by Hayley Doyle
John puts the books into a neat pile and hands them over to me, but I don’t accept them, keeping my hands tight onto my towel. He returns them to the stool. Every second that passes feels like an hour, a year.
‘So, how did …’ I attempt, but I can’t find the words to continue.
‘An accident. Hit by a van.’
‘Oh!’ I laugh again.
‘It happened on this road, just a few yards from here.’
‘But, how? I mean, Jack’s unmissable. He’s a massive, hairy bear.’
An almighty din startles me and I gasp, my heart now plunged into the pit of my stomach. My phone is ringing. It’s on the breakfast bar, dancing to the vibration. John and I both stare at the device like an alien has invaded, the single word ‘Mum’ lighting up the screen. It rings and rings and rings, and then it stops. I release a sigh, as does John, who looks as if he’s about to say something. Then a message alert interrupts him.
‘Sorry, John,’ I say, snatching my phone.
The message contains a photo of a wicker laundry basket lined with beige gingham cotton.
Isn’t this lovely? Shall I get it for your new flat? Mum x
My flat isn’t new. My mum hasn’t been to visit yet because she lives in Liverpool and I only recently moved in. My suitcases aren’t even fully unpacked yet: the Ikea drawers we purchased last weekend are still flat-packed. Jack, however, has been living here for three years. He has the laundry sorted. Had the laundry sorted. Fucking hell, must I resort to past tense already? Over a wicker basket?
I type back.
Thanks Mum but we’ve got one. Xx
She replies straight away.
It’s only 8.99 you know.
Caught in a freakish crossover of past and present, I ignore my mum’s persistence and notice that another message looms for me, unread, received at 11.33 this morning. It’s from Jack.
Pizza at Dough-Re-Mi before the comedy? X
Yes, I want to reply. Yeah, definitely. But Jack’s phone is on the bookshelf in the hall and he has no way of coming home to get it because he’s been—
‘Hit by a van?’ I ask John. ‘Seriously?’
‘Shortly after lunchtime.’
‘Why has nobody told me until now?’ Why does my voice sound so normal?
‘We didn’t know about you.’
And yet I know about John. About how he grew up on a farm in Lancashire and moved to London when he was twenty-two. He married his wife, Trish, and they settled in Berkshire, had three sons, Jack in the middle. I know that he’s retired now, but he used to own a company that made stationery. He sold it for a good amount, but not as good as he’d hoped for. I know that he supports Manchester United, although, unlike Jack, he’s never been to a game, and that he’s a huge Barry Manilow fan – like, borderline obsessed.
But John – he didn’t know about me. Seems Trish didn’t – well, doesn’t – either.
‘Jack’s driving licence still has our house as his permanent address,’ John tells me. ‘I was home today when the police came to inform us. He was killed on the scene.’
This can’t be true. We’re going to a comedy night.
‘I’m here to find Jack’s phone,’ John continues. ‘His work, his friends need to – erm – know.’
‘I was hoping for a Kinder Bueno,’ I think, perhaps aloud.
‘Sorry?’
‘Or a Magnum. Perfect weather for a Magnum.’
I stare at my phone, at the last communication I’ll ever receive from Jack; except it’s interrupted with another message from my mum, followed by another photo.
Chloe look! Cushion covers to match the wicker basket. Aren’t they lovely?
My phone slips out of my hand and crashes to the floor. John’s arms envelop my bare shoulders and I freeze, allowing this stranger’s embrace to hold me together so I don’t crack. I’m completely naked beneath this towel and I can hear Jack’s king-size laugh bouncing off these basement walls at the sight of his dad and his girlfriend being pelted head-first into a top-notch awkward moment.
Except I can’t hear Jack’s laugh, can I?
2
I arrive at Beth’s in a taxi.
It would’ve been much quicker to get to Islington on the Overground from Brockley, but that’s far too much normality to follow the news I’ve been hit with. John has stayed behind in the flat, waiting for Trish. They want to spend the night there together, because apparently Trish doesn’t like the idea of Jack’s flat being left abandoned. I did remind John that I would be there – you know, because I live there – to which he said, ‘Ah, that’s right’. By the time I’d replaced the towel around my body with actual clothes, he told me that Trish was arriving in about twenty minutes. If that wasn’t a cue to leave – well.
