Something to Live For

by Richard Roper

  “Oh god . . .”

  Andrew couldn’t be sure the tiny flat he’d found off the Old Kent Road hadn’t ever been used as a crack den—it was a rough-and-ready sort of building with scuff marks on the corridor walls and a dewy smell about the place—but as he lay in bed that night, Diane sleeping next to him, her knees curled up to her chest, he couldn’t stop smiling. This already felt like home.

  Their moving coincided with a summer that brought with it a fiercely cloying heat. July was particularly punishing. Andrew bought a fan and he and Diane sat in their underwear in the front room when it got too hot to go out. They both became mildly obsessed with Wimbledon that month, Steffi Graf being a particular hero to Diane.

  “This is just too bloody hot, isn’t it?” Diane yawned, lying down on her front as Graf signed autographs before leaving center court.

  “Might this help?” Andrew said before fishing two ice cubes out of his glass and carefully dropping them onto Diane’s back, innocently apologizing as she half shrieked, half laughed.

  The heat was unrelenting into August. People eyed each other nervously on the tube, looking out for potential fainters. Roads cracked and split. Garden watering bans were out in force. On the hottest day of the year, Andrew met Diane after work and they sprawled on the parched grass in Brockwell Park as all around them people kicked off shoes and rolled up sleeves. They’d brought bottles of lager but had forgotten to bring an opener. “Not to worry,” Diane said, confidently approaching a nearby smoker and borrowing his lighter to somehow crack open the beers.

  “Where did you learn that trick, then?” Andrew asked as they resettled themselves on the grass.

  “My granddad. He could use his teeth too in an emergency.”

  “He sounds . . . fun.”

  “Good old Granddad David. He used to say to me”—she affected a deep, booming voice—“‘If there’s one lesson I’ve learned, Di, it’s never go cheap on your booze. Life’s too short.’ My granny would just roll her eyes. God, I loved him, he was such a hero. You know what, if I ever have a son I really want to call him David.”

  “Oh yeah?” Andrew said. “What about if you have a girl?”

  “Hmmm.” Diane inspected her elbow, creased with a crisscross patch from the grass. “Oh, I know: Stephanie.”

  “Another relative?”

  “No! Steffi Graf, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  Diane blew the froth from her beer at him.

  Later, at home, she straddled him on the sofa as lightning seared the sky.

  The rain came while the city slept, a deluge of greasy water pounding the streets. Andrew stood by the window as dawn broke, sipping a cup of coffee. He couldn’t tell if he was still a bit drunk, or whether there was a hangover lying in wait. One of those nasty ones that creeps up on you, the sort where you’re eating bacon while it’s en route to the plate from the frying pan. He heard Diane stir. She sat up in bed and let her hair fall over her face.

  Andrew laughed and went back to looking out of the window. “Have you got a hurty-head?” he said.

  “I’ve got a hurty-everything,” Diane croaked. He heard her shuffle over and felt her arms go around his waist, her cheek resting at the top of his back. “Shall we have a fry-up?” she said.

  “Sure,” Andrew said. “We’ll just have to grab a few things from the shop.”

  “Whadoweneed?” Diane yawned, Andrew feeling it resonating through him.

  “Oh, just bacon. And eggs. And sausages. And bread. Beans, possibly. Milk definitely, if you want tea.”

  He felt her grip slacken slightly and she groaned in defeat.

  “Whose turn is it to do a thing?” he asked innocently.

  She buried her face into his back. “You’re only saying that because you know it’s mine.”

  “What? Never!” Andrew said. “I mean, thinking back: I changed the channel, you put the kettle on, I put the bins out, you bought the paper, I did the washing up . . . Oh, you’re quite right, it is your turn to do a thing.”

  She poked her nose into his back several times.

  “Oi,” he said, eventually giving in and turning to take her in his arms.

  “Do you promise everything will be better after bacon and beans?” she said.

  “I do. I absolutely do.”

  “And you love me?”

  “Even more than bacon and beans.”

  He felt her slide her hand into his boxers and squeeze him.

  “Good,” she said, kissing him on the lips with an exaggerated “mwah” and abruptly walking off to slip on some flip-flops and throw a thin sweater over her pajamas.

  “Well that’s not fair,” Andrew said.

  “Hey, it’s my turn to do a thing, I’m just going by the rules . . . ,” Diane said with a shrug, trying to keep a straight face. She reached for her glasses, grabbed her purse and left, humming a tune. It took Andrew a second to realize it was Ella’s “Blue Moon.” Finally, he thought. She’s a convert. He stood there grinning stupidly, feeling so hopelessly in love it was like he was a punch-drunk boxer desperately trying to stay upright.

  He allowed himself two listens of “Blue Moon” before heading to have a shower—guiltily hoping that by the time he came out he’d be able to smell bacon sizzling. But there was no sign of Diane when he emerged. And there still wasn’t ten minutes later. Perhaps she’d bumped into a friend—a fellow Bristol Poly alumnus; small world and all that. But something about this just didn’t feel right. He quickly dressed and left the house.

