by Mandy Baggot
‘Oh?’ Jonah asked, putting down the wok, turning off the gas and reaching above the hob for plates.
Where did she start? With Susan having a go about feeding Jayden and helping him with his project? With the cost-cutting? Or the Christmas show…?
She watched Jonah, plating up this spectacular meal, expertly wiping off stray sauce like he was in the hotel kitchen or appearing on Masterchef. He was acting like this was some sort of special occasion. Had she missed a date? It wasn’t his birthday, that was in March. Or was there really something wrong between him and Two L’s? She might have wished for Jonah to return, but not at the expense of his happiness. She loved Allan.
‘What’s going on?’ Emily asked, suddenly really concerned.
‘Have a seat,’ Jonah said. ‘I’ll just get out the roti bread.’ He bent over, bum hitting a chair. ‘You might have to move the table a tad.’
‘You made roti bread?’ Emily exclaimed, pulling at the table until it shifted an inch, then sitting. ‘Now I know something’s really wrong. What’s happening, Jonah?’
‘Did you see the cute Christmas tree by the front door. I thought Sammie did an excellent job.’ He still had his back to her, was now avoiding her questioning.
‘Jonah! I’m not going to eat anything until you tell me why you’re back here cooking Thai food in my minuscule kitchen you moaned about for years, when I know Two L’s has luxury granite and Belfast sinks and a built-in griddle.’
Jonah finally turned around and faced her as he lowered an immaculately presented dish to the mat in front of her. ‘Dinner is served.’
‘You want something,’ Emily guessed. ‘You realise you really wanted the TV unit you paid half for and you don’t know how to tell me. Well, it’s yours, Jonah, just like I said. I can fix the telly to the wall or prop it up on a chair, this chair in fact, until I find something else.’
Jonah sat down and demolished his carefully constructed dome of rice, forking that and a selection of vegetables and curry into his mouth.
‘You can’t chew for ever,’ Emily reminded, her plate untouched, her eyes on her best friend.
‘Don’t be mad,’ Jonah said, looking tentative about whatever was coming next.
‘If you’ve left Allan I will be mad… but, we’ll talk about it calmly, until you realise what an idiot you’re being.’ She gripped her fork. ‘It’s not that, is it?’
Jonah shook his head and smiled. ‘Of course it’s not that.’
‘Then…’ She stopped talking, eyes widening. ‘No! You haven’t invited my parents over, have you?’
‘I don’t have a death wish,’ Jonah answered.
Emily put a hand to her chest. She never invited her parents over. They knew all the synonyms for ‘small’ and they used every one of them about every room in her home, including the gorgeous roof terrace that her mother, Alegra, had called ‘uber bijou’ when Emily had first moved in. It had been a stupid guess that they were on their way here. Neither William nor Alegra had approved of her friendship with Jonah since the very first time they’d met at one of her mother’s fundraising initiatives. Usually Alegra only put her professional clout and money behind such schemes, not her actual presence. However, back when Emily was ten and she had tonsillitis keeping her off school, Alegra was unable to get out of visiting a less illustrious area of the city where disadvantaged adults were being re-schooled at a community centre. Jonah’s dad, it transpired, was taking a qualification in engineering and Jonah had been there outside the centre, on his bike, drinking a high-sugar fizzy drink Emily could usually only dream about. Whilst Alegra talked about the benefit of higher education and how it should very much be available to all – i.e. lied through her teeth – Emily and Jonah had bonded over taking it in turns to do tricks on his bike up and down the skateboard ramp. Despite coming off, tearing her jeans and the skin of her knee open, Emily had loved every minute of it and, quickly swapping addresses, the two friends made a pact to keep in touch. And they had. All this time.
‘You need someone to take my room,’ Jonah continued quickly.
Emily sighed. ‘We talked about this. I’m managing at the moment.’ She had that money in the bank. She had a wardrobe full of vintage clothes she didn’t really need that she could sell if push came to shove…
‘Em, there was literally nothing in the fridge and the freezer is empty apart from garden peas and ice cream.’
‘I haven’t had a chance to go shopping this week.’ It was more like this month, but she wasn’t going to tell that to Jonah. Beans on toast never harmed anyone and they did all sorts of flavours these days. Plus, it was hard moving on from living with someone who loved creating delicious home-cooked dishes most evenings – several different ones if he wanted to try something new or they needed to stock up that freezer…
‘You’ve taken some of the lightbulbs out.’
She had done that. She read online that if you took some of the lightbulbs out of lamps and ceiling roses you simply got used to prioritising on light and energy, and with that large window in her lounge there was usually more than enough ambient light until at least five o’clock. Well, she hadn’t fallen over anything yet…
‘I’m saving energy,’ she countered. ‘We all have to do our bit for the planet.’
‘You’re cost-cutting,’ Jonah stated. ‘Because you don’t have my rent money for the room. You need the rent money for the room.’
‘I really don’t want to share my space with anyone else.’ She quickly carried on. ‘And before you say anything, that wasn’t meant to make you feel guilty in any way. I am completely adjusting to you not being here… well, you know.’ She inhaled the aromas of her fragrant dinner then dug in, putting some into her mouth and relishing every fine sensation.
