The Starter Home

by Bryony Fraser

  The next morning we woke up to blinding light and sixty missed calls on my phone. We’d slept right through the bacon sandwich brunch for all our guests, and were being called by reception on the blaring landline to gently enquire whether we’d be checking out shortly or staying for another night. I was all for staying for another – hide away a bit longer, make the most of this massive bed and giant bathtub – but Jack reminded me that we’d blown our budget with even one night here. We’d debated for ages about whether to go home after the reception, back to the flat my parents had helped us buy, full of wedding presents that had already been delivered. But we’d thought we’d splash out because that’s what you do, right? You lose your mind and do everything that’s out of character and out of budget. And if for a moment you wonder if really that’s the right decision – to get outfits that cost more than a white tiger, and the hotel room that you won’t even notice because you were so tired and drunk and emotional you could have spent the night on a park bench and not noticed the difference – well, you just take a deep breath and repeat But It’s My Wedding, and stamp your feet to really get into the role.

  I stripped off my wedding jumpsuit and climbed into the shower, while Jack rang our families and packed up our stuff. By the time I’d got out, rubbed in some coconut oil and got into my favourite jeans, headscarf, soft sweater and Nikes, reception was calling again with a slightly less gentle enquiry. Jack said the Bacon Brunch had gone ahead without us at my parents’ place, and everyone had had a great time. Both his dad and my parents were fine, understood completely, and everyone sent their love.

  After finally managing to check out, wrapped in scarves and coats against the cold, we hit the Tube to discover that the only free seats were at either end of the row. Jack sat me down with the bags then turned to the man next to me.

  ‘Sorry, mate, would you mind taking the seat at the end? We only got married yesterday, and I’d like to sit next to my wife.’ He giggled a bit as he said the final word.

  The man beamed at me, saying, ‘Sure! Congratulations, guys!’ in a sunny Australian accent, but I’d already covered my eyes with my hands and was trying not to set the carriage alight with my blushes. It’s fine, I thought, it’s fine, he’s just being romantic, he’s just excited, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. One day I’m sure I’ll get used to that word. Wife.

  Everyone was watching us now, so I was too self-conscious to start up a conversation with Jack. We sat in a sleepy silence, holding hands, bags at our feet, watching everyone watching us. At Seven Sisters, we stepped out and heard someone call, ‘Good luck, newlyweds!’ and a few people in the carriage laughed. I squeezed Jack’s hand, trying to swallow my nausea.

  ‘Do you remember when we used to use actual words to talk to each other instead of hand actions?’ he said. That got a laugh out of me, and he said, ‘Thank god! I thought one of us might have had a stroke and forgotten English. Right. Lunch. Pub? Or home?’

  We chatted about the various options, and it felt like normality again, the two of us planning meals and making plans. In the end, we picked up bits for lunch from the shop on the corner, and by the time we’d got to our front door I’d forgotten completely about what was waiting for us inside.

  Boxes and boxes and boxes of stuff. Bedding, picture frames, coffee cups, lamps, a blender, an espresso machine, vases, cushions; piled up on our sofa, the floor, the kitchen counters, even balanced on the big hatch between kitchen and living room. Like the whole of the Generation Game conveyor belt had been carrying its load into our flat. Upstairs Jan, the neighbour above us in the top half of the house, had also left a bunch of flowers and a card for us at the door, and we added them to the pile like a tiny cherry on a huge, sprawling cake.

  ‘I’d forgotten this lot was here. Do you remember asking for all this stuff?’ I said.

  ‘Not really. That day was a bit of a blur. Remind me why we unpacked it all already?’ Jack was scratching his beard, wide eyed at everything filling our living room.

  ‘This cushion, though. I don’t even remember seeing it, let alone wanting it.’ I picked up a needlepoint cushion with a white terrier picked out in murky shades of beige and brown.

  ‘Or this vase.’ Jack held up another vase. ‘Or that one.’ We worked for a few minutes, going through the gifts and lining everything up on the kitchen hatch and along the coffee table. We stared around us. Eventually, I said, ‘Hang on, why would we want … seven vases?’

