by Suzy K Quinn
‘Lucky I brought some then.’ Alex clunked the brown-paper deli bag on the breakfast bar. ‘There’s a paella in there too. For supper. I didn’t expect you to be eating so early.’
‘It’s not early,’ I said. ‘It’s nearly six o’clock.’
‘Six is early.’
‘What time do you usually eat then?’
‘Eight. Nine.’ Alex pulled champagne, wrapped in an ice sleeve, out of the deli bag. ‘May we toast to your new home?’
I didn’t have any clean wine glasses, so Alex poured us champagne in the housewarming mugs Mum bought me.
The mugs weren’t really appropriate, since one said, ‘Home is where the Fart is’ and the other was shaped like a pair of boobs. But Alex didn’t seem to mind.
We sat at the breakfast bar, drinking champagne and watching the darkening sky and twinkling stars.
There’s a lovely view over the fields at night.
Alex filled up my mug and said, ‘You know Juliette, I never planned anything when it came to you. Maybe that was my mistake.’
‘You can’t plan other people,’ I said. ‘That’s not how relationships work.’
‘You’re right – people do have a wretched amount of free will.’ Alex raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe that’s why I like business better. Employees do what you tell them. They’re so much more predictable. But New Year’s Eve was incredible. Wasn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘Before reality came along.’
‘Moments,’ said Alex. ‘That’s all life is, when all is said and done. I’ll say this, though. There’ll never be anyone else like you.’
I looked at Alex.
He looked at me.
And we both knew this moment was special.
Alex pulled me onto his lap, his gaze intense and unwavering.
Then he kissed me.
A whole year of missed time faded away.
Alex scooped me up in his arms and kissed me with an intensity that left me breathless.
I pulled back and said, ‘This isn’t sensible.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Alex.
He carried me upstairs and lay me on the bed. Then he put his watch, wallet and phone on the bedside table and undressed.
I watched his chest move in the moonlight.
Naked, Alex climbed onto the bed beside me and lifted my jumper over my head.
‘You’re cold,’ he said, rubbing my fingers and pulling the duvet over me.
‘Actually, not that cold at all,’ I said, looking up at him.
He kissed me again, holding my face in his hands, running fingers through my hair.
I’d almost forgotten being with him could make me feel this way – so safe and warm and adored.
Alex is so intense.
He didn’t take his eyes off mine, and his gaze was impossible to turn away from.
‘You still do this to me,’ he said, eyes soft but serious. ‘You still make me lose control.’
‘What’s wrong with losing control?’ I asked.
‘Everything.’
Then he was inside me, moving over and over again, holding my body tight to his.
Whenever I was close to coming, he’d move me around. Onto my knees. Onto my stomach. And lastly on my back.
Then he held me tight in his arms, stroking my hair until I fell asleep.
When I woke this morning, Alex was gone.
The bathroom towels had been folded into neat squares, the soap was parallel to the sink and the lid was screwed back on the toothpaste.
There was a message by the bed, scrawled on a Moleskine notebook page:
‘Thank you for the moment. Love A.’
Wednesday 8th November
SO furious with myself.
Yes, it was a good moment. But I’ve also just thrown my dignity away.
How could Alex just leave like that?
I knew I was right to end things on my terms. Now I’ve made everything muddy.
Bloody alcohol.
Althea says it sounds like typical alpha male behaviour.
‘All sex and no closeness,’ she said. ‘He’s probably got a fear of intimacy. And a tiny penis.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not tiny.’
‘Listen Jules. Is this really who you want in your life?’
‘I want Alex in my life,’ I said. ‘But there are so many issues.’
‘You’re telling me.’
Shift in the pub tonight.
Am hoping Polish Malik can shed some wisdom on my relationship drama.
Thursday 9th November
Mum gave me money for a TV today, saying it would be an early Christmas present for Daisy and a living essential for me.
‘What kind of social life can you have if you don’t know who’s won The Apprentice?’ she said.
She handed over a wodge of cash from the pub till and directed me to Currys in the out-of-town shopping complex.
Was extremely grateful.
Will now be able to see Alan Sugar firing people on the big screen.
As soon as the automatic doors opened at Currys, an aftershave-soaked teenager sprinted towards us.
He led us around the store, explaining the various different TV models.
Daisy got bored within a minute, and started wrecking the shop.
The teenage salesman didn’t seem to mind, and actively encouraged Daisy by handing her an iPad from the tablet display.
‘I just want a normal telly,’ I said.
‘We don’t have one of those,’ said the teenager, apologetically.
Ended up with a super-duper voice-recognition TV, on special offer because the voice recognition didn’t really work, and old people couldn’t read the remote-control buttons.
