Something to Live For

by Richard Roper

  The man made a big show of looking Alex up and down. “Well, well, well, if I was ten years younger . . .”

  “I’d still utterly ignore you,” Alex said. “Now go away, there’s a good boy.”

  The man’s leer turned into a scowl. He kicked the back of Andrew’s chair. “You wanna tell that bitch to shut her mouth.”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Andrew said, getting to his feet. “I’d like you to leave us alone now.” His voice was shaking.

  “Yeah, and what happens if I don’t?” the man said, standing and drawing himself up to his full height. This was the cue for Rupert, Jim and Alex to stand up, too.

  “Jesus, look at this lot,” the man said. “A wimpy prick, a slag, a tubby ticket inspector and a shit Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Well that’s not very nice, now, is it?” Rupert said, sounding remarkably calm. Andrew would have questioned whether such a sarcastic tone was the right approach, but then he noticed what Rupert had already. Namely, that unbeknownst to leather jacket man, the barman was walking toward him, rolling his head around his shoulders as if he were about to run the hundred meters. He waited for the man to take one more step toward Andrew before he advanced swiftly, grabbed him by his collar, hauled him toward the exit and shoved him through the door, aiming a kick at his backside for good measure. As he made his way back to the bar he even rubbed imaginary dirt off his hands, something Andrew had only ever seen in cartoons.

  Andrew, Jim, Alex and Rupert all just stood there for a moment, nobody seeming to know what to say. It was Jim who broke the silence. “Tubby ticket inspector? I’ll take that, I reckon.”

  — CHAPTER 32 —

  Peggy was worried about Andrew’s coming straight back into work. You should take some time off, get your head together, she texted him. Remember how grim this job can be. You’re not an ice cream taster. But Andrew was struggling with being at home. It was just him and his own thoughts, and he hated his own thoughts; they were largely bastards. Since Peggy had come to his flat he was also beginning to realize quite how ridiculous the state of the place was. He spent the evening after the subforum meet-up cleaning everywhere until he was sweaty and exhausted.

  As he left the building the following morning he caught a tantalizing glimpse of perfume woman’s door closing behind her. He was so surprised to actually see evidence that she existed he very nearly called out.

  * * *

  —

  The evening of the dinner party coincided with Andrew and Peggy’s first property inspection for two weeks (Malcolm Fletcher, sixty-three, massive heart attack on a lumpy futon), and for once it only took them a few minutes before they had a breakthrough.

  “Got something,” Peggy called from the bedroom. Andrew found her sitting cross-legged on the floor of a walk-in wardrobe, surrounded by pairs of pristinely polished shoes, nearly identical suit jackets hanging above her, like she was a child playing hide and seek. She proffered Andrew a posh-looking address book. He flicked through but there was nothing written on any of the pages from A to Z.

  “Last page,” Peggy said, reaching up for Andrew to pull her to her feet. Andrew flicked to the “Notes” section at the back of the address book.

  “Ah,” he said. Mum & Dad and Kitty were written at the top of the page in small, spidery handwriting, with corresponding phone numbers next to them. He took out his mobile and called Mum & Dad, but it was a young-sounding woman who answered who’d never heard of anyone called Malcolm and had no record of the previous occupants. Andrew had more luck with Kitty.

  “Oh goodness, that’s . . . he’s my brother . . . poor Malcolm. God. What a horrible shock. I’m afraid we’d rather fallen out of touch.” Andrew mouthed along with the last six words for Peggy’s benefit.

  * * *

  —

  “So how are things?” Andrew said as they left the flat, deciding to keep the question vague enough that Peggy could respond however she wanted.

  “Well, Steve came to collect the last of his stuff yesterday, which was a relief. He told me he hadn’t had a drink in ten days, although he did smell like a distillery, so unless he got very unfortunate and someone spilled an awful lot of vodka on him, I think he was probably lying.”

  “I’m sorry,” Andrew said.

  “Don’t be. I should have done this a long time ago. Sometimes you just need that extra little push. A reason to help you make the decision.”

