The Housemate

by Pattison C. L.

  ‘Well, she does work in fashion.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about her appearance.’

  ‘So what were you talking about?’

  ‘The way she had all the right answers on the tip of her tongue. I thought she seemed a bit . . . I don’t know . . . rehearsed.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s done so many house-sharing interviews over the years she’s got her technique down,’ I suggested. ‘We shouldn’t let it count against her.’

  Megan made a mumbling sound.

  ‘So shall we offer her the room then?’ I said pushily.

  Megan sighed. ‘Well . . . OK, if you really want to; I suppose it’ll save us the hassle of interviewing all the others.’ She raised her glass in the air. ‘Here’s to finding our new housemate.’

  I smiled; I hadn’t expected Megan to give in so easily. I tapped my glass against hers. ‘To our new housemate.’

  5

  Eleven, twelve, thirteen . . .

  I’m staring at the lounge wall, counting the birds. It’s such pretty wallpaper; it has a blue background and there are tree branches all over it. Sitting on the branches are multi-coloured birds: big ones, small ones, some are even spreading their wings as if they’re about to fly away. But my favourites are the teeny ones with the long pointy beaks. Dad says they’re called hummingbirds and they can fly right, left, up, down, backwards and even upside down. How cool is that?

  Dad’s not here; he won’t be back from work till six-fifteen. He’s a surveyor, although I’m not exactly sure what that is. I think it must be a good job, though, because he has a beautiful brown leather briefcase (that I like to sniff when no one’s looking because it smells so lovely!) and inside it are lots of maps and drawings and other important-looking bits of paper.

  Mum’s lying down on the sofa. She has a nap most afternoons after I get home from school. I don’t know why she’s always so tired; she doesn’t exactly do much since she gave up her job at the bank. Her hair’s fanned out across a cushion and she’s snoring really loudly – so loudly I keep losing count of the birds. I’d much rather be upstairs in my bedroom, making friendship bracelets with the kit I got for Christmas (I’ve made twelve bracelets so far, but I don’t have anyone to give them to just yet). Mum won’t let me go upstairs, though; she says I have to stay down here, so she can keep an eye on me. Or maybe it’s so I can keep an eye on her. I can’t remember. I’m not even allowed to watch TV because Mum says the noise will wake her up. Usually I read a book, but I’ve run out of books. I get them from the library and I gobble them up really quickly. That’s why I’m counting birds; there’s nothing else to do.

  I hope Mum wakes up soon because I’m dying for the loo; I have been for the past half an hour. I look over at the door to check it’s definitely shut. It is. The handle makes a big squeak when you press down on it and I know that if I try to open it I’ll wake Mum up and then there’ll be All Hell To Pay. I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood and carry on counting.

  Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . .

  Hmmm, I might have counted that big green one twice.

  Eighteen, nineteen . . .

  I don’t think I can hold on much longer, even though I’m trying my hardest. I snake my hand under my navy blue uniform skirt and press it between my legs. I want to pee so bad it hurts. I turn away from the wall and look out of the window, hoping I’ll see something to take my mind off it. It looks as if my luck’s in because there’s Mrs Dobson going for a walk with her golden Labrador. I watch them for a little while, all the time thinking how much I’d like to have a dog (a sister would be better, but a dog’s the next best thing). It would be my best friend and we’d go everywhere together. It would sleep in my room at night, and in the morning it would jump on my bed for cuddles. But then Mrs Dobson’s Lab cocks its leg against a tree and starts to do a big long wee. Oh no . . . now I want to go even more! I look away quickly and my eyes settle on Mum’s cheese plant standing in the corner of the room. She got it as a leaving present when she left the bank and it’s grown really big, so big she had to buy a new pot for it last weekend. Then, just like that, I know what I have to do.

  Ever so quietly, I get up from my chair and start creeping over to the cheese plant. The carpet’s thick and fluffy and my plimsolls don’t make a sound when I walk on it. When I get to the plant, I turn around, lift up my skirt, pull down my pants and stick my bum right out, so it’s over the edge of the pot. As I let go, I feel so much better that I almost sigh out loud, but I manage to stop myself in time. I take care to pee very slowly, so it has time to sink into the soil, instead of running over the top and on to the carpet (it’s lucky I’ve got strong thighs from gym club!).

