Fierce Fragile Hearts

by Sara Barnard

  And in the midst of all this human-related emotional confusion there’s Clarence, licking my face in the mornings, skittering around the floor in excited little bounces when I’m getting ready to take him for a walk, wagging his tail at me when I say his name. He loves me, this dog. He doesn’t care about my past screw-ups or the likelihood that I will screw up again.

  It’s not easy, though. I don’t regret it for a second, but taking on Clarence has been harder than I’d expected. For one thing, the cost of his pet insurance is a shock, but even thinking about cancelling it makes me feel sick with guilt. The main thing, though, is work. I’d assumed – stupidly, it turns out – that I’d be able to take Clarence to Madeline’s with me, because it’s a dog-friendly coffee shop. But apparently that only applies to customers.

  ‘I’m sure he’s lovely,’ Tracey said, looking like she’s not sure about this at all. ‘But what were you thinking, that he’d just sit in the staff room for eight hours?’

  ‘Minus the half an hour during my break,’ I said.

  ‘I admire your hustle, Suze,’ Tracey said drily. ‘But no. He can stay here today, but that’s it. You’re going to have to find a dog-sitter.’

  Dog-sitters cost money, though. Doesn’t everything? I find a short-term solution in the form of Kel, who offers to look after him for my next couple of shifts while I figure it out, but I’m starting to feel the pressure. I put a note on the noticeboard in the lobby of my building, asking if anyone would be interested in looking after a dog a few hours a week, but the days pass and no one responds.

  I’ve had Clarence for just a week when the buzzer jolts me awake on the only morning I’d planned to sleep in. I sit straight up, blinking, confused. I consider ignoring it, but it’s a good thing I don’t because it turns out to be Karl from the letting agents.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to let me know when you’re going to visit?’ I ask when I let him in. I haven’t even brushed my hair.

  ‘Yes,’ Karl says, in the kind of patient voice professionals use when they want you to know you’re annoying them. ‘Which is why we did. We sent you a letter last week reminding you that we’d be visiting. It’s not an inspection per se, but we do like to check in after six months or so – this is quite overdue – to make sure everything’s going fine.’

  ‘Well, it is,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

  I expect him to start asking me questions or something, but he’s gone quiet, his eyes on me. He’s looking at me like I’ve just started tap dancing in the middle of the room. I look back, confused, waiting for him to say whatever it is that he’s thinking.

  ‘Is that your dog?’ he asks eventually.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He’s new. His name is Clarence.’

  ‘And he lives here? With you?’

  I nod. ‘He doesn’t take up much space.’

  Karl puts his fingers to his forehead, closing his eyes for a moment. ‘Right. Do you remember that contract you signed?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The tenancy agreement?’ He drops his hand and looks at me. ‘The one that stipulated … no pets?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ I say, trying to smile even as my heart sinks. ‘I sort of forgot about that.’ I lean over and scoop up Clarence into my arms, holding him close. ‘He’s just a little dog. He’s really good, honest.’

  Karl lets out a sharp sigh. ‘Having a dog in this flat is a breach of contract. A very serious breach of contract.’

  ‘His owner died,’ I say. ‘And they were going to put him in the kennels. You’re not going to make me get rid of him, are you?’

  ‘Miss Watts,’ he says. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying when I tell you that this is a breach of contract? What the repercussions are?’

  ‘Are you going to fine me?’

  He blinks at me. ‘It’s grounds for eviction.’

  All the breath leaves my body in one loud choke of shock. ‘What?’

  ‘Contracts exist for a reason. Breaching them is very serious.’ Unbelievably, he looks impatient, like I’m wasting his time. Like he’s not standing in my flat, telling me that he’s about to make me homeless. ‘With all due respect, I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. This shouldn’t be a surprise. You haven’t even tried to hide the evidence.’

  ‘You can’t throw me out for one tiny thing. And not trying to hide evidence is good, right?’