Felt I’d got a real bargain, until the teenage salesman tried to add a £50 ‘mounting charge’ at the till.
‘What’s that extra charge for?’ I asked.
‘That TV weighs nearly seventy-five pounds madam,’ he said. ‘You should have someone mount it for you.’
‘Take that charge off right now,’ I said. ‘My dad has an engineering degree and will be happy to mount it for me.’
Fifty quid for mounting a telly!
Jog on.
Will ask Dad tonight when I do my shift at the pub.
Friday 10th November
Dad refused to mount the TV!
It was my own fault – I let him read the instructions, which advised the TV should only be mounted by a Currys professional.
‘But that’s just a suggestion,’ I said. ‘Look – there are mounting instructions on page six.’
Dad went on about invalidated guarantees and ‘risking the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar’.
Mum won’t help either, saying, ‘Brandi made me spend all bloody afternoon holding that telly of hers, while she fiddled around, dropping teeny screws under the bed. The NHS is forcing me to exercise once a week. There’s no bloody way I’m doing more of it in my spare time.’
John Boy offered to have a go, but I don’t really trust his patience or attention to detail.
He never lets the Guinness settle for long enough before topping it up, and his foam shamrocks look like swastikas.
Saturday 11th November
Have mounted the TV with Brandi’s help.
She’s surprisingly strong for someone who spends her time painting fingernails, but then I suppose she has to pin Callum down from time to time.
The TV didn’t fit the mounting kit I’d bought, so I had to use some of Callum’s Meccano to fit all the screws in the right places, but everything was surprisingly solid in the end.
Brandi and I both hung off the telly for a few minutes to test the mount.
Just to be sure.
We didn’t let Mum do that though. It would have been asking for trouble.
Sunday 12th November
Remembrance Sunday
Sad day watching the village remembrance parade and wearing my poppy to honour my dead grandad.
Had planned o
n fish and chips for Daisy’s tea, but the good chip shop was closed for the parade, so took Daisy to Stu’s Plaice.
When we arrived, Stu was pinning his new hygiene certificate to the wall.
He’s got two stars this year, which is an improvement.
Requested two portions of chips.
Stu asked if I wanted cod.
‘No thanks, Stu,’ I said brightly. ‘I don’t fancy food poisoning.’
We both laughed.
But I wasn’t joking.
Feel a bit bad giving Daisy rubbish food now we have our own kitchen, but going back and forth to the pub, staying overnight with Daisy, ALWAYS forgetting my toothbrush (although infuriatingly, I ALWAYS remember Daisy’s) there’s little time for shopping.
SO tired.
Monday 13th November
Johnny Jiggens phoned.
He’s going to visit in ten days’ time for the pre-court living assessment.
Worried of course, but what else can I do now? I have no money for a shower or bath or curtains or a dining table. I’ve done what I can. Surely he’ll see the miracles I’ve performed.
I have a flushing toilet for crying out loud!
God, I just can’t wait for this Cafcass assessment to be over now. And the court hearing.
Truth be told, I’m terrified.
Tuesday 14th November
I’ve ordered a local, organic veg bag to be delivered, so I can cook Daisy lovely seasonal meals.
Apparently healthy food lowers stress. Which is something I desperately need to do right now.
Wednesday 15th November
Jeremy Samuels phoned this morning to ‘get up to speed’, prior to court and Johnny Jiggens’s visit.
‘How’s the house?’ he asked.
I told him the house was coming along, but that we still needed a bathroom.
‘A bathroom?’ said Jeremy. ‘You definitely need one of those. Cafcass take a dim view of poorly washed children.’
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ I said. ‘I’ve run out of money. We shower at the pub – Johnny Jiggens must see that I’m doing my best.’
SO anxious about court.
Would ideally like someone with me for moral support, but taking Mum is a bad idea. She has no respect for authority.
Ditto, Althea.
Brandi is obviously completely out of the question.
Laura has just had a baby.
And Dad is too emotional. It’s embarrassing seeing a grown man cry in public.
Alex and I … well, don’t even go there.
Thursday 16th November
Organic veg bag arrived today. It came in a delightful wooden box lined with hessian.
There were rosy apples with little wormholes, mud-covered potatoes, misshapen carrots and some enormous green beans.
Gave Daisy an apple, and cooked a jacket potato for tea.
Will have to get creative with the other stuff.
Asked Althea for recipe advice, and she said, ‘Chuck it all into a soup. That’s what everyone does.’
I said, ‘But it’s supposed to last the week.’
Althea said, ‘You’re being swept along by the novelty. By next week, you’ll be sick of preparing veg. And then you’ll bung it into a soup just before the next bag is delivered. Like everyone else does.’
