‘I did when I first moved in, but after a while I stopped.’
‘Oh?’ said Tom, as he moved around the table, filling wine glasses. ‘Why’s that?’
Sammi’s nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. ‘To be perfectly honest with you, we fell out.’
Chloe frowned as she reached across me for the aubergines. ‘What happened?’
Sammi began helping herself to a healthy portion of Parmesan potatoes. ‘At first, they all seemed really nice, but after a while I started to feel they had it in for me.’
‘What did they do to make you think that?’ I asked her.
Sammi’s fork hovered momentarily over a casserole dish, before she drove it into a piece of chicken. ‘Honestly, guys, it’s such a boring story and really not worth retelling,’ she said.
I wanted to press her for more details, to ask her what her flatmates had done that was so awful – but, given what had just happened between us, I didn’t want to risk incurring her wrath again.
‘Well, I don’t think you’ll have any problems with Chloe and Megan,’ Tom said. ‘They’re both pretty respectful of other people’s feelings.’
I cringed inwardly. My behaviour upstairs had hardly been a good indicator of my respect for others. At least Sammi had had the decency not to say anything to Chloe; I was grateful to her for that. I glanced over at Sammi, but her eyes were locked on Tom.
‘Anyway, that’s enough about me,’ she said, dabbing her mouth delicately with the corner of her napkin. ‘I want to hear all about your work, Tom. Chloe tells me you’re working for a film company at the moment, it sounds fascinating . . .’
I was quiet during dinner. I still felt awkward about the photo album and I knew I should never have ventured into Sammi’s room without her permission. I expected the atmosphere between us to be frosty but, to her credit, Sammi betrayed no hint of censure. It was almost as if nothing had happened. She even complimented me on the earrings I was wearing and asked me to send her a link to the website where I’d bought them – and, as the evening wore on and the wine flowed, I found myself slowly relaxing. The food was delicious and Sammi was clearly an accomplished cook. Her cacciatore was melt-in-the-mouth and the decadent dessert was practically restaurant quality. The minute everyone had finished eating, she jumped up and began gathering up the dirty dishes from the table.
‘We’ll clear up, Sammi, it’s the least we can do,’ I told her firmly as I prised a stack of bowls from her hands. ‘Why don’t you go through to the sitting room? I’ll bring you a coffee, if you like, and we’ll come and join you when we’re done here.’
‘Actually, I think I’ll have a bath if you don’t mind,’ said Sammi, rising from the table. ‘I’ll probably head straight to bed after that; I’m feeling really tired all of a sudden.’
‘Of course,’ said Chloe. ‘There should be plenty of hot water left.’ I thought she sounded a little disappointed at the prospect of Sammi’s early departure. I must admit that I was disappointed too; I’d been looking forward to finding out more about our new housemate.
‘Are you OK for towels?’ I asked, conscious of Sammi’s meagre luggage and keen to portray myself in a more positive light. ‘You’re welcome to borrow one of mine.’
Sammi shook her head. ‘I’m good, but it’s kind of you to offer, Megan.’
‘I guess we’ll see you in the morning then. Thanks again for dinner; it really was delicious.’
She gave a small, spiky smile, then she slipped from the room.
Even with three of us, it took ages to clear up. Sammi’s meal had been a triumph, but she had used a bewildering number of saucepans, utensils and ovenware in the process. Afterwards, we retired to the sitting room where Tom and Chloe promptly became engrossed in the latest episode of a crime drama they were addicted to. Struggling to pick up the thread of the show mid-season, I reached for my phone. My first port of call was Facebook, where I shared several photos I’d taken earlier on at the exhibition. In between uploads, my eyes kept flicking to the other two, who were curled up together on the sofa. Chloe’s head was resting peacefully on Tom’s broad chest. His arm was draped across her shoulders and he was plucking absent-mindedly at the ends of her hair. I found myself thinking what a great couple they made; it was wonderful to see Chloe so happy and settled. I turned my attention back to Facebook and impulsively searched for a name: Samantha Charlesworth. A handful of results came up, but none was a match. I tried again: Sammi Charlesworth. Still nothing. I performed the same searches on Twitter. Zilch. Ditto Instagram. I was just about to try a generic Google search when the crime show went to an ad break.