  ‘The contract –’ he emphasizes the word as patronizingly as possible – ‘is there to protect not just you as the tenant, but your landlord as well. As letting agent, we act on behalf of each of you. I have to report this, and if your landlord chooses to evict you, he’ll be within his rights to do so.’

  ‘You don’t have to report anything,’ I say. ‘Not really. The landlord literally never visits. I’ve never met him. And Clarence doesn’t make any mess. He doesn’t bark too much or scratch up the carpet. What’s the problem?’

  Karl has started pushing his notepad into his bag, clearly preparing to leave. Oh God.

  ‘Please,’ I say, switching gears, letting the panic that’s been rising inside me spill into my voice. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Please don’t … tell on me, or whatever. Please? I’m nineteen, OK? I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have a home or anything. Can’t you just let it go?’

  Karl looks at me for a long moment. Me, still wearing the clothes I slept in, my rule-breaking dog in my arms. He’s a person, isn’t he? Maybe he has a little sister. Or a daughter. He says, ‘Have you been smoking in here?’

  And that’s when I know that I’ve lost.

  There was a time when I would have called Brian immediately, the first responder in my general wreck of a life. But that doesn’t feel like an option any more, which is weird and painful. What role is there for him in my life if I can’t trust him? Oh God, don’t think about that now. Think about the fact that you’re going to be evicted.

  Evicted. Such a scary, unforgiving word. Being thrown out of my flat because I can’t follow simple instructions. I glance down at Clarence and he shifts in my lap, letting out a gravelly sigh. I did it for him, not for me. Doesn’t that count for anything?

  Fix this. I need to fix this. I need to ask for help. Burrowing myself in my bedsit and hiding from the world won’t solve this. OK, I can’t talk to Brian, but he’s not the only one who cares about me. I don’t want to talk to Sarah yet, not while I’m still panicking, because I’ll just worry her. Instead, I let out a long, slow, steadying breath and open the WhatsApp group I share with Rosie and Caddy, which has been completely silent since their disastrous trip.

  I hesitate, looking at the screen, trying to swallow my usual instinct to shut down and keep everything from them. I type, Listen, I know you’re both still mad at me. I send before I can talk myself out of it and begin typing the rest of whatever I’m trying to say, but before I can finish, a response arrives.

  Rosie:

  Excuse me.

  I stop, my heart rate jacking up. Oh God, what’s she going to say? Is she going to tell me to shut up?

  Rosie:

  I’m not mad at you. That’s Caddy. Obvs. Don’t tar me with the grumpy brush.

  I laugh, the sound loud and unexpected in my empty bedsit. Thank God for Rosie. Thank God for Rosie.

  Me:

  I’m in crisis.

  Rosie:

  Scale of 1–10?

  10. Not joking. I need help.

  I’m here. What do you need?

  I’m getting thrown out of my flat. I have nowhere to live.

  Holy fuck! Are you joking?

  No.

  Why???? They can’t do that?!

  So, kind of a long story, but I have a dog and apparently I’m not allowed to have a dog?

  … why do you have a dog???

  Long story. Later?

  OK fine, priorities. They can’t make you homeless!

  They really can.

  What are you going to do?

  Me:

  I have no clue. I’m seriously panic
king. Roz, what the fuck am I going to do?

  Rosie:

  Don’t panic. This is fixable, OK? What are your options?

  I don’t have any!

  You’re being dramatic. Calm down. You obviously do have options. Look, I’ve got a lecture in ten minutes. It’s about an hour. Go and get some tea or something and play with that random dog you apparently now own. I’ll call you after, OK?

  OK xxx

  Chin up, chuck. X

  I take her advice and drink a cup of tea sitting on my bed, Clarence curled up in my lap, his head on my knee. When I touch his head, he lets out a soft, contented, growly noise. I look around my bedsit, this place I’ve hated the whole time I’ve been in it, and try not to panic all over again.

  For the next hour, I make phone call after phone call. I call a charity for care leavers, a housing charity, Citizens Advice. They all tell me pretty much the same thing, which is, yes, they’re within their rights to evict you, but here are your likely options. I call the housing team at the council and hear the same thing again. Basically, I’ll be put on a waiting list for another property that fits my needs, and in the meantime I’d be given some form of temporary accommodation.

