by Laura Tait
I lift my eyebrows in his direction. ‘Not unless you start saying “Eeeh by gum” and “Ay up, lad”.’
I glance around at the other passengers: a huddle of Chinese tourists, a teenager dressed like a Topman mannequin and a skinhead with a ring through his septum. No one makes eye contact, and I absorb the anonymity with relish.
‘Ay up, lad,’ says Kev, prodding his brow towards the skinhead. ‘That fella looks a bit like Bobby Shepherd.’
Bobby Shepherd was a prematurely bald headcase who took umbrage when I received a new bike with more gears than his for my fourteenth birthday. One afternoon he loitered outside the school gate with Dean Jones, and I was due to be pulped until Kev interjected, asking Bobby if the two of them could have a private chat. The sight of Bobby’s throat jerking as he listened to what Kev told him still sends a shudder of relief down my body, but to this day he won’t reveal what passed between them.
‘I promised Bobby I wouldn’t spill,’ he says when I probe him about it again now.
‘That was fourteen years ago. He joined the army, he’s fought in war zones. The Taliban are his enemy now, not me and you.’
Kev ponders.
‘Consider it a leaving present,’ I add, and his pupils expand.
‘I wouldn’t have to buy you anything?’
‘Nope.’
Kev checks left and right, for some reason wary of eavesdroppers.
‘Right, well, you know Bobby’s dad was banged up?’
I nod. ‘Yep, for armed robbery.’
‘And how do we know that?’
‘Because Bobby told everyone.’
‘Exactly.’ Kev waits for me to catch on, but I shrug, still not having a clue what he’s on about. ‘Come on, it was Bobby who told everyone his dad was some kind of armed bandit – but you would say that if he was actually inside for flashing at grannies, wouldn’t you?’
I stare at him sceptically.
‘It’s true. My uncle Mick’s a guard at Wakefield prison, isn’t he? So when Bobby started on you, I threatened to write what I knew on every blackboard in school.’
My look of scepticism is replaced by one of admiration.
‘No big deal,’ concludes Kev. ‘I mean, everyone’s got a skeleton or two in the closet, haven’t they?’
‘Speak for yourself.’
Kev sticks his little finger in his ear, inspects the discharge and wipes it on his jeans. ‘Sorry, I forgot about that time when my ma caught you playing with yourself in our downstairs toilet.’
Here we go.
‘How many times do I have to tell you – I thought I had a lump.’
‘Having a sly danger wank, more like.’
I shake my head. ‘Kev?’
‘Yes?’
‘Let’s have a bit of quiet time, yeah?’
The first place we’re viewing is a second-floor apartment in the centre of Greenwich. I’d be sharing with a freelance illustrator named Carl, who owns a 52-inch plasma TV and looks like he plays bass in an indie band.
Kev raps his knuckles against the bedroom wall. ‘Plastering’s good.’
An unemployed builder is never off duty.
‘Why would I care?’ I say, making a show of rolling my eyes so that Carl knows not to judge me by anything Kev utters.
‘In case you want to put a dart board up.’
‘I don’t play darts.’
‘Er, I’m just saying that if you wanted to start, the plastering’s good. You don’t know anyone here – you’ll need something to fill the time.’
This kind of nonsense is why I was reticent about bringing him. Although he does have a point – I am going to need things to do down here. I was thinking of starting a book club at my new school. And I’m definitely going to buy a bike.
‘There’s a few decent pubs around here,’ interrupts Carl, flicking his long, diagonal fringe away from his eyes.
Kev slaps my back. ‘There you go, you don’t even need a dart board.’
Once the tour is complete, we say our goodbyes and begin the short walk to our next appointment.
‘That’s going to take some beating, ball-splash.’
‘I can’t live there.’
Kev stops dead. ‘Why?’
‘Didn’t you see him when he sneezed?’ I enquire, walking ahead.
‘For fuck’s sake.’
Kev catches up.
‘I can’t live with someone who doesn’t cover their mouth. It’s liquid bacteria whooshing out at a hundred miles an hour.’