Chloe looked over at me. ‘Don’t tell me you’re cruising Tinder again.’
‘No, I am not,’ I retorted. ‘I was just seeing if I could find Sammi on Facebook; I wanted to send her a friend request.’
‘Good idea, I’ll do the same.’
‘You can’t, she not’s on there.’
Chloe’s eyes flitted back to the TV. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘She’s not on Twitter or Instagram either. Don’t you think that’s weird . . . a journalist with no social media presence?’
Tom stretched his arms above his head and gave a massive yawn. ‘Perhaps she uses an alias, loads of people do.’
‘Hmmm, maybe.’
‘I bet she’s on LinkedIn . . . here, give me that,’ Chloe said, reaching over to grab the phone from my hands. She began punching keys at lightning speed. A few seconds later, she turned the screen towards me. ‘See, I was right . . .’
I peered hard at the screen. A picture of Sammi stared back at me. Her glossy hair was twisted into an elaborate chignon and she was wearing subtle lipstick and an eye-catching statement necklace. Her expression was friendly but distant. I took the phone from Chloe’s outstretched hand and began scrolling down. A brief CV followed the photo, together with half a dozen glowing endorsements from past employers.
‘She looks gorgeous in that picture, doesn’t she?’ Chloe said.
‘Yep, she certainly scrubs up well.’ I dropped my phone in my lap and stared at the TV, but my mind was elsewhere. ‘What did you make of Sammi, Tom?’ I said after a few moments.
‘She’s a good-looking girl, there’s no doubt about it.’
Chloe elbowed her boyfriend in the ribs. ‘What about her personality?’
Tom smiled and kissed the top of Chloe’s head. ‘She seems very nice – and she’s clearly intelligent; I think you two have made a good choice.’
I took a deep breath in through my nose. ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’
7
Today is the first day of the summer holidays – and if that’s not exciting enough, it also happens to be my eleventh birthday. I didn’t wake up until eight-thirty, which is quite late for me. The house is quiet and still and there’s a ray of sunlight on my pillow, so I lie there for a while like a cat on a car bonnet, enjoying its warmth.
A few weeks ago, Dad asked me if I wanted a birthday party. I knew he didn’t mean the usual sort of party, in our front room, with cake and balloons and pass the parcel, because no one ever comes to our house, except the postman and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, and they’re not allowed inside. He was talking about a party at McDonald’s, or the bowling alley, or one of those places that other kids go. I would’ve said yes, but I didn’t think anybody would come, except for Liam, of course. I’m not sad enough to have a party for two people, so I told him I’d rather go to the zoo instead. I think I’ve been to the zoo before, but it was so long ago I don’t remember it, so this is kinda like my first time, which makes it extra special. The only thing that would make it even more special is if it was just me and Dad going, instead of me, Dad and Mum. When Mum and Dad are together, it’s like there’s no one else in the room, even if the other person in the room does happen to be celebrating their birthday. I think Dad must really love Mum because he treats her like a china doll, which might break into a million pieces if you play with her too roughly. Mum t
reats Dad like . . . well, she’s a bit nicer to him than she is to me. But only a bit.
Eventually, I get out of bed and creep out on to the landing. Mum and Dad’s bedroom door is shut tight, which means they’re still asleep. I go to the bathroom for a wee, remembering not to flush or I’ll be in BIG trouble, then I tiptoe down the stairs.
In the kitchen, all the dirty dishes from yesterday are piled up on the draining board. The dishwasher’s broken; it has been for ages. The bin’s full too – so full the lid won’t close properly and it smells like something died in there. I don’t know why the house is always such a mess, especially when Mum doesn’t have anything else to do. When I have my own house, it’s always going to be clean and tidy and there’ll be one of those air freshener plug-in things in every room.
I’m starting to feel hungry, so I make myself some Coco Pops (thank God for cereal . . . sometimes I have it for breakfast and dinner!) and carry my bowl through to the living room. I switch on the TV, taking care to turn the volume right down, the way I’ve been told to, and flick through the channels until I find a cartoon.