  ‘What about Clarence?’ I ask every single one. ‘Can I keep him?’

  And they all say, ‘No.’

  I’ve just bitten down on to my nail so hard it’s split halfway down, so surprisingly painful it made me yelp, when the letting agent rings. It’s not Karl but a woman I’ve never spoken to before, confirming that I’m going to be served a notice for eviction, and that I have to be out of the property in two weeks. I cry down the phone because I’m too scared to pretend. I tell her I’ve got nowhere to go, that I was abused, that I’m on medication.

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘Everyone’s got something.’

  Finally, I call Miriam. She’s calm, which calms me down, talking about contracts and contingencies. For once, it helps to think that this problem is part of her job. She’s literally trained to deal with things like this, people like me, in tears on the other end of the line. She tells me to meet her tomorrow afternoon to talk it all through.

  When I hang up, I look at my phone and see a stream of messages from Rosie and Caddy – Caddy! – and a voicemail each.

  Rosie: Hey! Is your phone not connecting because you’re talking to someone else? You haven’t turned your phone off, have you? I will be VERY CROSS if you’ve done that. OK, so, anyway. I’ve spoken to my mum and she says that, yes, they can evict you for breach of contract, but you may be able to plead your case if you get rid of the dog. But you’re not going to get rid of the dog, are you, Suze? I know you. Actually, what I was thinking is, you hate that flat, right? Maybe this will be a good thing in the long run? It’s not good for you to be living on your own somewhere you hate. Do you know how much I worry about you? Shit, that sounds soppy. Forget that bit. I don’t ever worry. Anyway. So, Mum said that there’s plenty of room for you at our house. You can stay in my room while I’m at uni. Don’t think it’s an intrusion or anything. I actually think it’ll make Mum really happy to have someone to make breakfast for again. I know it’s not a long-term solution, but at least you won’t be homeless, right? Call me back and let me know what you think. And the other thing is, what about Sarah? Have you thought about living with Sarah? Hasn’t she always said there’s a room for you? OK, sorry for rambling. Call me back. Love you.

  Caddy: Suze! What the hell? They can’t just chuck you out. They can’t. I tried to call my dad, but he’s bloody golfing, so I won’t be able to talk to him until later. But he’ll know what to do. Don’t worry, OK? No way are we going to let you be homeless. Obviously. I’ve talked to Tarin and she says you can sleep on the sofa in her flat any time you want. She says you can go there, like, right now, if you want. And I spoke to Kel, and he said the same. About his sofa, I mean. And we … Oh God. Sorry. I’m fine. It was the first time I’ve spoken to him and … Sorry. I can’t believe I managed a whole conversation with him without crying, and now one voicemail to you and I’m losing it. I’ll call you back, OK? Sorry. And, God, I don’t hate you, Suze. I love you. God, sorry. Bye.

  I call Caddy back immediately and she picks up on the third ring. ‘Suze!’

  ‘I love you!’ I burst out. ‘I love you. Hi.’

  ‘Have you got it sorted? Are you OK?’

  ‘No, I’m totally being evicted. Officially. How are you?’

  ‘Oh my God, what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Cads! I’ve missed you so much.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re not mad at me any more.’

  Her laugh is short. ‘I am still mad at you. I said that I don’t hate you, which I don’t. And I love you, which I do. But I’m proper mad at you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Suze, I don’t want you to be homeless, OK? Priorities.’

  Tears are starting to collect in my eyes again, heavy and hot. ‘You’re my priority.’

  ‘Oh, Suze. Come on, this is important.’

  ‘You’re important.’

  ‘Suze!’ Three Suzes in a row. She must be mad. ‘Stop it. I don’t want to go into this now, OK? I don’t want to fight with you. I just want to get this sorted out and go back to being mad for a while.’

  ‘Can’t we talk it over?’ I ask. ‘Please?’

