The Starter Home

by Bryony Fraser

  ‘I was out with Benni, she’ll be the same.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Come on, once you’re up you’ll feel much better.’

  I pulled the pillow over my head again. Jack pulled it off again, and tried to lift me up.

  ‘Jack, just piss off, alright?’

  There was a shocked moment of silence, then Jack lowered me down and put both his hands up. ‘Fine. Fine. I’m off to work, you do what you want.’ I caterpillared under the duvet and heard him pack up and slam the front door. I’d made one discovery already that morning: if there was ever a hangover tip to make you feel even worse, it was being a total bastard to your boyfriend. Husband.

  I knew he was right though, and after a minute or two of checking my limbs were still attached, I crawled on all fours to the bathroom, threw up for a while, then got into the shower. I found a coffee and banana under the mirror when I got out again, once the water was running completely cold.

  In the kitchen, Jack’s toast for me was also cold in the toaster. I mashed the banana on top with a little cinnamon, and sat chewing thoughtfully until the shakes had subsided. This was a bad one. I’d already sent a text to Benni to warn her of the state I was in (I’d just got a Ugh. Me too in response), but I needed something more than just a text for Jack. Looking at the scattered remains of my breakfast, I realised that this was why I loved him – his thoughtfulness, his commitment, his kindness. But this morning I had a killer hangover and I just wanted to lie in bed and suffer. Why couldn’t he just leave me be, if only for five more minutes?

  I’d overreacted, but I couldn’t bear being treated like a wayward child by someone insisting on what was best for me.

  Staggering through the school gates as the bell rang, I was sure we could fix it.

  TWO

  Seven years earlier

  Zoe sat at the bar and picked at her nail polish, something both Ava and her mum told her not to do whenever they caught her. She flaked off big chunks of deep blue onto the napkin on the copper-topped bar, then folded the napkin over to keep them from scattering. She took another swig of her salt-rimmed margarita and checked the clock on the wall. He wasn’t coming.

  She’d had to be convinced about this date in the first place, by the Chemistry course-mate who had set her up with this guy at a recent party – yes, he was good-looking, but she hadn’t got a good vibe from him. Not at all. When they’d been introduced, he’d given her the kind of smile that made her feel like a mirror, that he was just looking at her to get a tab on how great he looked that day. And when he’d nodded a casual Yeah, sure to her course-mate’s suggestion that he and Zoe should get a drink some time, she’d wanted to back away from the whole thing, hitting undo.

  She might only be twenty-two, but she knew enough to listen to her gut on things like this. Glancing round the empty bar, she realised she’d just learned that the hard way. But she hadn’t been on a date in ages, and if nothing else, she was reasonably sure he’d have put out at the end of the night. She sighed, and drained the final dregs from the glass.

  The barman took the glass and the folded paper napkin, and wiped down the counter. ‘Another?’

  Zoe realised she felt slightly giddy from her margarita.

  ‘What do you recommend?’ She folded her chipped fingernails inside her fists and rested them on the bar.

  ‘Maybe a better date, from the look of things? Otherwise, I make a mean Bloody Mary.’

  She speared three olives in the little dish by the napkins, and ate them, one by one.

  ‘I feel pretty bloody. Go on then. Please.’

  He didn’t talk while he was making her drink, but once he’d served it he stayed at her end of the bar and chatted to her, in between serving other people. It was a quiet Tuesday in October, and there weren’t that many people to serve, so they were mostly talking. He was a student too, doing a design degree. He was into shoes, he said, planning to make a break from behind this bar at some point to actually start his own shoe shop, shoes that he’d designed and created himself. She asked him if he’d make his escape tonight. He said he was now considering hanging around for a better offer. She said she was considering making one.

  The next morning, Zoe woke up to a strange and empty bed. Fair enough. She’d only had one more drink after the Bloody Mary and could remember everything well enough to know she’d be disappointed that this was only a one-night thing, but it was a pity he hadn’t even hung around long enough for a little small talk, perhaps a brief replay of last night. She stretched, got up, dressed – debated leaving a note, but thought there was little point. She found her handbag and shoes – one under the bed, one balanced on the dripping tap in the corner sink – attempted to shape her hair into something presentable, and headed out, pulling the door until it locked, heading down the corridor that looked just like every college hall corridor in the country, and out into the street. Her bus arrived almost immediately and she headed back to her student house to take a long bath and have a good long think about what she’d done. In fact, what they’d both done.