‘Oh, go fuck yourself!’ I overhear Beth scream.
I’m on the front step of her mid-terrace house, thirty quid down thanks to the rush hour surge, my finger hovering over the doorbell. We’ve known each other since high school and despite her living in London for the past decade, Beth hasn’t lost a smidgeon of her Liverpool twang. A door inside slams and the front door swings open.
‘Chloe?! Didn’t know you were coming.’
Beth’s husband Fergus is holding a large bin bag, bulging to match his muscles. Last month, when we went out for Beth’s birthday, Jack described Fergus to me as Garfield on steroids. He had a point.
‘Chloe?’ Fergus asks again. ‘You okay?’
I look to his grumpy face as he waits impatiently to lob the rubbish into the plastic bin beside me. I manage some sort of polite closed-mouth smile, confusing him further, and he sidles past to complete his chore.
‘She’s in the lounge,’ he says, with a sharp flick of his neat, ginger hair.
I float through their hallway, not really present, yet somehow here. I pass by the brass-framed art deco mirror, the stylish coat rack, the three canvas prints of their wedding day. My worn-out Converse barely make a sound on the monochrome tiled floor. I linger by the wooden dining bench at the end of the knocked-through lounge-diner, carefully placing my second-hand leather satchel onto the table. It might as well be a used paper bag from a greasy bakery in these surroundings. Everything in Beth and Fergus Douglas’s house is shiny and expensive, and although the house itself is small, it’s got three bedrooms so worth a fortune in this neck of the woods.
As always beyond seven o’clock, Beth’s in her pyjamas; she starts stripping off her corporate daywear before she gets her key in the door. Tonight, she’s wearing little chequered shorts and a matching t-shirt. Her smooth, tanned legs are crossed over; she’s slouching into the soft white leather sofa, surrounded by various metallic cushions, scrolling through her phone. Her caramel hair extensions are wound into a high bun sitting on the top of her head, her makeup still immaculate from the morning, a pedicure gleaming from her restless little toes.
‘Hiya,’ I say.
Beth performs a double take, then screams. ‘Bloody hell, Chlo! What are you doing here?’
I shrug.
‘I mean, is everything alright, babes?’ Beth’s hand grasps her chest. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming … Or did you? Am I going mad? Did you message me? Did I tell you to come over?’
Beth scoops her phone off the sofa and taps the screen.
‘No, I just decided to come,’ I say.
‘Y’what?!’
In my haste, I happened to forget how much of a modern-day sin it’s become to show up at a friend’s house unannounced. I even forgot to dry my hair and apply makeup, although the latter isn’t much of a problem since I wear the bare minimum – a bright-red lip on a good day is my only major essential – but Beth doesn’t hesitate to point out my state.
‘Babes. You look. Like shit.’
‘Cheers, pal.’
‘And your roots need doing. Badly.’
Fergus returns from outside empty-handed, not acknowledging either me or Beth, and goes into the kitchen. He shouts, ‘Brew?�
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Beth rolls her eyes and falls back into the sofa, ignoring his question.
‘Please,’ I shout back.
Creeping towards Beth, I sit delicately on the bold, pink armchair, smoothing down the cotton floral dress I threw on before leaving my flat. Well, I say I sit delicately. What I mean is, I try. Unlike Beth, I’m not particularly delicate or graceful, and attempting to be either takes a lot of effort. I notice a button missing from my dress, right in the middle, exposing the milky-white flab around my belly button. I cross my arms and lean forward.
‘Are you and Fergus alright?’ I whisper.
‘Oh, me and Fergie?’ Beth responds, loud enough for the whole street to hear. ‘Yeah. We’re amazing. Fucking fabulous. Aren’t we, Fergie babes?’
I hear a mug slam onto a marble work surface, followed by another.
‘He’s going on another “work” night out on Friday, aren’t you, babes?’ Beth goes on. ‘This time, it’s the casino. I mean, how exciting. How many times have you been the casino with your colleagues, babes? Once? Twice? Thirty-five thousand fucking times?’