‘I put an advert up in the hotel,’ Jonah admitted.
‘What kind of advert?’ Emily asked, taking a sip from her water glass.
‘The kind that advertises a large double room in a bright and airy apartment in Islington with a compact kitchen, bathroom with bath and power shower and a pretty roof terrace with far-reaching views.’
Her apartment. Jonah had taken it upon himself to advertise for a lodger. Suddenly the curry didn’t taste so nice. She put down her fork and blinked back rapidly arriving tears.
‘Before you say anything,’ Jonah began, ‘anything at all, this comes from a good place. The best place.’ He reached over the table and took hold of her hands. ‘I love you, Em, you know that. But you can’t carry on living this half-life, hiding from the world and not accepting change.’
She wanted Jonah to stop talking now. Because this was dangerously close to becoming not about his moving in with Allan but about her losing Simon… So why couldn’t she think of a thing to say now? Jonah had advertised her space. Without her knowledge. What if someone replied to the advert? Had Jonah given out her mobile number? She took back her hands, eyes watery but currently still contained.
‘You should take the advert down,’ Emily told him, almost composed.
‘It’s too late,’ Jonah told her. ‘Three people called me in response to it.’
‘What?!’
‘And they’re all coming here tonight to see the space.’
‘Jonah! You can’t do this! This is not who a best friend is.’
‘Em, it’s exactly who a best friend is! Yes, we’re there for the gin and the giggling over Car Share, but sometimes we have to do the tough stuff too.’ Jonah sighed. ‘And this is tough. I know it’s tough. I see it’s tough.’ He took another breath. ‘Let me try and help to ease the financial burden at least. While I can’t be here anymore to stop you wallowing in Paul O’ Grady dog programmes.’
People were coming to look at her apartment. She didn’t want them here. She was fine on her own. She didn’t mind eating baked beans and the occasional still vaguely inside its sell-by-date seafood risotto.
‘Listen, they all sounded really keen on the phone… and nice… you know, normal. Normal people
looking for a lovely London apartment to live in. And, I promise, if any of them or all of them are really unsuitable, I will be the first one to kick them out of here… but not just because they might come from the wrong side of the city. Everyone deserves an equal chance, right? And I’m not your mum. No offence.’
Why was she still not talking? She should be saying something. She should be mad at Jonah. She should be telling him that there was no way she was going to be spending her precious evening interviewing lodger candidates she didn’t want instead of curling up with a litre bottle of flavoured tonic water goggling ‘how to create a Broadway-style show on a non-existent budget’.
Jonah took one of her hands back in his and fixed his dark brown eyes on her, adopting that serious, soulful expression he was so good at. ‘So, I’ve bought some new Christmas decorations to spruce the place up a bit and give it that homely, welcoming festive feel and… I took down five of the framed photos of Simon.’
Emily felt her cheeks begin to flame and she tried to remove her hand from Jonah’s grip. This was too much. This was not what she wanted at all!
‘Let me go!’ Emily begged, tugging at her arm. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ Tears were falling now. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘He’s gone, Em,’ Jonah said, holding on fast as the table wobbled under the duress of their grappling. ‘And he’s somehow taken most of you with him.’
Jonah needed to stop talking. The nostalgia was gaining momentum now and that was the very last thing she needed after the day at work she had had.
‘Em, you don’t need photos in every room to remind you who Simon was or how much he meant. You’ve got all that in here.’ He put one hand to his heart and Emily felt another piece of her own heart wither a little as those tears plopped onto the front of her cardigan.
‘Shit,’ Jonah said. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry like this. Allan and I talked about it last night and he said I had to go gentle with you, but we both agreed this is what you need.’
‘You should have talked to me about it,’ Emily finally spoke. ‘You went behind my back.’
‘You wouldn’t have listened to me, Em. I’ve been suggesting this since before I moved out.’
She knew he had a point. Jonah was her best friend for a reason. He knew her better than she knew herself. And she also knew that this ‘moving forward’ scenario he was putting out to her would not have moved at all if he had discussed it with her first. She had two choices now. She either met these potential flatmates or she told Jonah to cancel them before any of their feet hit the natural floorboards.
Emily took an edifying breath. ‘OK… so… tell me… do any of the candidates cook?’
Six
Earl of Essex, Danbury Street
The first pint had gone down quickly, coating Ray’s throat with a pleasing fizz. The second delivered that slightly blurry-at-the-edges feeling where real life seemed to matter a little less, problems diminished and headlines in the tabloid newspapers weren’t quite as scary as they had appeared at eight o’clock that morning.
He had the newspapers in front of his eyes now, sitting on a bar stool in the most dimly lit corner, the dark duck egg painted walls sadly enhanced by hanging silver bells and posters announcing the new festive menu. Fucking Christmas. He knew he shouldn’t be adding to his misery by reading any of these false stories – literal fake news – but Deborah always banged on about forewarned being forearmed and she had texted him earlier telling him Loose Women wanted him on tomorrow’s show. She had also said that to ‘get out in front of this story’ was probably the only way they were going to be able to kill the controversy.