By the time Dad appears in his pyjamas, I’ve already spent a whole hour and twenty-nine minutes of my birthday on my own. Despite his lie-in, Dad looks tired and there are big creases under his eyes. ‘Morning, Birthday Girl,’ he says. ‘Sorry I slept in; Mum and I had a bit of a late one last night.’ He strokes my head with one of his giant hands and I close my eyes, wanting the moment to last forever. But it doesn’t. ‘Mum and I haven’t had time to get you a present,’ Dad tells me. ‘But we’ll stop at the shops on the way to the zoo and buy you something nice – how about that?’
I force myself to smile, but there’s a scratchy feeling at the back of my throat. ‘What time are we leaving for the zoo?’ I ask, because it’s quite a long drive and I’m worried that the day’s slipping away.
‘Let’s see how Mum’s feeling first,’ Dad says as he shuffles towards the kitchen.
Seeing as I don’t have any presents to open, I decide I might as well go upstairs and get dressed. I wanted to wear my red dress, the one with the bows on the front, but when I check I see that it’s still in the laundry basket. I work out that it’s been there for sixteen weeks and two days. I know this because the last time I wore it was when we went to visit Grandma over Easter. It didn’t go very well. Grandma doesn’t like Mum and she’s not very good at hiding it (not like me – I’m excellent at pretending to feel one way when really I’m feeling quite different!). We only stayed for two hours, then Dad said we’d better be getting back. As Mum was marching off down the driveway, Grandma pulled Dad’s arm on the doorstep and hissed into his ear: ‘I’ve told you before – she’s not welcome here.’ I think she meant Mum. Or maybe she meant me; I hope not.
Anyway, back to my birthday outfit. In the end, I choose my blue pleated skirt and a green T-shirt that always reminds me of our next-door neighbour’s parrot. It escaped once – the parrot, I mean, not the T-shirt – and it was me who spotted it, two whole days later, in the cherry blossom tree in our back garden. Dad threw a tea towel over the parrot and picked it up and took it back home. Our next-door neighbour was so pleased he gave me a bag of treacle toffee. That was one of the best days of my life.
My blue pleated skirt’s all creased, but I’d better not try ironing it myself because last time I did that I burned a hole in my school skirt and Mum went MENTAL. Speaking of Mum, she’s up at last; I can hear her moving around on the landing. I hold my breath as she walks past my bedroom door, praying she won’t come in. Luckily, she doesn’t. I get dressed quickly, then I go to the bathroom for a wash. While I’m cleaning my teeth, I hear Mum shouting at Dad. Her voice travels all the way up the stairs. I put my fingers in my ears because I don’t want to hear her; it must be awful to be so angry before the day’s even begun. I wish Dad would stand up for himself – stand up for both of us – but he never does. I think he must be scared of Mum too.
The shouting goes on for quite a while, so I stay upstairs, where it’s safe. Eventually Dad comes into my bedroom. He looks worn out, just like I do after gym club. He tells me we’re not going to the zoo after all because Mum’s not well and we have to stay at home and look after her. I nod, my chin wobbling as I fight to hold back tears. But there’s good news as well, Dad says, as he chucks a pile of takeaway menus on my bed: I can choose whatever I like for lunch.
By the time the food arrives, Mum’s gone back to bed, so it’s just Dad and me, which is the way I like it. Dad says he’s not hungry, which is even better because it means I get a whole twelve-inch stuffed crust all to myself. I eat it greedily, pulling off a fat slice and chomping down on the crust, not caring when the cheese squirts out and dangles off the end of my chin. I know I’m being a proper pig, but I can’t help it; despite the Coco Pops, my stomach feels like an empty bowl that I could fill forever. As I get stuck in to a second slice, I think to myself that maybe it hasn’t been such a bad birthday after all. There have been much, much worse.
8
Chloe
‘Come on, Chloe, be realistic – do you seriously think you’ll pull this off?’
I balled my fists, driving my fingernails into my palms. ‘Of course I do, Bryan. Why would I waste my time presenting a design concept if I didn’t think it was achievable?’