‘Give it a rest, Beth,’ Fergus says, placing a mug of tea onto a coaster for me. I won’t get offered a biscuit, though; they’re both too health conscious to keep refined sugar in the house.
‘Rest? Oh, why would I give it a rest?’ Beth says, playing the innocent. ‘It’s so exciting. I mean, it just so happens that you wanna go out on the exact day I’ll be ovulating. Isn’t that a coincidence?’
I really should have rung her first. Or gone to my local pub.
Fergus takes a seat on the opposite end of the sofa to Beth and takes out his phone, scrolling and tapping. When he’s not in his corporate suit, he always looks as though he’s either about to hit the gym, or he’s just been. Right now, I wish he’d go to the bloody gym. They have one in the spare room.
‘Do you have to sit there?’ I’m relieved to hear Beth ask.
‘Yep,’ he grunts. ‘My sofa, too.’
I sip my tea, even though it’s still too hot, and wonder how I’m going to break the news to them that my boyfriend died today. Beth’s unfertilised eggs might not have any sympathy for me.
‘You’d think he didn’t wanna have kids,’ she goes on, as if Fergus isn’t there. ‘And I mean, it’s not me putting all the pressure on, is it? It’s his bloody mother. The amount of times she’s pestered me, asking me when I’ll give her grandkids so they can play in her massive garden-slash-field. I wouldn’t mind, but every time we’ve been up to Scotland, it’s pissed it down. I mean, I don’t want any child of mine catching pneumonia.’
‘She means well, Beth,’ Fergus says, his eyes glued to his phone.
‘So stay in this Friday.’
‘No. Why don’t you go out? You love going on the piss with your pals.’
‘Not when I’m ovulating.’
‘I told you. It’s a work thing.’
‘Does Jack devote his entire life to “work things”, Chlo? Or is just my fella?’
I don’t know how to answer these questions, but I also don’t think Beth is expecting an answer. She might be talking to me, but everything she’s saying is aimed at Fergus. She’s so wound up that she’s forgotten about being freaked out by my unexpected arrival.
‘What’s Jack’s line of work again?’ Fergus asks.
‘For fuck’s sake, Fergus. How can you not remember?’ Beth snarls.
‘I’ve only met the bloke once.’
‘So’ve I.’
‘Well forgive me for forgetting what he does.’
‘He’s a project manager, isn’t he, Chlo?’
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
‘What does that even mean? A project manager?’ Fergus asks. ‘What project does he manage?’
‘Video games,’ Beth huffs. ‘I had a whole conversation with him about it.’
‘And I suppose you’re expecting a medal?’
‘Fuck off, Fergus. Just because I take a genuine interest in people, especially important people, like the fella me best mate’s falling in love with. Do you know how long it’s been since Chloe said the “L” word to anyone? How long’s it been, babes?’
I blow out my lips and shrug.
‘Exactly. It’s been a long, long time. And this fella, this Jack, he might be the one.’
‘Steady on, Beth. She’s only been with him for five minutes—’
‘Months,’ I blurt out, interrupting Fergus. ‘Five months.’
‘Oh my God, has it been that long?’ Beth asks, her mouth hanging open. She does some calculations on her manicured fingers. ‘Wow. Time flies. How come I’ve only met him once? Bloody hell, Chlo. Where’ve you been hiding him?’
This is stupid. Beth knows that I only moved in with Jack a few weeks ago. Before that, I was living in Liverpool and Jack was coming up to visit me at weekends, or I would come to London, or we would meet in the middle somewhere and stay in a hotel. We even managed a holiday in Thailand for two weeks. And anyway, if memory serves me, Beth kept Fergus a secret for a year before she introduced him to anybody. But none of this matters now. This whole conversation is moving at such a pace, it’s like I’m on a train and completely missed the stop where I’m supposed to announce why I’m really here.
‘Before you know it, twelve years’ll go like that,’ Beth clicks. ‘Beware, babes. You might end up like me and soft lad.’
‘Well, I won’t get the chance to find out,’ I say.
Beth’s hand clasps her mouth and it dawns on her why I must look so dreadful.