Kev leers at me as if, rather than stating a perfectly valid point, I’ve just confessed that I’ve a penchant for wearing women’s underwear.
Russell is our host at appointment number two. The first thing he does is point to the Pink Floyd T-shirt Kev is modelling.
‘You a big fan?’ he asks, and it’s like a starter gun for the two of them.
Ten minutes later we’re still in the hallway and they’re still outdoing each other with boasts of their dedication to ‘The Floyd’. Russell wins. His wife threatened to divorce him if he saw The Wall Tour on their first wedding anniversary. Hence he’s looking for a new housemate.
It’s only when I point out that we’re running late for our next viewing that we’re shown around.
‘Not sure there’s any point going to the next one, is there?’ Kev concludes as we leave.
I wait for him to stop waving, and for Russell to shut the door. ‘He had a life-sized poster of four men on his living-room wall, Kev.’
‘They’re not just four men, mate.’
That may be so, but it’s irrelevant. If I’m honest, the real reason I couldn’t live with Russell isn’t his Pink Floyd obsession. It’s the fear that I’d never see the last of Kev.
Our final appointment is in Deptford, where my potential housemate is an air-stewardess called Suzanne. Kev sweeps his tongue across his bottom lip when she answers the door, undeterred by the crusty make-up in the creases of her nose.
‘Would you mind if Alex had a friend to stay once or twice a month?’ he quizzes, and before I can protest, Suzanne frames her lips mischievously.
‘You two aren’t . . .?’ She hesitates. ‘Are you a couple?’
Kev is agog at the suggestion he may be gay. Personally, I’m more affronted by the idea that I’d fancy him.
‘Look, Susan—’ interrupts Kev.
‘Suzanne.’
‘Sorry. Bet you get that all the time, eh?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, anyway.’ Kev leans towards her to confide something; Suzanne folds both arms tight against her chest, a tortoise retreating into its shell. ‘Alex here likes a bit of the other.’ I allow my head to crash into my hands. ‘But hopefully me and you can get to know each other if he moves in?’
‘Okaaaaay . . .’ Suzanne ducks out of his way and leads us into the living room, with its shag-pile rug and modern chaise longue. Her place is homely and, based on our small talk while Kev relieves himself in the bathroom, she seems pleasant. I can picture us having dinner parties, with hors d’oeuvres and cinnamon-based desserts.
Once we’re on the train home Kev uses the back of a receipt from two bottles of water to write a Pros and Cons list.
Pros of living with Suzanne (according to Kev)
1/ She looks dirty
2/ No problem with friends staying
3/ Nice house
4/ She’ll probably have fit mates
5/ Five-minute walk to work
6/ She looks dirty
Cons of living with Suzanne (according to Kev)
1/ Potential girl talk
2/ Toilet seat isn’t fitted properly – need to hold it up while having a wee
3/ You’ll never get any sleep
‘OK, a few questions,’ I say, examining the list.
‘Go on . . .’
‘Firstly, shouldn’t number two in the pros list actually be in the cons section?’
‘Hilarious. Next . . .’
‘What
does “Potential girl talk” mean?’
‘You know, when girls get home from work they tell you every detail of their day, like what they ate for lunch and how many times they went for a wee.’
‘You mean conversation?’
‘All right, Casanova. Any further questions?’
‘Yep, just the one: why won’t I get any sleep?’
‘Er, because living with a girl that fit you’ll be lying there with a raging boner every night.’
Of course, a raging boner – why didn’t I think of that? Oh well, even without sleep the pros outweigh the cons, so I eagerly scroll down to Suzanne’s number.
‘Oh, hi.’ She sounds surprised to hear from me.
‘I’ve had a think and, if it’s OK with you, I’d like to take the room.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘It’s still available?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘But what?’
The line goes silent for a second and I’m wondering what the hell is going on.
‘Don’t get me wrong – you seem like a nice guy. It’s your mate.’
