at the scrawled words, etched on the white envelope in slightly smudged biro.
The Accidental Love Letter Page 2