‘You split up?’ she asks, high-pitched like a violin. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
I shake my head. Fergus finally sees this as a reason to leave the room and mutters something about leaving us ‘ladies’ to it, but Beth orders him to sit back down.
‘You’ll only ask me what happened later,’ she says. ‘Be supportive, Fergus.’
‘I’m sure Chloe’d rather just talk to you.’
‘You don’t mind Fergus staying, do you, babes? I mean, he can give you the male perspective.’
I lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees. I guess now is the time to—
‘Did he leave you?’ Beth asks. ‘Or was it your call? Was it just not working?’
Oh, it was working fine, wonderfully. But thanks to a spanner being thrown into the works – one the size of a delivery van going fifty-two on a road with a twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit – it had come to an abrupt end.
‘No, it’s none of those things,’ I say, each word slow as I build myself up to say it.
‘Shit, is he married?’
‘Is he gay?’ Fergus pipes up. Beth throws a metallic cushion at him.
I take a gulp of tea. I can’t imagine telling Beth – or anyone, for that matter – that Jack Carmichael – the fella I met at the opening night of a terrible musical just five months ago, the man who turned on a light within me and made me believe he’s a species in his own right, a unique and brilliant individual with the ability to make me feel everything that is pure and good – is dead.
‘We had breakfast together this morning,’ I find myself saying. I’d last seen him sat at the breakfast bar, fixated on the canvas print hanging above the cooker, a photo from our holiday in Thailand; the man in the shopping trolley. As usual, Jack was pondering about what the man was actually doing there, as I half-listened before dashing out to work myself. ‘We never have breakfast together during the week. He leaves for work so early …’
But he had a day in lieu.
Fuck.
Jack would still be alive if he’d just gone to work today. He would never have left our flat in the middle of the day, crossed the road and … oh. I think I know what happened now. Jack must’ve realised he’d left his phone behind, by the blue Marrakech dish. So he’d run back; crossed the road again without thinking.
‘What a fucking idiot!’ I say. Or perhaps yell.
‘That’s the spirit,’ Beth says, standing up and cheering.
‘Fuck him. If he can’t see how fucking fabulous you are, you’re better off without him. I mean, at least you only knew him for five minutes—’
‘Months,’ Fergus corrects her.
‘Whatever. Fergie babes, go and make yourself useful and open a bottle of wine, will you?’
‘I don’t want wine,’ I say.
‘Whiskey then. Get Chloe a glass of that good stuff, the one your boss fobbed you off with after you thought you were getting a pay rise. Now, Chloe. Either tell me everything, or tell me nothing. If you don’t wanna say the name “Jack” ever again, that’s fine by me. I’ll make sure you’ve forgotten he ever existed in no time.’
‘No,’ I protest. ‘I’ll never forget.’
‘Oh babes, what the hell did he do? It’s not like you to be so … crushed.’
I wince. I haven’t had a chance to think about what physically happened to Jack yet, but oh God, what if he was crushed? Did every bone in his body break? Did he bleed to death?
‘Did he hit you?’ Fergus asks, his tone low and solemn.
‘God, NO.’ I stand, joining them.
‘Because if he did, I’ll kill him for you. I will, you know. I’ll kill the bastard.’
Fergus clenches his fists.
‘That’s right, Fergie my love,’ Beth whoops, giving her husband a supportive pat on the back. ‘Let’s kill him!’
‘No, you don’t understand.’
‘I do. I do, babes.’ She edges towards me, shooing Fergus away like a pigeon and reaching out to give me a hug. ‘Ah, you really liked him, didn’t you? You thought he might be the—’
‘Beth, no, don’t hug me!’
‘Whoa. Okay,’ she jumps back.
‘I’m sorry,’ I try again. ‘He’s …’
I’m trembling. I notice it in my knees, particularly the left one. God, it’s trembling so hard that it’s going to dislocate. I slap my hands down, trying to control it. My hands are clammy, yet cold. I might be sick.
‘Can we get some air?’ I ask.
Fergus has already started doing burpees in the back garden. I follow Beth out front and sit on the brick wall, staring at the grey pavement, and at Beth’s dainty bare feet.
‘We should be in Greenwich,’ I say, catching my breath.