  ‘I’m seriously going to hang up on you if you don’t let this go. You know I hate arguing. Why are you pushing this?’

  ‘Because I don’t want you to hate me.’

  ‘Suze!’ She practically shouts this down the phone. ‘For fuck’s actual sake.’ OK, yeah. She really is mad. ‘I don’t hate you. You know I don’t hate you. You did something that you knew would upset me and I got upset. And now you’re playing your Suze card to guilt me into not being angry. That’s not OK.’

  ‘What’s a Suze card?’

  ‘Don’t make me say it.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Suze.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘Fine. Fine. You want me to say it? Fine. Sometimes, when you know you’re in the wrong, you switch into victim mode. I’m sorry, but you do. Oh, you hate me, when you know I don’t hate you, but that I’ll feel bad because I know that you have an actual complex about people hating you. So it makes me feel like I can’t feel actual legitimate emotions. It’s like, however bad I feel, you’ll always have felt worse at some point, so that trumps everything. Even when you’ve been a total bitch.’ She’s crying now. ‘And now you’ve pushed me into saying all these horrible things to you, and Suze, you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking, oh God, she’s not going to be able to handle this, she’s going to spiral, she’s going to do something stupid, and it’s going to be my fault. Do you know how impossible this is? I love you. But you make it so hard.’

  My head says, Oh, I’m so sorry my trauma occasionally makes your perfect life a little bit harder. My head says, I’m going to be homeless but I’m supposed to care about your hurt feelings? My head says, Grow up. My head says, It was just a kiss, for God’s sake. My head says, Stop being such a baby. Why are you always such a baby?

  I say, ‘I’m sorry.’

  I hear the hitch of her breath down the phone, and I know she’s crying again. ‘Oh, Suze,’ she says. I hear it all in those two words. The frustration and the love, all mixed in together. I’m hard work, I know I am. But somehow, she loves me anyway.

  I let her cry for a while, the two of us quiet on each end of the phone. I’m thinking about those first few months of our friendship, how she used to look at me when I was shiny and exciting, before she saw the cracks. And then, later, when she saw through them. No one had ever looked at me like Caddy did, and it mattered in a way that I could never articulate, even in therapy, when I tried. Let me tell you, anyone who thinks romantic love is the pinnacle of human emotion has never had a friend who looked at them like she looked at me. Love might burn the brightest fires, but fires burn out. Friendship is warm
and steady; constant. It keeps me alive.

  After a while, she says, ‘Suze?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I slept with Owen.’

  I actually put my hand over my mouth to stop myself shrieking into the phone. This is not a shrieking moment. I know this instinctively anyway, but then she starts crying again, and my heart breaks for my sweet, naive friend. ‘Oh, Cads,’ I say. ‘Don’t cry. It’s OK.’

  ‘It’s not,’ she says. There’s a sniffle, a pause, and then her voice again. ‘It wasn’t worth it. It completely wasn’t worth it.’

  ‘What wasn’t?’ I ask. Does she mean just the sex? Breaking up with Kel? Fighting with me?

  ‘Losing Kel,’ she says.

  ‘Cads,’ I say again. ‘You didn’t end the relationship because you had a crush on a guy. You ended it because you weren’t happy.’ It’s both true and not true, but that’s OK. Sometimes that’s what being a friend is: choosing the truth they need to hear.

  ‘I feel like I cheated on him,’ she says.

  ‘Did you?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’ There’s another pause. ‘I wanted to, though. I know that’s terrible. I know it makes me a bad person.’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ I say. ‘It really doesn’t.’ She lets out a quiet, high-pitched hiccup. ‘Listen, I know about being a bad person, right? You’re not a bad person.’

  ‘Neither are you,’ she says, her voice tearful again. ‘Suze, I’m so sorry I yelled at you. And then ignored you. I just …’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘It’s not. I miss you. I’ve missed you since you left. Even since you came back, I’ve still missed you. I know that sounds crazy. I can’t even explain it.’