  I’m still peeing when there’s a loud noise from out in the hallway. It sounds like stuff being pushed through the letterbox, probably one of those free newspapers or a brochure from the estate agents. Straight away, I freeze; my heart feels like one of those clockwork mice that spin around. I look over at Mum just as her eyelids pop open. For a moment she stares at me and her dark eyes look like ink blots. Then her face twists as she realises why I’m standing there with my pants down and my bum up in the air. In a flash, she’s up off the sofa and stomping across the room. I think I know what’s coming next.

  ‘You dirty little bitch,’ she roars. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  She grabs the collar of my white school shirt and pulls me towards her. My pants are still round my ankles and I almost trip and bash my head on the sharp corner of the sideboard. But I’m not worried about that; I’m too busy thinking I hope she doesn’t tear my shirt – because if she does, I’m going to have to go through the laundry basket and find a dirty one to wear to school tomorrow because there are no clean ones left.

  Mum’s got hold of both my shoulders now and she’s shaking me so hard I can feel my brains rattling inside my skull. ‘You’re no better than an animal!’ she screams, her words coming out all bunched up. ‘I said you belong in the gutter and now you’ve proved me right.’ Her hand flies up in the air, then it comes back down towards me and I shrink as I feel the whack on the back of my thighs. Mum’s hand is big and hard and it hurts like anything. I know there’ll be a red mark there next time I look at it and by the time I wake up tomorrow it will have turned into a bruise. When Mum’s finished with me, I crumple to the floor. I can tell I’m crying because there’s wet on my cheeks, but I’m not making a sound. What’s the point when no one can hear me?

  6

  Megan

  I surveyed the half-dozen cardboard boxes and two large suitcases that were lined up in the hallway. ‘Where’s the rest?’ I asked Sammi as she returned from paying the black cab driver.

  ‘That’s the lot,’ she replied, reaching past me to hook her expensive-looking patent leather handbag over the newel post at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Seriously, that’s your entire life – right there?’

  ‘I told you I travelled light,’ she replied coolly.

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘I had to hire a man and a van when I moved in.’

  ‘I had to hire two men,’ said Chloe, as she emerged from the kitchen. She flipped the tea towel she was carrying over her shoulder and went to hug Sammi. ‘Welcome to your new home; we’re so glad you said yes.’

  ‘Believe me, I didn’t have to think about it for a second,’ Sammi said, smiling, as they broke apart.

  I stepped forward to give Sammi a kiss. ‘It was great that you could move in so quickly,’ I said, as her cheek brushed mine like a cool breath. ‘Your old landlord must’ve been a bit cross that you only gave two weeks’ notice.’

  She smiled creamily. ‘I paid him for the whole month, so he’s got nothing to be cross about.’

  ‘Still, it’s a shame that you had to fork out for two lots of rent,’ Chloe murmured. ‘We would’ve held the room for you for a couple more weeks.’

  ‘I don’t mind, it was worth it. Like I said, I was keen to move on.’


  ‘Oh well, his loss is our gain,’ I said, bending down to pick up the largest of the boxes. ‘We’ll give you a hand taking your stuff upstairs, but then we’ll have to leave you to it. We’ve got tickets for a photographic exhibition at the Barbican; then we’re meeting some friends for lunch. Sorry about that.’

  Sammi pushed her hair back off her forehead. Her eyebrows were thick, almost lush, and they balanced the tense, defiant line of her jaw. I found myself thinking how attractive she was – not beautiful exactly, but certainly striking.

  ‘Why would you be sorry?’ she asked.

  Chloe cast a curious glance at her. ‘Because we’re leaving you alone on your first day in the house.’

  She took a soft intake of breath, as if understanding had suddenly dawned. ‘Please, don’t give it another thought; I’ve been looking after myself for years.’

  ‘Well, if you need anything while we’re out, you can always call or text us,’ I told her. ‘You’ve got both our numbers.’

  She grasped the handle of a suitcase and began heaving it towards the stairs. ‘That’s kind of you, but I’m sure I’ll manage.’