  Andrew could sense Peggy had turned her head to look at him, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her eye. He knew what she was getting at—and he didn’t want to concede that she was right.

  Just then, he received a text from Jim with the menu for that evening (the food sounding reassuringly posh—what, indeed, was kohlrabi?) and asking him to pick up some booze. He shook the doubts from his mind. He had to focus on everything going perfectly tonight, no matter what Peggy thought.

  “I just need to make a quick detour,” he said, taking them into Sainsbury’s and heading for the alcohol aisle.

  “That person you spoke to today—Kitty, was it?” Peggy said.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Andrew said, distracted by reading the label on a pinot noir.

  “She must’ve been the hundredth person you’ve heard saying ‘we’d rather fallen out of touch,’ right?”

  “Probably,” Andrew said, reaching for a bottle of champagne and passing it to Peggy. “Is this classy?”

  “Erm, nope, not really. How about this?” She handed him a bottle with some silver netting around the neck. “What I mean is,” she said, “it’s all very well doing what we do, but it all feels a bit ‘after the fact,’ you know? I mean, wouldn’t it be nice if everyone did more to at least give people the option of finding company, to be able to connect with someone in a similar position, rather than this sort of inevitable isolation?”

  “Yeah, good plan, good plan,” Andrew said. Nibbles. Do we need nibbles? Or are nibbles passé these days? He hadn’t felt that anxious up until then, but he was really starting to feel the nerves bubbling now.

  “I was wondering,” Peggy continued, “if there was, like, a charity that did that, or—I know this sounds a bit mad—whether we could actually look at setting one up ourselves. Or if not that, then finding a way to make sure at least someone other than one of us turns up to the funerals when we can’t find a next of kin.”

  “Sounds great,” Andrew said. Why does paprika have such a monopoly on spice-flavored crisps, anyway? Fuck, what if someone is allergic to paprika, or any of the food Jim is cooking? Okay, just calm down. Deep breaths. Deep. Fucking. Breaths.

  Peggy sighed. “And I’d also like to ride an elephant into the sea, naked, while singing the words to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”

  “Mmm-hmm, good plan. Hang on, what?”

  Peggy laughed. “Never mind.” She took the bottle out of his hands and replaced it with another. “So, tonight . . . ,” she said.

  Andrew winked. “Got that all figured out,” he said.

  Peggy stopped dead, waited for him to turn around and face her.

  “Andrew, did you just wink at me?”

  * * *

  —

  As soon as he got back to the office from the supermarket, he walked straight over to Keith’s desk.

  Keith was eating a donut and chortling at something on his screen. But when he saw Andrew he dropped the donut and scowled.

  “Hello, Keith,” Andrew said. “Listen, I just wanted to apologize for what happened the other week. Things got really out of hand, but I am so, so sorry for pushing you like that. I really didn’t mean to hurt you. I hope you can forgive me.”

  He handed over the champagne Peggy had picked out and offered Keith a handshake. Initially, Keith seemed taken aback by this charm offensive, but it didn’t take him long to regain his composure. “Costcutter own brand, is it?” he said, ignoring Andrew’s hand and t
urning the bottle over to read the label, as Meredith hurried over to stand protectively at his side.

  “Well, this doesn’t exactly make up for what happened,” Meredith said.

  Andrew held his hands up. “I know. I agree. It’s just a little gesture. I really hope that we can all get together tonight at mine, have a lovely time, and put it all behind us. What do you think? Sound like a plan?”

  Okay, okay, keep a lid on it, don’t sound so desperate.

  “Well,” Keith said, clearing his throat. “I suppose that I was maybe being a bit out of order myself. And, well, I guess you weren’t trying to deliberately knock me out.”

  “No,” Andrew said.

  “Obviously given another day I’d have probably sparked you out for hitting me, if you’d not got that lucky shot in.”

  “Definitely,” Meredith said, looking at Keith admiringly.

  “But, for the sake of, you know, moving on, I’m happy to say bygones be bygones, and all that shit.”