Acrimony begins to consume me but I try to level my voice with calm. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s a creep.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I don’t want to give you the room knowing he’d be staying once a month. Or staying at all, actually.’
I want to explain that it’s fine, and that I wouldn’t want Kev visiting either, but in all likelihood he wouldn’t consult me before booking a train ticket.
I stare blankly through the window as we finish the call. I cannot believe he has found a way to spoil this for me.
‘Well, come on,’ he says. ‘What did she say?’
I tighten my grip on my bottle of water, searching for the words.
‘If you must know . . .’ I sigh, still averting my eyes. But it’s no use. I can’t do it. He’s no more ready to hear what the opposite sex really thinks of him than I am. And it’s not as if I’ll have to put up with him for much longer. ‘Some bloke came around after us and he’s having the room.’
‘Oh. Sorry, man. I could easily have imagined myself shagging her on that funny little sofa thing as well. So what’s it going to be: bacteria or Pink Floyd? You’ve left it a bit late to find anywhere else, haven’t you?’
I’m still debating what to do the following day when I see Sally Barrowclough in the chippy. Sally and I sat next to one another in A-level English. She was one of those girls who had a boyfriend in his mid-thirties, which I thought was cool at the time. Then I got a bit older and realized it was about as cool as Gary Glitter.
I tell Sally about moving to London.
‘You know Holly Gordon lives down there, don’t you?’ she interrupts. Her tone is suggestive, and I’m not sure what exactly she’s insinuating, so I accept the information with a simple, noncommittal nod.
‘Her mum comes into my salon. You and Holly used to go out, didn’t you?’
The heat of the fryers starts to burn my face. ‘Nope.’
‘Are you sure?’ asks Sally, handing over a ten-pound note to the girl behind the counter.
‘I think I’d remember.’
Sally grins to herself as she collects her order, and grins some more as she says goodbye, and it all feels a bit juvenile.
Of course I knew Holly lived in London, but it’s a big place. I’m hardly expecting to bump into her on the Underground. And even if I did, what exactly does Sally suppose will happen?
I think little more of our conversation until a couple of days later when the landline rings and Dad answers. He nods and looks faintly surprised and after a minute or so he mimes writing something on his hand to inform me that he requires a pen and a piece of paper.
‘Who was that?’ I ask once the receiver has been replaced.
‘Joan Gordon.’ There’s something hidden in the smile that accompanies his answer, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
‘I didn’t know you still spoke to her.’
‘I don’t, really. Christmas cards and what-have-you.’
I’m still confused.
‘So what did she want?’
‘She’s heard you’re moving to London.’
Finally I twig. Joan must have been due a haircut. Sally Barrowclough always was a blabbermouth. She used to tell everyone about the dirty things she let her older man do to her.
‘She rang to pass on Holly’s email thingy.’
I realize there is nothing mysterious hidden in Dad’s smile at all – it’s just a smirk. Like Sally in the chip shop. And I shouldn’t have expected anything else. This is Mothston, after all. A place where no one has got anything better to do than interfere in other people’s business.
I make a show of nonchalance as I accept the piece of paper with Holly’s email address, but all the while a sequence of recurring questions come to mind. Why didn’t she stay in touch? Why didn’t she ever tell me when she was visiting?
I’ve searched for her on Facebook, trying to match one of the 263 Holly Gordons with the girl I remember. My eyes were always drawn to her lips, which were framed in a permanent smile, like she might burst into laughter at any point. The other girls at school applied make-up like they were taking part in an art project, or wasted away on The Cabbage Soup Diet (the common room was not a place you wanted to spend any time during those few months), but Holly was different, and yet she always looked incredible. If my eyes were drawn to her lips, then my mind, when I was alone, focused on her figure: curvy, a caricaturist’s dream.
I feel a surge of regret as it occurs to me that maybe I can’t find her on Facebook because she isn’t Holly Gordon anymore. Maybe she married that Max fella I heard she was dating. I can’t even remember who told me about him.