  We looked through everything around us, at the plaid garden kneeler and the brass rabbit ornament.

  ‘This isn’t ours,’ we said at the same time. The giddiness and bustle of the upcoming wedding had meant we’d opened and unpacked every box without really noticing what was in there; it was only the coffee maker which looked familiar from our own list.

  ‘Mmm. Can we keep the espresso machine, though? Didn’t we want one of those?’ Jack looked at me pleadingly.

  ‘Hell yes. We’ll claim it as compensation for our missing gifts.’

  While Jack made us a barrel of coffee each, I started on the sandwiches: bacon, avocado and feta, slathered with hot pepper chutney. My sore head and tiredness got the better of my manners, and I’d almost finished mine by the time Jack brought the coffees to the sofa.

  ‘That coffee machine was literally harder to set up than an actual spaceship.’

  ‘Literally.’

  ‘Having flown many, I’m confident in that comparison.’ We peered into our mugs, staring at the black speckles scattered through the frothed milk. ‘I might not have entirely mastered it quite yet.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Tea.’

  I swallowed my last bite of sandwich, headed into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. Hungover-peckish, I opened the fridge.

  ‘Oh my god!’

  Jack leant in through the hatch. ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Look!’

  Inside the fridge was the whole top half of our wedding cake, in all its creamy, buttery, sugary glory – one of my sisters must have dropped it off this morning, before we’d got home. Jack gulped down the sandwich he was holding, pulled out the cake, and said, ‘Right, you keep doing the teas, and I’ll get the forks. Do we need plates?’

  I shook my head at him with mock horror. ‘Plates? Please, who are we, the Queen?’ Within five minutes we were back on the sofa, giant mugs of tea in our hands, forking wodges of cake from the platter. As we lazily watched The Antiques Roadshow, I cuddled up under Jack’s arm.

  This was better. This was the married life Jack had promised me.

  He started laughing.

  ‘What?’

  His eyes creased up with how funny this genius thought was, and soon he was barely able to get the words out.

  ‘I bet you’re thinking … how if this is married life … it really suits you!’

  ‘That’s it? That’s your searing insight of the day? How much I like lying on the sofa, eating cake and watching TV with you? Well done for having registered the basic facts of my life preferences.’

  ‘Is this how you always saw yourself when you were grown up?’

  ‘Unlike every other normal child, I didn’t spend my youth fantasising about the chosen decor and potential TV habits of my adult self. I was too busy getting skinned knees and crushing on the local lifeguard.’

  ‘I hope you’ll give me his name so I can send him a note letting him know he lost his chance.’

  ‘Romance, thy name is Jack. I think he was gay, anyway.’

  ‘Wow, he really did miss his chance.’

  ‘Listen, much as all this talk of the homosexual lifeguards of my childhood is turning me on, shouldn’t we be consummating our marriage or something?’

  ‘Is that an invitation?’

  I responded by stripping off as quickly as possible, despite my sore, sugar-rushing head.

  ‘Do you remember when we used to worry about sophisticated chat-up lines?’

  ‘Jack, I said “I do”. What more do you ne
ed?’ I started trying to pull his trainers off.

  ‘You’re such a femme fatale.’

  ‘I’ll give you femme fatale.’

  ‘Ooh, will you?’ Jack’s face lit up.

  ‘If you mean will I put on red lipstick, then yes, I’m willing to do that. If you mean literally anything else, then no, unless you do it too.’

  ‘I knew married life was going to change you.’

  I stopped trying to pull his other trainer off.

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got me. Now, are you going to get this kit off or am I going to have to go and visit my local pool for any heterosexual leftovers from my teenage years?’

  Jack pulled his top off. ‘You had me at heterosexual leftovers.’

  We couldn’t afford a honeymoon. Dad had said, Dad-like, that he’d never even been out of the country until he was in his thirties, which made Mum narrow her eyes at him until he’d offered us another cup of tea and a biscuit. Friends and family sent hampers and vouchers, and the three days after the wedding were spent mostly wrapped around each other in our flat, occasionally moving upright to get more smoked salmon or chocolate eclairs or boar pâté down us, or to tighten the curtains against the cold January winds. But just as I started worrying I might be coming down with either gout or scurvy, the honeymoon was over, and we were due back at work the next day.