  It had just gone six-thirty when Chloe and I returned to Bellevue Rise. We were accompanied by Chloe’s boyfriend Tom, who had joined us for lunch and a mooch round Covent Garden. As we stepped through the front door, we were greeted by the mouth-watering aroma of garlic and roasting meat. We followed it to the kitchen where we found Sammi standing at the hob in Chloe’s Cath Kidston apron, cheeks pink from the heat of the oven. She was stirring something in a huge cast-iron saucepan, while the extractor fan whirred noisily above her head.

  I raised my hand in greeting. ‘Hey, how’s it going? Sorry we’re back so late.’

  ‘No problem, I’ve been busy making myself at home,’ Sammi replied. ‘I finished all my unpacking, so I thought I’d crack on with dinner. How was the exhibition?’

  ‘Really good, it was a 1960s retrospective. You should go; I’m sure you’d find it interesting from a fashion point of view,’ said Chloe, as she took Tom’s arm and drew him forward. ‘Sammi, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Tom. Tom, this is Sammi.’

  They exchanged hellos and Tom sauntered over to the hob to inspect the contents of the saucepan. ‘That smells amazing,’ he said, using his hand to waft the savoury steam up towards his nose. ‘What are you making?’

  ‘Chicken cacciatore, roasted aubergines and Parmesan potatoes.’

  ‘Sammi’s an expert in Italian cuisine,’ Chloe told him. ‘She might let you lick the saucepan if you ask her nicely.’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ Sammi said. ‘I’ve made enough food for everyone; I thought it would be nice if we all ate dinner together on my first evening.’

  My eyes widened in appreciation. ‘Wow, Sammi, you didn’t have to go to all that trouble.’

  She balanced her wooden spoon carefully across the top of the saucepan. ‘It’s no trouble; I enjoy cooking for other people.’

  ‘I can’t wait to taste it,’ Tom said, rubbing his hands together. ‘How long have we got – enough time for me to pick up some wine from the off-licence?’

  ‘It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, give or take.’

  ‘Perfect. What would everyone prefer – red or white?’

  ‘Red would go better with the food,’ said Sammi, hooking her long hair behind her ears.

  ‘Red it is, then.’

  ‘I think I’ll grab a quick shower while you’re doing that,’ Chloe said, thrusting her front door key into Tom’s hand. ‘Then I’ll come down and lay the table.’

  ‘And I must change out of these shoes,’ I said, following Chloe towards the door. ‘My feet have been killing me since London Bridge.’

  When we got upstairs, Chloe made straight for the bathroom, but I hesitated on the landing, noticing that Sammi’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. Keen to see what my new housemate had done with the tiny space, I nudged the door with my foot. I was expecting to be greeted by a colourful and lavishly accessorised boudoir; what I got instead was an exercise in minimalism. The walls were bare, not a single picture or photograph was in sight and there were no fripperies or decorative embellishments of any kind; even the duvet cover was plain white. The handful of personal items that were on display – a laptop, a jewellery box and a stack of magazines – were neatly arranged on the low bookcase that now doubled as a bedside table. The whole room felt temporary, somehow, like theatrical scenery from one of Chloe’s productions that had been assembled for a specific purpose and could be shifted at any moment.