  He could see the gathering of people from the other end of the street where the shop was. “That’s the thing,” he overheard someone in the gaggle muttering just as he reached them. “All that hot weather and then suddenly a big old storm . . . bound to cause damage.”

  There were police officers standing in a semicircle, blocking anyone from going further. One of their radios crackled into life, a confusion of feedback and static that made an officer on one end of the ring wince and hold his radio out at arm’s length. Then a voice cut through the interference: “. . . confirm it’s one deceased. Falling masonry. No one’s been able to ascertain who owns the building, over?”

  Andrew felt the dread seeping into him as he moved through the last line of the crowd and toward the edge of the police ring. He was trembling as he walked, as if an electric current were flowing through him. He could see some blue plastic sheets ahead on the ground rippling in the breeze, a pile of smashed slate to one side. And there, next to it, perfectly intact, looking just the same as on the bedside table in Mrs. Briggs’s house, was a pair of orange-framed glasses.

  A policeman had his hands on his chest, telling him to get back. His breath smelled of coffee. There was a birthmark on his cheek. He was angry, but then he suddenly stopped shouting. He knew. He understood. He tried to ask Andrew questions but Andrew had crumpled to his knees, unable to support himself. There were hands on his shoulders. Concerned voices. Radio static. Then someone was trying to pull him to his feet.

  The noise of the pub flitted back in and the policeman’s hands became Peggy’s, and it was like he was coming up from underwater, breaking the surface, and Peggy was telling him it was okay, squeezing him tightly, muffling his sobs. And even though he couldn’t stop crying—it felt like maybe he’d never actually stop—he slowly became aware of a tingling in his fingers, warmth finally returning.

  — CHAPTER 30 —

  He barely had the energy to get back to his flat. Peggy walked him there, half supporting his weight, and insisted that she come in with him. He protested halfheartedly, but now that Peggy knew the truth there wasn’t much point.

  “It’s either that or the hospital,” Peggy said, which settled the matter.

  The model train set still lay wrecked, untouched since he’d smashed it up. “Hence the limp,” he mumbled.

  He la
y down on the sofa and Peggy covered him in a blanket and then her coat. She made him tea and sat cross-legged on the floor, occasionally squeezing his hand, calming him down each time he jolted into consciousness.

  When he woke, she was sitting in an armchair reading the Ella Loves Cole sleeve notes and drinking coffee from a mug he’d not used in a decade. There was a crick in his neck—he must have slept in a funny position—and his foot was still throbbing, but he felt more like himself.

  He could vaguely remember a dream he’d had about Meredith’s dinner party, and a question suddenly struck him. “What happened to Keith?” he asked.

  Peggy looked up at him. “Morning to you too,” she said. “Keith, you’ll be glad to hear, is fine.”

  “But I heard you calling an ambulance,” Andrew said.

  “Aye. By the time it had arrived he was awake and trying to persuade the paramedics not to take him. To be honest, they seemed more worried about Cameron—silly sod sat there passed out with pen all over his face. I think they thought we’d kidnapped him into a mad cult, or something.”

  “Is Keith back at work?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is he, you know, angry at me?”

  “Well, he’s not exactly delighted. But Meredith is treating him like a war hero, constantly fussing over him, so I think he’s secretly quite enjoying it. She’s the one you want to—” Peggy stopped herself.

  “What?” Andrew said.

  “She kept talking about getting Keith to press charges.”

  “Oh god,” Andrew groaned.

  “Don’t worry, it’s fine,” Peggy said. “There is a chance I may have had a little word with her about it, and that she’s not mentioned it since.”

  Andrew couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like Peggy was trying to suppress a smile.

  “You sound like a Mafia boss,” he said. “But I’m very grateful, whatever you said.” He looked across at the oven clock and scrabbled to sit upright. “Jesus,” he said. “Have I really been asleep for twelve hours? What are you still doing here? You should be at home.”

  “It’s all right,” Peggy said. “I’ve FaceTimed the girls. They’re staying in Croydon with one of Imogen’s friends. They got to stay up and watch something horrifically inappropriate on the telly last night so they couldn’t care less that I’m not there.”

  She turned the sleeve over. “I’ve got a confession to make. I haven’t listened to the mix tape you made me.”

  “I’ll let you off,” Andrew said. “Like I said”—he winced as he rubbed at his swollen foot—“it barely took any time to put together.”

  Peggy placed the record carefully back on top of the pile.

  “Your mam was a big fan, you said?”

  “I don’t really know. I’ve just got really vivid memories of her putting these records on and singing along as she did stuff in the kitchen, or playing them out of the window as she gardened. She always seemed, I don’t know, like a completely different person when she let herself go like that.”

  Peggy drew her knees up to her chest. “I’d like to say I have similar memories of my mam when I was younger, but if she was dancing around the kitchen it was usually because she was trying to wallop one of us, or there was something on fire. Or both. Right, you look like you need some toast.”

  “It’s fine, I’ll do it,” Andrew said, starting to get to his feet, but Peggy told him to sit still. Andrew just hoped to god she didn’t judge him too much about the three cans of baked beans and possibly stale loaf of bread that made up the contents of the cupboard. Before he could make preemptive apologies his phone vibrated. He read the message and felt faint again. He waited until Peggy brought over a plate of generously buttered toast and a mug of tea.