  This time Keith shook his hand.

  Just then, Cameron walked past, doubling back to see what was happening. He had dark rings under his eyes and looked horribly gaunt.

  “Everything okay, chaps?” he said, slightly warily.

  “Yes, absolutely,” Andrew said. “We were just saying how much we’re looking forward to dinner tonight.”

  Cameron searched Andrew’s face for signs of sarcasm. Apparently satisfied of its absence, he smiled, put his palms together and said, “Namaste,” before backing away into the corridor and heading to his office with a new spring in his step.

  “What a weirdo,” Keith said.

  Meredith, realizing that Keith’s label was poking out of his shirt collar, reached over and tucked it in. Keith, Andrew noticed, looked a little embarrassed at this.

  “So, Andrew,” Meredith said, “do we finally get to meet Diane tonight?”

  “No, afraid not,” Andrew said. “She and the kids have tickets for a show. Crossed wires on the dates.” Even though he’d rehearsed this line several times, it still took all his concentration to make the words sound genuine. As he sat down at his desk, a fresh pile of paperwork in his in-tray, a new lot of death to be tackled, he couldn’t help but picture Peggy’s reproachful look as he begged her to help him. Only you can change things. It has to come from you.

  — CHAPTER 33 —

  Andrew walked out of the office laden down with booze, looking both ways before he crossed the road, and promptly dropped the bag of wine on the pavement, where it landed with a crunch. “Unlucky, mate,” called a white-van man inevitably driving past at that moment. Andrew gritted his teeth and made his way to another Sainsbury’s. What was it about going into a supermarket already carrying a bag of shopping that made it feel like you were returning to the scene of a botched murder?

  He just about remembered which bottles of wine he’d previously bought and added another bottle for good luck. The woman behind the till—Glenda, according to her name badge—scanned the bottles through and hummed approvingly. “Big night tonight, m’love?”

  “Something like that,” Andrew said.

  Innocent though they’d been, Glenda’s words opened the floodgates to Andrew’s nerves. He could feel his heart starting to race as he hurried along, sweat beginning to pool under his armpits. He felt like everyone he passed was giving him a meaningful look, as if there were something at stake for them too, and every half-overheard snippet of conversation seemed to be charged with meaning. His anxiety wasn’t helped by the fact that Rupert’s directions to his house seemed needlessly complicated. (He’d told them all to ignore Google Maps—“It thinks I live in a shop called Quirky’s Fried Chicken. I’ve sent several e-mails”—and go by his own instructions.) When Andrew did eventually find the place, sweat was pouring off him and he was out of breath. He jabbed at the doorbell and heard a slightly pathetic and oddly discordant response, as if it were on the verge of breaking.

  The door was answered by a cloud of smoke, followed by Jim.

  “Come in, come in,” Jim coughed.

  “Is everything okay?” Andrew said.

  “Yes, yes, just a minor accident involving a paper towel and a naked flame. I’m cracking on with the starters nicely though.”

  Andrew was just about to ask whether there was a smoke alarm in the kitchen when it went off and he stood helpless, weighed down with the shopping, as Jim frantically flapped a tea towel in the air.

  “Stick the wine on the island for now,” Jim said, indicating the pristine granite worktop complete with wine rack and artfully arranged Sunday supplements. “I need to work out what I’m pairing with what.”

  “It’s not an island,” came Rupert’s voice from the doorway. “According to our estate agent, anyway. It being connected to the wall on one side, it’s actually a peninsula.” Rupert was wearing similarly smart attire to when they’d met in the pub, but with the addition of a purple dressing grown tied loosely at the waist. He noticed Andrew looking at it.

  “It gets quite cold in my office but I can’t bring myself to turn the heating up. Don’t worry, I’m just an IT consultant, not Hugh Hefner or anything.”

  Jim pulled some ingredients from a bag and, having lined them up on the counter, began to scrutinize each item closely, as if he were judging a village fete competition.

  “All good?” Andrew said.

  “Yes. Absolutely,” Jim said, tapping a finger against his chin, his eyes narrowed. “Absolutely.”