Over the next few days I draft and re-draft an email, trying to find the right tone. I know from bumping into Mrs Gordon the odd time – she was probably the one who told me about Max – that Holly lives in London and works in the City, but there are so many gaps. How long did she spend travelling? Did she ever open that cake shop in Paris? Or was it an English pub? It escapes me now. We didn’t have a ‘Girl most likely to . . .’ at Mothston Grammar, but if we had, Holly would have been a unanimous choice.
Yes, I would’ve streaked through Mothston town centre to be with her back then, and I guess it couldn’t have been more obvious. But Holly never saw us that way, so I did what you do, I tried to move on, and I’ve had plenty of broken hearts since, although it never hurt quite as much. They call it ‘The one that got away’, don’t they – the person that never leaves your mind completely. And that’s why I got flustered in the chippy with Sally. They’re always there, like a time capsule you bury in your garden as a schoolboy. And now, all these years later, it feels like I’m about to dig mine up.
Chapter Five
HOLLY
‘Who do you think Richard is fucking?’ Jemma plonks a cup of tea on my desk.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. How does she know? Does everyone know? Did I leave my knickers in his in-tray? Knock his phone off the hook when we were doing it and speed dial Martin Cooper’s voicemail by mistake?
‘What makes you say that?’ I mutter, eyes on screen, forehead screwed up, like I’m concentrating really hard on the email I’m reading.
‘Look at him. Self-satisfied smile. That swagger. I walked into his office the other day and he was WHISTLING, Holly. As if he’d be that smug if he wasnae getting any.’
I breathe again, but my relief is half-hearted – there’s a good chance the secret will be out soon anyway. In a spectacular fashion, as it goes.
I should be on day three of my period, yet for the third day running: nothing. Not even a little tell-tale cramp. The painters aren’t in and haven’t even called to say they’re on their way.
Shameful confession: Richard and I haven’t been totally, 100 per cent careful during those office encounters. Heck, on a couple of occasions we’ve bee
n downright reckless.
So of course I’m entirely freaked out. Well, not entirely. Which is a bit weird. OK, if you look at it that I’m potentially knocked up by my boss after an illicit fumble on his desk it sounds BAD. On the other hand, I might be a twenty-nine-year-old woman pregnant by my thirty-five-year-old totally respectable boyfriend.
I had a scare two years in with my last boyfriend, Max, and I just couldn’t picture the scene. Walking around with a bump, shopping for cots, changing nappies – any of it.
But when I make myself think about it now, the images come easily.
It’s not like I settled just because I’m at that age everyone expects it from you, and Richard happened by chance. He was just back from holiday when I started temping here. I’d been an executive PA to the CEO at a bank when the recession hit and my boss – and, therefore, me – was made redundant. I should have seen it coming. I mean, considering the fact my boss was earning a small fortune to do sweet eff all. They say everything happens in threes, and not only was it the night after Max moved out, but that morning my hair straighteners broke mid-use and I had to go to work with half a head of frizzy hair.
I holed up in my flat for a week, moping. Not about the hair thing – although I still get upset thinking about it – but about suddenly having no direction. The only conversations I had were with Harold. It was a depression-off. I won. I got so bored I sat in tartan pyjamas reading my old teen diaries. The fourteen-, fifteen-, and sixteen-year-old me couldn’t wait to get out of Mothston and see the world, apparently. And then it hit me. That was the only thing I’d never managed to cross off a To Do list. Why was I moping? I’d never given up on my dream to see the world and I’d just lost the two things stopping me.
So I drew up a list of destinations and took some soul-destroying temp jobs to boost my travel fund. The only thing keeping me going by the time I landed the three-week stint at Hexagon was the Lonely Planet books piled on my nightstand.
Then at 9 a.m. on Monday, there he was. I think I did an actual swoon.
‘You must be my new PA,’ Richard grinned, shaking my hand firmly.
‘I love you,’ I replied. But not out loud.
And that’s how I met Richard a year ago. And he seemed like a pretty good reason to stick around.