  Intrigued, I stepped into the room. In the background, I heard the groan of ancient plumbing as the shower came on. I felt a prick of guilt, knowing that Chloe would take a dim view of my snooping. I went over to the room’s newly acquired wardrobe and opened the single door. Inside, Sammi’s clothes had been arranged with military precision, trousers at one end, skirts and dresses at the other, everything draped perfectly over pretty padded hangers. On the floor of the wardrobe, shoeboxes were stacked three high and each had a Polaroid photo of the contents attached with gaffer tape. I shook my head, marvelling at Sammi’s organisational abilities, which rivalled even my own. With an envious sigh, I closed the wardrobe door and turned back towards the landing. Just then, an unexpected flash of colour caught my eye . . . the corner of a bright orange book, poking out from under the bed. The room was so immaculate, I thought it must have fallen there by accident while Sammi was unpacking. Almost without thinking, I bent down to pick it up. It was surprisingly heavy and on the front the words ‘Photo Album’ were embossed in narrow black letters. It looked well used; the front cover was covered in grubby fingermarks and the corners had softened with age. Unable to stop myself, I flipped the cover. The album fell open randomly somewhere in the middle and I found myself looking at a photograph of a young girl with long dark hair and protruding front teeth. She was sitting on a woman’s knee in what appeared to be the living room of a house. The woman was holding the girl tightly around the waist – almost too tightly, it seemed to me. Glancing at the transparent pocket on the opposite page, I was surprised to see that, rather than a photograph, it contained a folded-up page, apparently torn from a newspaper. The paper looked soft as if it had been folded and unfolded numerous times. Frowning, I turned over the page. I managed to catch a glimpse of an official-looking letter bearing an elaborate crest when I heard a sharp voice from the landing.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I looked up. Sammi was standing in the doorway, still wearing her apron, which now bore a large, tomato-coloured stain. She looked so different; her face was pinched, her eyes brimming with anger. It was as if for a second a window had flown open and I had caught a glimpse of something beyond the glossy façade. A spider of anxiety crawled up the back of my neck.

  ‘Shit, Sammi . . . I’m really sorry,’ I stuttered, unable to understand why I hadn’t heard her coming up the stairs. ‘The door was open; I just wanted to see what you’d done with the room.’ I snapped the album shut and held it out to her. ‘I noticed this lying under the bed and I thought it must have fallen there by accident; I was just about to put it on the bookshelf for you.’ My voice faded; even to my own ears it sounded like a lame excuse.

  Sammi’s mouth twisted into a hard grin of contempt. ‘But you just couldn’t resist having a quick nosey first,’ she said, snatching the album from my hands and hugging it to her chest possessively. I felt my cheeks flushing scarlet, like the shame-fever of a child who’s been caught in some terrible act.

  ‘It just fell open; I really didn’t mean to pry,’ I said, the words withering on my tongue, desiccated by Sammi’s accusatory face. In a clumsy, tentative way, not knowing what else to do, I put my hand on her arm, whereupon she recoiled as if I’d given her an electric shock.

  At that moment, the bathroom door opened and Chloe appeared on the landing dressed only in a towel. She stopped dead when she saw us standing together in Sammi’s room. ‘Is everythi
ng all right?’ she asked.

  Sammi turned and tossed the album down on the narrow single bed. When she turned back a split second later, I was surprised to see that her look of fury had gone and in its place was a placid, almost blank expression. ‘Sure,’ she replied smoothly. ‘I just came up to ask if you two are OK with nuts; I’ve made a chocolate and hazelnut semifreddo for dessert.’

  Chloe’s eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Mmm, nuts and chocolate . . . two of my favourite things.’

  ‘Mine too,’ I said quietly.

  Sammi’s eyebrows clenched. ‘Goodness, you two really are separated at birth; you even have the same taste in food.’ I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it, but I thought I could detect a faint undertow of sarcasm in her voice. She turned on her heel and walked the few paces to the top of the stairs, leaving her precious album lying on the bed. ‘Don’t worry about laying the table,’ she told Chloe amiably as she passed her on the landing. ‘It’s taken care of already.’

  By the time I returned, somewhat sheepishly, to the kitchen with Chloe, Tom was back from the off-licence. We found him ferrying a series of steaming serving bowls to the kitchen table, which had been beautifully laid with stiff linen napkins and cut-crystal wine glasses, both of which we’d inherited from the landlord’s sister. A large vase of pink roses, presumably picked from the front garden, formed a heady centrepiece.

  ‘This is such a treat,’ said Chloe, pulling out a dining chair.

  ‘Yes, it’s very sweet of you, Sammi,’ I said, feeling bad about what had just happened and acutely aware that I had some serious making-up to do. ‘It should be me and Chloe making you a meal on your first night.’

  ‘Like I said before, it’s really no trouble,’ Sammi said breezily as she joined us at the table. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony, everyone . . . please, dig in.’

  Tom began unscrewing the top from a bottle of Merlot. ‘Did you used to cook for your old flatmates?’