  Five minutes later, there was a soft knock-knocking at the bedroom she’d so recently vacated. A key in the door, and the barman opened it from outside, juggling two coffees and two bags of pastries.

  ‘I didn’t know what you wanted, so I got one of—’

  He stopped, saw the empty bed, the vanished shoes and bag.

  ‘Bugger.’

  Two weeks later, Zoe stood waiting outside a workshop at the design college with a tote bag over one arm. After a quarter of an hour, the doors opened and the students streamed out.

  ‘Hey!’ she called. Half the class looked around. ‘Barman!’

  He joined the half of the class who were looking, and smiled. ‘It’s Jack, actually,’ he called back.

  She nodded. ‘Jack. Ok. Bit out there, but I can work with it.’

  He walked over, stood in front of her. ‘Zoe.’

  ‘You remembered.’

  ‘I did.’ He smiled a little more. ‘I remembered where you were at uni, too, and your course, and I was actually going to come and find you there, but I thought how would I actually find you—’

  ‘There are literally three black students on my whole course.’

  ‘And I didn’t know if it would be a bit weird, me just pitching up at your lectures—’

  ‘In front of my whole class? Like this?’

  ‘Yeah – oh, no, I mean – this is different. It’s charming when you do it. But it’s a bit weird if this barman you just had a one-night stand with turns up, even if he’s brought flowers—’

  ‘You were going to buy me flowers?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. I mean, I had such a great time with you. And then you’d bolted, and I didn’t really know how to find you.’

  ‘Again. Literally three black students on my whole course.’

  ‘But here you are!’

  ‘Ruining our romantic reunion.’

  Jack laughed. ‘A little bit. And I don’t even have your flowers.’

  Zoe opened her tote bag. ‘But I have shoes. Can you fix them, please?’

  He took the bag and offered his arm. ‘But first. A drink?’

  That second date was as good as their first, if that bar conversation could be counted as their first. For their second date, they made an effort: Jack wore a new jacket, Zoe wore the heels Jack had fixed for her, and the pair of them left their film early. They never made it to their restaurant booking, but later found one of the few obliging pizza delivery places still willing to deliver to university halls.

  The third date was with Jack’s parents.

  On the morning after their pizza-in-bed date, Jack had waved Zoe off at the bus stop and headed back to his room to get ready for his day. Zoe, rummaging in her bag on the top deck of the bus, found that she’d picked up his student ID by mistake. She looked at her watch. Dammit, she didn’t have time to return it now, but she’d swing by and drop it off later.

  By the time she was free, it w
as early evening. She knew she could get buzzed in by anyone, and she’d just slip it under his door if he wasn’t about. Outside his room, however, she could hear muffled voices. She knocked. Jack opened the door in nothing but a towel and face mask, and he stared at her for a moment before he gave a small scream.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  She held out his ID. ‘Sorry. I picked this up this morning. Good to see you too, Jack.’ Zoe raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Who’s that, Jack?’ A woman’s voice came from behind the door.

  Zoe crossed her arms in front of her and took a deep breath.

  ‘Jack?’ The same voice, more insistent.

  Jack had jammed his foot on the inside of the door, and it was shaking with the effort of the person behind it trying to open it wider. ‘Look, can you just – stop being so silly – can you—’

  Zoe switched to her other hip and re-crossed her arms. The door was finally yanked open.

  A middle-aged couple stood in Jack’s room, the man stretched out on Jack’s bed reading the Telegraph, the woman, slight and well-dressed, with glossy brown hair, her hand still on the inside door handle.