Ray took a gulp of his pint and looked at the photos the press had used. Great, there was one of him appearing less than his best after a concert after-party. He had definitely been drunk that night. He barely remembered getting home. In fact, he’d fallen asleep at the piano.
And then there was a photo of Ida. Was it one a photographer had taken recently? Had they interviewed her at his former home? Who had initiated the contact? A journalist pressing for any hint of disgrace to fuel a story, offering wads of cash or opportunities for Ida’s art? Or had Ida herself gone looking for this? For monetary gain… or simply to hurt him?
He ran his finger over the ink on the page, tracing the light blonde hair of his ex-girlfriend. She looked sad in this photo, frail. Was that who she was now? Was that regret in her eyes about how things had ended for them? He swallowed. Whatever it was, there was no going back. No matter what the media did to try to destroy him, his life with Ida was over.
Ray’s phone vibrated in the pocket of his jeans. It would be Deborah. Asking him again to consider the daytime chat show. He couldn’t do it, could he? Sit in front of a live audience, being scrutinised by a panel of celebrity women asking him about his private life. His life with Ida. He reached for his drink and took another large swig. He looked at the glass in his hand, the lick of white foam clinging to the inside. Was this how his mother had felt? Had her life been in some way out of control like his and no one had really realised? He missed his mum. No matter how much of a screw-up she had been, he’d loved her. And she had loved him. He’d really felt that, despite everything.
Perhaps what was happening in his life now was simply his own fault. Maybe he should have considered all the trappings of celebrity before he’d got caught up right in the middle of it. But, then again, it had been such a virtual whirlwind, there had been little time to think at all. One moment he’d been playing weekly sets at a tiny pub in Camden Town and fitting busking around bricklaying, the next, he’d been catapulted to fame on TV’s Lyricist – the songwriting equivalent of The Voice. That had been three years ago and, up until now, he had managed to keep his star, if not on a constantly constant rise, at least holding its own amongst his contemporaries. And Ida had been there for most of it. Seeing him grow from show contestant to singing at the Royal Variety Performance for the Queen.
When they’d met, Ida had had no idea who he was. He and a couple of the other acts on Lyricist had been asked to perform at the opening of an art gallery. It was a small affair but publicised a great deal more because of the attendance of the Lyricist contestants. And, after his song, Ray had looked at the paintings and the – mostly phallic – sculptures, wondering what any of them really meant. Ida had stood next to him, seeming to sense his difficulty in comprehending exactly what he was looking at and she had described what turned out to be her painting. It had been a magpie on top of a high-rise building not dissimilar to the Shard, one wing spread wide, the other somehow buckled. Ida said it represented modern-day life. We are all aspiring to reach the highest of levels, but to get there sometimes we have to break a little bit. Ray had listened all the more intently then, longing for her to carry on talking, this blonde, ethereal-looking girl dressed in a ruby red ballgown with Vans on her feet. And when you get there, broken, no one usually wants you anymore. Her words had really hit home, her eyes had called to him and that had been their beginning…
The sound of smashing glass made him jump on his stool. He held his breath, his gaze going along the bar to a group of women. One of them had dropped a wine flute to the floor. They were laughing, happy, fine. The barman was already coming around with a dustpan and brush. He steadied his breathing, and then he felt the vibrations start again. His mobile. Not a message this time but a call coming through. He pulled his phone out and checked the screen. Gio. His landlord.
‘Hey, Gio,’ Ray greeted, on answering. ‘Listen, before you say anything about the rent…’
‘There is nothing to say about the rent. Nothing at all,’ the Italian voice galloped. ‘I have been saying all that I need to be saying for the past eight weeks.’
‘Gio, I know, I know, and I apologise, but I’m between situations right now. I’m waiting to untie funds that are bonded and…’ God, he really needed that advance from the record company. Gio had been patient. The credit card companies were unlikely to afford
him such grace for much longer.
‘I see the newspapers. And I see it all before,’ Gio carried on.
Ray could visualise him right now, round face turning red, hands waving around in the air. He almost sensed what was coming and he braced his core as he focused on the sign for Christmas party nights with stuffing balls and cranberry sauce…
‘I have given you warning, Ray. Written warning last month. I am sorry, Ray, I like you, I really do. I do not want to believe what they write in the news, but I have my business to think about.’
‘Gio, I will get you your rent money. Just let me call my agent. We can sort something out.’ His hand tightened around the pint glass, preparing to take a hit.
‘I sort things out,’ Gio responded. ‘This morning I arrange for all your stuff to be taken to storage. I have emailed you the details. The locks of the house, they have been changed. I have someone new moving in tomorrow.’
His stuff had been taken to storage! The locks had been changed! He should have gone home between coffee with Deborah and the meeting with Dr Crichton. He shouldn’t have come here for an alcoholic crutch to lean on… The blurry-edged bit of him said he should shout, tell his landlord that he had no right moving any of his stuff. The still-hanging-on-to-sober half of him said there was nothing he could say to change the end result. Gio had made his decision.
‘You are still there?’ Gio asked. ‘You listen to what I tell you?’