  It was a cold Monday morning as Jack handed over my packed lunch, kissing me goodbye outside our front door. ‘Back to school. Have a good day, wife.’ I was still uncomfortable with that. I’d swallow it down, though, just like that second tier of wedding cake.

  ‘Have a good day, dearest husband of mine.’

  We both made mock-vomiting faces, kissed again, then went in our separate directions: me a bus ride away to Walker High School, the secondary where I’d been teaching Science for the last four years, and Jack to the shoe shop he owns and designs for, all slick white spaces and open brickwork and handmade shoes strewn artfully around.

  When I got into the Science office, I immediately set eyes on a tray of bubbling prosecco laid out on a table piled high with cards and gifts, with balloons sellotaped to each corner. No one was about. I walked around to the small kitchenette, where everyone was clustered around something on the other side of the room.

  ‘Happy New Year. Is it someone’s birthday?’ I asked, making everyone scream in surprise. Our lab assistant, Miks, yelped and knocked the cake they’d all been huddled around off the counter. We all stared at the mush of icing and crumbs on the floor, the candles still somehow burning as they lay at odd angles from the side of the pile.

  ‘You’re early! You’re never early, darling!’ wailed Benni. ‘These guys just wanted to do something to mark your wedding—’

  ‘Since not all of us made the exclusive guest list,’ Miks interjected, eyes rolling cartoonishly.

  ‘And I said, Oh, don’t worry, Zoe’s never early, we’ve got plenty of time, and now …’

  We all stared at the pile on the floor again.

  ‘I solemnly swear never to be early to work again.’

  ‘Better,’ said Benni. ‘Darling, you know I find it immensely unnerving when you get all Motivated Teacher. Or is this Jack’s magical influence? Has marriage finally uncovered your work ethic?’

  ‘If my work ethic involves eating wedding cake from unlikely places – not like that, Miks – then you might just be right. If you mean am I likely to be willing to stay until 9 p.m. to attend a four-hour school performance of Annie for you, then no, I’m afraid my marriage certificate has not yet altered the fact that I still prefer home to school. Just. Much as you’re the best boss in the world, Benni.’

  Benni, head of Science, smiled at me, then gave me a hug. ‘Don’t tell the Head about the prosecco. Anyway, I’ve given them a blow-by-blow of the actual wedding, so everyone can pretend they were actually there. I told them about the ceremony, your outfit, how drunk the priest got, how you punched a barman, how that fire spread so fast—’

  ‘I’m sorry you guys couldn’t all be there,’ I laughed.

  ‘You didn’t invite us!’ called Miks.

  ‘But that’s it now. We eat this cake, we open these gifts – thank you, by the way – and then all of life is as before. Ok?’

  A look passed between Benni, Miks and the dozen other Science teachers and technicians.

  ‘What? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened,’ soothed Benni. ‘But, darling, we’d all just like to take a moment to remind you what a great sport you are.’

  ‘Oh god.’

  She led me back around to my space in the Science office, where the computer screen, keyboard, back and top of my desk were papered with ‘Mrs Bestwick’ signs, in a hundred different fonts and colours. I wanted to cry and set the desk alight immediately, but I threw my hands up and shrieked, laughing and shaking my fist at them. I left most of it there for the rest of the day.

  I managed to escape comment throughout the day, but in my Year 11 class after lunch, my most promising and least delivering student put her hand up and said, ‘Miss Lewis! Miss Lewis! I heard you got married, Miss.’ At least my students didn’t think it was funny to call me by Jack’s surname, even if he did.

  There was a buzz around the classroom: teachers aren’t supposed to have lives, eat meals and go shopping, let alone get married, which is so inextricably linked with sex. The thought of your teacher doing it with someone is enough to start a riot.

  ‘I did, Michaela.’

  ‘Why, Miss?’

  Of all the questions, this was the last one I was expecting. I’d expected a barrage of Did I take a helicopter? Did I go in a carriage? Did I have a bridezilla meltdown? Was there a fight? But this …

  ‘That’s enough, Michaela. This is a Physics lesson, not a Facebook status update.’ The class hissed its approval.