  ‘Well, Jack,’ the woman said. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

  THREE

  Now

  When Jack got back that night, the flat was filled with the smells of jollof rice, his favourite of my mum’s dishes and one of the few I managed to get even close to Mum’s quality. I’d lit candles, drawn the curtains (you only make that mistake once – thanks to one amorous night when we forgot to close them, our blushing neighbours opposite now ran like rats whenever they saw us) and poured the wine. As he dropped his bag and coat, he said, ‘Well, someone should have hangovers more often, if this is the result.’ I laughed, then he added, ‘I thought we were married already – do we still have to keep trying to seduce each other?’

  I didn’t laugh, although I knew it was a joke; it seemed too close to what I’d been worrying about in the small hours this morning. Why couldn’t we keep seducing each other? What was the alternative – that we’d come back each evening to find our other half in an egg-stained fleecy dressing gown watching EastEnders and picking the hardened bits of a Pot Noodle out of the bottom of the cup?

  Jack saw my face and came over. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and kissed me.

  I sighed. ‘No, I’m sorry. I was doing this to apologise for this morning, and now you’re apologising to me.’

  ‘Ok, we’re both sorry. Although not as sorry as you looked this morning—’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But we’re both sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry for being so vile this morning.’

  ‘And I’m sorry for the ill-judged joke. This smells and looks amazing.’

  ‘And for trying to lift me out of bed?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘And you’re sorry for trying to physically lift me out of bed this morning, even though I didn’t want you to?’

  ‘Zo, you were going to miss a whole day!’

  ‘Of course I wasn’t! I made it to school.’

  ‘Eventually. I didn’t know that though, did I?’

  ‘You didn’t ask. You can just take it as read from now on that you’re free to treat me as an adult, able to make my own decisions about my own life, ok?’

  ‘I know that you’re capable, I just don’t know if you always do.’

  ‘I’m twenty-nine, Jack, I managed an awfully long time without you telling me what to do.’

  My last comment hung in the air between us.

  ‘I’m sorry. Again. I’m still hungover, and you know it makes me a bastard. Let’s just stop. Let’s have this nice meal, and … who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky.’

  ‘Maybe you will.’ Jack brought our glasses over, still misted with cold, and cheers-ed.

  When I arrived home the next day, our post was waiting on the table; Jack must have picked it up. Junk mail, junk mail, junk mail – and then one that was addressed to ‘Mr and Mrs Bestwick’. Jesus Christ, the ink wasn’t even dry on our marriage certificate yet. How the hell had – what was this, an insurance company – managed to get our names? Was this it, now? The choice to keep my name – which, let’s not forget, is an absolutely fucking absurd thing to even make a choice about – didn’t even matter, because everyone would just assume I was Jack’s chattel, to be named and catalogued along with his other possessions. This was why I’d always felt so uncomfortable with the idea of marriage. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, per se, it’s just that all the assumptions and faff that came with it, including the name-changing rigmarole, wasn’t something I’d ever seen myself having to put up with. And yet here I was.

  I tore it in half with an ugh of despair. Jack came around the corner, carrying two cups of tea with a plate of salted-honey toast on top. ‘Bad day at school?’

  ‘No! Good day. I love my work. And I should clearly enjoy it while society still permits married women to actually hold down jobs that men could be doing.’

  ‘I’m sensing … this isn’t about your day at work.’

  I held out the two pieces of the letter. ‘Awww,’ Jack said in a mock-touched voice. ‘That’s nice. How did they know?’ He looked at me, saw I wasn’t smiling, then said, ‘No, that is creepy. I get your ugh now.’ He screwed his face up. ‘How did they know?’

  I relaxed slightly, realising that this wasn’t Jack’s fault. ‘I’m feeling slightly … disappeared when that happens.’

  Jack put on a soft, exaggeratedly soothing voice. ‘Does Hulk want to smash the patriarchy?’ I nodded. ‘Does Hulk want to come and smash the patriarchy on the sofa with some tea and toast?’ I nodded again. ‘Does Hulk want to do that on the sofa while a man cooks and cleans tonight as a token gesture of patriarchy-smashing?’ I nodded again, smiling and giving him a kiss on the nose as I took the plate and a mug and lay full length on the sofa.