I should have expected this reaction from Bryan Donohue, the theatre’s production manager. Ever since he’d joined the company eighteen months ago, our relationship had been an uneasy one. Bryan’s job was all about schedules, budgets, procedures – and he’d proved himself an efficient and highly focused organiser. But when it came to the bigger picture, I sometimes felt he lacked a crucial understanding of creativity, of the way the artistic mind worked. ‘Of course, if you don’t think you have the imagination to realise my vision . . .’ I said, maintaining a steady eye contact.
‘It’s not that at all,’ Bryan grunted back. ‘I just think your design is overly ambitious.’
The gaze of everyone in the room returned to the model box that lay on the table between us. A painstakingly accurate scale model of my set design, it had taken me weeks to build – not to mention the storyboards, computer-modelled set plans and dozens of hand-drawn perspective sketches that had preceded it. I knew my concept was daring, but then, so was the script. Written by an award-winning young actress-turned-playwright with a spectacular Instagram following, Neurosis was a radical and thought-provoking study of mental illness, free from the usual constraints of narrative and timeline. The theatre had beat off stiff competition to secure the performance rights and, even though opening night was months away, the critics were already sharpening their pencils in readiness.
‘What do you think, Richard?’ I said, turning to the artistic director. A brilliant and thoughtful man with a long and distinguished career in contemporary theatre, Richard Westlake had been my mentor ever since I joined the theatre straight out of university, with only a degree in Stage Design and a few weeks’ work experience to my name. I started out as a general dogsbody, at the beck and call of any department who needed me. But, over the years, I had worked my way up to my current position of principal stage designer. It was a job I loved and I poured my heart and soul into every production, but I had certainly expended more time, creativity and pure passion on this project than any that had gone before it.
Richard smoothed his hair, letting his hand come to rest on the back of his neck. ‘I think it’s great,’ he said. ‘The clever use of the trap door, the frame over the stage to make the space feel claustrophobic, the giant revolving mirror, reflecting the introspective nature of the piece . . . it’s original, immersive, fantastically bold. I think what you’ve done here is create an alternative reality, rather than just a set.’
My heart vaulted with relief. ‘Thank you, Richard, I’m glad you share my vision,’ I said pointedly.
‘Bringing this production to the stage is going to take an enormous amount of dedication and hard work, from all of us,�
� Richard continued. ‘But if we succeed, the publicity will be huge and we all know what that means . . .’
I nodded. ‘Bums on seats.’
‘This set won’t be cheap,’ said Bryan, tugging anxiously at the flesh of his neck. ‘By my estimate, we’ll be kissing goodbye to almost twenty-five per cent of the annual production budget. With figures like those we can’t afford for this to be a flop.’
‘In that case, we’re going to have to pull out all the stops,’ said Richard. ‘Are you prepared to do that, Chloe?’
I placed a hand over my heart. ‘I promise you, Richard, I’ll do whatever it takes.’
The minute the meeting was over, I scooped up the model box and hurried back to my studio, where Jess, my endlessly patient and supremely efficient assistant, was anxiously awaiting the verdict.
‘How did it go?’ she asked eagerly, as I pushed aside a heap of sketches on my desk to make room for the model box.
‘Bryan thought it was far too ambitious.’
‘Idiot,’ Jess spat. ‘Was he any more specific?’
‘Not really.’
‘No surprises there, then,’ Jess said witheringly. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if he gave us constructive criticism, but he just seems to rubbish our ideas for the sake of it. Perhaps he’s trying to justify that whopping great salary of his.’ She tossed her biro down on the desk in disgust. ‘You’re bloody good at your job, Chloe. Everyone here knows that – why hasn’t Bryan managed to figure it out?’
Privately, I agreed with Jess’s analysis, but professionalism prevented me from saying it out loud. I sat down at her desk and broke into a smile that I hoped wasn’t too smug. ‘Fortunately, Bryan’s opinion didn’t count for much on this occasion.’
‘You mean . . .’ Jess said expectantly.
‘I mean that Richard loved it.’
Jess shrieked in delight. She, more than anyone, knew how much time and effort had gone into my design. ‘Richard Westlake, I want to have your babies!’ she bellowed as she beat out a drum roll on the desktop.
The Housemate Page 4