  ‘Ooh, you got burnt by Miss …’

  And that was the only mention I got all day. I felt like I had somehow got away with something.

  By six o’clock, everyone had gone except me and Benni. She came over and perched at the edge of my desk, fingering the tattered ‘Mrs Bestwick’ print-outs.

  ‘You did well.’

  ‘Did I leave them up too long?’ I asked, indicating the celebratory remnants strewed around my desk. ‘Should I have taken them off sooner?’

  ‘No, that would have been too obvious. If I had medals to give, you’d be next in line, darling. After my mother, obviously, and possibly after my poor sons, but you’d certainly be on the shortlist.’

  ‘If I open my mouth can you tell me if I’ve any teeth left at all, or just stumps?’

  ‘It’s fine. People just like to make assumptions, particularly after something as black and white as a wedding. Give it another week and they’ll all be expecting the patter of tiny feet.’

  ‘And “oh my god, your babies would be beautiful” …’

  ‘I know, I know, we had the same. But with added, “And which one of you would be the mum?”’ She took my hand. ‘And yes, I know you haven’t changed your name. It was just Miks’s little joke. Ok?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Now, are you coming for a Monday night cocktail or do you need to ask your hubby for permission?’

  ‘You might have been my “mentor” – your words, not mine, I might add – since I started teaching, but—’

  ‘If you don’t know I’m joking then I’m going to have to put you up for a very long and boring disciplinary procedure.’

  ‘Drinks are on you then.’

  ‘Drinks are on me, darling.’

  It was half ten before Benni and I had finished at the bar – departmental stuff had come up that required intense discussions over many glasses of melon daiquiri – and my entry into the flat was noisier than I’d intended. Smash! The front door. Crash! A low bookcase falling over. Crunch! The pile of recycling I was going to lie on for juuust a second.

  ‘Shhh,’ I recommended.

  ‘Zo, is that you?’
Jack called from the sofa.

  If I stay quiet, he won’t know it’s me, I thought.

  ‘Zo, if that’s not you, it’s a woefully clumsy burglar and I’ll need to actually get up and do something about it.’

  Shhh, I thought again.

  Suddenly, Jack was standing over me.

  ‘Come on, you, let’s get you to bed.’

  ‘Bossy,’ I muttered, as he pulled me up and half walked, half carried me to bed. He removed my clothes, but as he tried to tuck me in I wrapped my arms around him, suddenly amorous.

  ‘Stay with me,’ I groaned.

  ‘I’ll get you a pint of water, then I’m coming to bed, ok?’

  ‘I don’t want a pint of water, I want you.’

  ‘You’ll want a pint of water when you wake up in three hours’ time, Zo.’

  ‘Yes, but I want you now,’ I said, closing my eyes to give them a rest.

  When I woke up again at 2 a.m., my mouth tasted like the sole of my shoe, and Jack was snoring next to me. There was a time, even a month ago, when he would have been with me tonight. He’d have been out, I’d have been out, we’d have eventually met up on our routes and we’d only just be getting in now. There might even have been dancing, Monday night be damned.

  I wanted to wake him up and ask him why that hadn’t happened tonight, but when I rolled over into a sitting position I realised I wanted to die instead, and any heart to hearts would just have to wait until I was able to sit up without vomiting, or had actually died, whichever came first. In my Magic 8-Ball brain, I thought about work tomorrow and came up with ‘OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD’. I’d email Benni and see if she’d mind telling the Head I’d passed on.

  At 7 a.m., Jack was shaking me, shouting and shining a torch into my eyes like a friendly interrogator. I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head, but he kept on. Eventually his words translated, and I heard, ‘Zo, wake up, you’re going to be late. I’ve made you a coffee and toast. Do you want me to turn the shower on?’

  ‘What the ever-loving fuck is this?’ I groaned again, trying to turn away without having to move my body. ‘What are you doing?’

  Jack lifted the pillow off. ‘Zo, time to get up. You’ve only been back a day. You can’t call in sick.’