  Taking a bite of the toast, I said, ‘How’s your week going?’

  ‘Fine. Good. Nice and busy today, which is unusual for this time of year.’

  I could hear cupboards being opened and closed as Jack got things out to make dinner.

  ‘Jonjo thought it was funny to tease me about not being allowed out anymore, when I said I wanted to get back here tonight after closing up.’

  I pulled a face. ‘Jonjo’s a dick.’

  Jack stopped, and looked at me through the kitchen hatch, mouth agape. ‘Oh my god! That’s exactly what I said to him.’

  ‘We’re like two peas in a pod.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Well anyway, besides the small matter of me abusing my employees, everything’s been fine. January sales still going well.’

  ‘We’re still going through the cake and prosecco I got on Monday.’

  ‘You teachers. Always living the high life.’

  ‘And I didn’t have to swear at any colleagues.’

  ‘Enough, enough. Alcohol and cake, and not forcing you to mistreat co-workers? They’ll be giving you the vote next.’

  I threw my toast crust at him, which landed perfectly in his hair. Jack reached up, deadpan, and slowly drew it down and popped it in his mouth in one bite. ‘That’s some good toast, though I say so myself.’

  ‘You’ve got to have some skills if you want women to keep you guys around.’

  ‘Not women. Just woman. You’ll do me, thanks.’ Jack gave me a panto wink.

  I found an old New Yorker stuffed down the side of the sofa and read a piece about Malala Yousafzai, while the smells of Jack’s cooking filled the flat. Maybe married life wasn’t the absolute worst thing in the world after all.

  After a quiet weekend, I headed to the bar. It was crowded for so early in the week, but I found a table before Liz had arrived. She brought drinks over and hugged me.

  ‘So, how is life as a married woman?’ The question from her was tender, rather than wry. We clinked glasses.

  ‘Fine.’ She looked at me. ‘It is fine, really. Do you want to talk about Ad
am?’

  She’d been seeing him on and off for a few years; they’d repeatedly talked about living together, but she’d always backed off. Going by his absence at our wedding, she must have backed off pretty far this time. She shrugged. ‘I dunno. Seems like a bit of a downer.’

  I laughed. ‘Given the downers you’ve had from me, Liz? Please. What happened?’

  She shrugged again, a bit brisker. ‘No, not tonight. Is that ok? I just … I want to think about something else.’ She stopped. ‘You know, I’ve always wanted something like you and Jack have. Is that weird?’

  ‘Us?’ I yelped. ‘Liz, you know better than anyone how I’ve been feeling—’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s just you. It’s not the two of you. You two have a better relationship than most people I know. And me and Adam, I just kept thinking, what if there’s something better, just around the corner, and I … No. Listen. I really don’t want to start on this tonight. Please. Save me from myself. Tell me about your school. Your sisters. International military policy. Anything.’

  ‘Well, Kat’s got a new job, which everyone’s delighted about. I still don’t really get what it is though. Some ad agency thing. We’re all going to Mum and Dad’s on Sunday to have a big meal – toast Kat, toast us, that kind of thing.’

  ‘That’s great news about Kat. How will you cope with the toasting to you too, though?’

  I laughed. ‘You’ve met Kat, haven’t you? I don’t imagine Jack and I will get much of a look in there.’

  ‘Which suits you fine, I imagine.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I took a sip of my drink. ‘This job of hers might turn out to be the best thing that’s happened to me recently. Between Esther’s toddler, whatever spirit-lifting social-work case Ava’s currently on and the Job of the Century from Kat, I don’t think I have to worry about the focus being on us at all.’

  Liz and I clinked glasses again.

  By our second week of marriage, things felt completely steady again between me and Jack, enough that we spent the evening semi-ironically filling out a questionnaire Jack had been sent by his stepmum: What’s Your Newlywed Score? We had to answer things like ‘Where do you see yourself in ten years’ time?’ and ‘What’s your happiest childhood memory?’ – topics which neither of us had the courage to point out are maybe things you should discuss before the wedding, rather than after, but whatever. We opened a fancy bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a leftover from the wedding, and sat curled up together on the sofa.