  Andrew looked at Rupert, who raised an eyebrow at him.

  Andrew was about to ask Jim if he was sure he knew what he was doing when the doorbell rang, the sound even more weary and out of tune than when he’d rung it himself. Rupert put his hands in his dressing gown pockets.

  “Well it’s your house tonight, you better answer it.”

  As Andrew left the room he heard Jim asking if Rupert owned “a cleaver, or something,” and felt his heart rate increase another notch.

  Andrew opened the door to find Alex. Her hair was dyed a shocking white-blond, although it wasn’t altogether rid of the purple, which was clinging on in the odd streak.

  “So I’ve got loads of decorations and stuff,” she said, thrusting one of the two bags she was holding into Andrew’s hands. “Gonna really set the mood and make it all massively, extremely fun! Look—party poppers!”

  She skipped past Andrew down the corridor.

  “Um, Alex, when you say ‘massively, extremely fun’—obviously I want it to be fun but I don’t want anything too extreme or . . . or massive.”

  “Sure, gotcha, don’t worry about it,” Alex said. Andrew followed her into the dining room in time to see her enthusiastically scattering glitter onto the dining table.

  “Shit,” she said suddenly, slapping a hand to her forehead.

  “What’s wrong?” Andrew said.

  “Just realized I’ve left a whole bag of stuff at the shop. I’ll have to go back.” When she took her hand away there was glitter in her hair.

  Back in the kitchen, Jim was indiscriminately hacking at a butternut squash with a cleaver as if he were hastily dismembering a corpse.

  “Everything all right?” Andrew said, hovering nervously.

  “Yes, yes,” Jim said. “Ah, that’s what I was going to say: Rupert, do you have anything that we could use as a trolley to transfer the food to the dining room on?”

  “A trolley? Can’t I just carry it?” Andrew said.

  “Yes, but I thought it might look quite fancy if you were to prepare the last bits and pieces of the main next to the table, gueridon-style, you see?”

  “Gueridon?” Rupert said. “Didn’t he play left-back for Leeds?”

  The doorbell warbled again. Andrew was wondering about what else in the way of party decorations Alex might have returned with, but when he opened the door it was with horror th
at he found Cameron standing on the step.

  “Hellooo!” Cameron said, stretching the word out as if he were calling into a tunnel to hear the echo. The smile disappeared from his face. “Oh, crumbs, I’m not mega-early, am I?”

  Andrew just about managed to regain his composure. “No, no, of course not, come in, come in.”

  “Something smells good,” Cameron said after he’d stepped inside. “What’s a-cookin’?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Andrew said.

  “How intriguing,” Cameron said with a knowing grin. “I’ve brought some vino rouge, but I’ll probably stick to the Adam’s ale this evening after my—how shall I put it—overindulgence last time.”

  “Right, sure,” Andrew said, taking the bottle and guiding Cameron into the dining room.

  “Clara and I had sort of clear-the-air talks when I got home that night, truth be told—unpacked everything and really drilled down. It always helps to talk things through, doesn’t it?”

  “Absolutely,” Andrew said, realizing with some concern that Cameron looked even paler than earlier.

  “Well, I like the glitter,” Cameron said. “Very jazzy.”

  “Thanks,” Andrew said. “Take a seat and I’ll be back with your water in a sec. Don’t move!” he added, making a gun with thumb and forefinger. Cameron raised his hands meekly in surrender.

  Andrew sprinted into the kitchen and closed the door. “Okay, we have a very big fucking problem,” he said. “One of the guests—my boss, in fact—has arrived and is just sitting there in the dining room. So you need to keep as quiet as possible—and don’t let anybody through this door who’s not me.”

  Rupert was swiveling back and forth on a tall chair, looking completely unfazed. “Can’t we pretend to be staff or something?” he said.

  “No,” Andrew said. “Too weird. They’ll ask too many questions. Right, what am I doing? Ah yes, water.”

  Andrew turned to the cupboards, looking for a glass.