  “There’s something else I need to tell you,” he said.

  Peggy took a big bite of toast. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be honest with you, Andrew, after last night I’m not sure there’s much you can say that’ll shock me. But go for it . . .”

  By the time he’d finished telling her about Carl and the blackmail Peggy had lost interest in her toast, which she’d thrown onto her plate in disgust. She was pacing back and forth, hands on hips.

  “He can’t do that to you. There was a reason Sally gave you that money, and the fact he’s threatening you is outrageous. You’re going to call him right now and tell him to get fucked.”

  “No,” Andrew said. “I can’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s not that easy. I can’t . . . I just can’t.”

  “But it’s just an empty threat now, because it’s not as if . . .” Peggy stopped pacing and looked at him. “Because you are going to tell the others at work the truth about everything, right?”

  Andrew didn’t say anything.

  “Well,” Peggy said, matter-of-factly, “you’re going to have to. In two weeks’ time you’re supposed to be hosting the next dinner party so you haven’t really got a choice.”

  “What?!” Andrew said. “But what about what happened at Meredith’s—that was a disaster. Surely Cameron doesn’t want that happening again.”

  “Oh, on the contrary, he’s got it in his head that it’s the perfect way for you and Keith to make up. He was so hammered that night he didn’t really understand what had happened, other than that you and Keith had ‘fallen out.’ I managed to wipe his face clean and pour him into a taxi. He kept mumbling something to me about ‘redundancies,’ but god knows what’s happening there.”

  Andrew folded his arms.

  “I’m not telling them,” he said, in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you mean, why not? Because I’ll get fired! I can’t afford for that to happen, Peggy. I’ve got no transferable skills, for one thing.”

  They were silent for a moment. Andrew really wished there were music playing. Peggy moved over to the window and stood with her back to him.

  “I actually think you do have transferable skills,” she said, “that you could do something else. And I think you know you do, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Andrew said.

  Peggy turned around and went to speak, but then stopped, seemingly changing her mind.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said eventually.

  Andrew nodded.

  “How much has this place changed since you moved in?”

  “How do you mean?”

  Peggy looked around. “When did you last buy new things? Have you, in fact, changed anything since the day Diane . . .”

  Andrew suddenly felt horribly self-conscious.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Not a lot. A bit, though. The computer’s new.”

  “Right. And how long have you been doing your current job?”

  “What is this, an interview?” Andrew said. “Do you want another cup of tea by the way?”

  Peggy came to sit next to him and took his hand in hers. “Andrew,” she said softly. “I’m not even going to pretend to know how much shit you’ve had to go through, but I do know from experience what it’s like to live in denial, to not confront things. Look at me and Steve. I knew in my heart of hearts that he wasn’t going to change but it took me sinking to absolute rock bottom to do something about it. Didn’t you have that same realization last night? Don’t you feel now that it’s time to try and move on?”

  Andrew felt a tightness in his throat. His eyes began to sting. Part of him wanted Peggy to keep on at him like this, part of him just wanted to be alone.

  “People won’t be as kind as you,” he said quietly. “And you couldn’t exactly blame them. I just need more time—to think about how I’m going to do it, you know?”

  Peggy lifted Andrew’s hand and used hers to
press it against his chest. He could feel his heart pounding against his rib cage.

  “You’ve got to make a choice,” Peggy said. “Either you can try and keep up with the whole pretense—pay that money to Carl even though it’s yours, keep on lying to everyone—or you can tell the truth and start accepting the consequences. I know it’s hard, I really do, but . . . okay, that day in Northumberland. When we had our ‘moment,’ shall we say.”

  Andrew really, really wished he didn’t blush so easily.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

  “Look at me. Please.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Okay, then just close your eyes. Think back and picture that moment. You don’t have to tell me, but just think about how that made you feel. How lovely and different and . . . intense it was. I don’t know. I’m only going on how it felt for me.”

  Andrew opened his eyes.

  “Later,” Peggy said, “when you were falling asleep on the sofa. You kept saying, ‘You’ve saved me.’ You thought I was your way out of all this. But, and you’ve got to trust me on this, only you can change things. It has to come from you.”

  Andrew’s eye was drawn to the railway debris. It was as if the crash had just happened.

  Peggy looked at her watch. “Look, I should probably think about going now. I need to make sure the girls have been given something else to eat other than Curly Wurlys.” She stood up—letting Andrew’s hand go—and retrieved her coat and bag. “Just think about what I’ve said, okay? And if you start feeling . . . you know . . . then call me straightaway. Promise?”

  Andrew nodded. He really didn’t want her to leave. He wasn’t going to be able to do this without her, whatever she might think. “I’m going to do it,” he blurted out. “I’ll tell the truth, to everyone—but it just can’t be now, when Cameron’s talking redundancies. I just need to find a way of getting through the stupid bloody dinner party with my reputation intact, and then when things have settled down I’ll fix everything, I promise. So all I’m asking for is a bit of help, short term, for how I’m going to . . .” His words petered out as he saw the disappointment in Peggy’s eyes. She moved toward the door and he limped after her.