Althea gets three different organic veg bags from various local farms.
She didn’t mean to sign up for so many, but she’s a magnet for hippy salespeople.
Friday 17th November
Alex phoned.
Nearly didn’t take his call – I was so furious with him for walking out on me after our night of passion.
But I answered, because I needed to vent.
‘Are you quite finished?’ Alex asked, after ten minutes of shouting.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘It depends what you say next.’
‘Listen, Juliette,’ said Alex. ‘I’m not handling things well. I haven’t handled things well all year.’
‘Oh, so this is about you?’ I said. ‘Silly me. I thought it was me who’d been made to feel like shit.’
‘I don’t want it to be like this,’ said Alex. ‘It’s hard for me too. I adore you. But I just can’t come to terms with Nick Spencer.’
Saturday 18th November
Another tiring shift at the pub last night. Am battling through. Whenever I feel sorry for myself, I think of John Boy’s backache and stump rash and phantom leg pain, and the fact he never says a word about it. Then I count myself bloody lucky and get on with it.
Sunday 19th November
Asked Dad to pray for me at church this morning, re: Johnny Jiggens’s visit.
Like Tesco says, every little helps.
John Boy overhead our religious chat, and said, ‘I’m gonna marry Gwen in the church. It’s the proper way to do things, innit?’
He got permission to marry at the local church, when the vicar came in for his post-service Jack Daniels and Coke.
Apparently, the vicar will orchestrate the wedding, as long as John Boy promises to ‘wear a fucking shirt, for the love of God’ on the big day.
Monday 20th November
Yorkie offered me a second-hand toilet and bath for Hillcrest House last night.
He found them at the tip, whilst scavenging for a new bed.
Polish Malik says he’ll fit them as a ‘friendly favour’.
VERY excited. If everything goes to plan, I could have a bathroom by the end of today.
Malik works full-time, but says he can do the job this evening.
‘Won’t you be tired?’ I asked him.
Malik assured me he works a very short day right now – 6am until 6pm.
Tuesday 21st November
Polish Malik has fitted my upstairs toilet and bath. Even better, he had a spare power shower from an old job, and has fitted that too.
The toilet leans a little to the side, but that’s because the wall is wonky.
‘The flush mechanism will be fine, Juliette,’ Malik assured me. ‘Water always flows down. One of the few constants in life.’
Was very impressed by Malik’s workmanship.
All his tools were neatly organised and he lifted the toilet and bath effortlessly up the stairs.
Everything was fitted within two hours.
I tried to give Malik the pathetic amount of cash in my purse as a thank you, but he waved my money away, saying, ‘What is a two-hour job for a friend?’
‘But you’ve already worked a full day,’ I said.
Malik laughed. ‘Juliette, all I’ve done is wake at 6am and lift a few steel girders. Your mother gave me a bar tab when I first came to the UK, and was alone in a strange country. That sort of kindness has no price.’
Wednesday 22nd November
A bathroom! At last!
And it’s been installed before my living assessment tomorrow.
Talk about cutting it fine.
Of course, we still don’t have any curtains, and the old, broken toilet is in the back garden with ‘If you want sex call Cindi Bailey’ written on the porcelain in permanent marker.
But life isn’t perfect.
Surely Johnny Jiggens must realise that.
Thursday 23rd November
Johnny Jiggens arrived at 11am today.
I was ready for him with a selection of teas and three different kinds of biscuits.
Johnny gave me a limp handshake, then looked over the newly painted walls.
‘You know, this place was a squat before,’ I enthused. ‘And now we have a roof. And a bath with a shower. And two flushing toilets.’
‘All the essentials then,’ said Johnny.
The boiler gave a long, loud moan at that moment.
Johnny looked embarrassed, clearly thinking I’d farted.
‘That wasn’t me,’ I said. ‘It was the boiler.’
‘Maybe you should have it checked over.’
‘At the moment I’m hitting it with a hammer,’ I said. ‘I m
ean … ha ha ha! What I mean is, I’ll have a new boiler fitted at some point.’
Not exactly a lie, as ‘at some point’ could mean ‘in three years’.
Am praying Old Beryl survives the winter.
‘A new boiler?’ Johnny asked. ‘What – you’ve still got the one that came with the house?’
‘Yes,’ I conceded. ‘But 1970s boilers were built to last.’
‘You don’t want to take any chances with gas,’ said Johnny, peering into the downstairs toilet and staring at the bile-yellow porcelain. ‘I see there’s still a fair bit to do here.’
‘I like that toilet,’ I said. ‘It still flushes. Do you want to see? And we have an open fire in the living room.’
After a poke around downstairs, Johnny asked if he could see Daisy’s bedroom.
‘It’s not finished,’ I said. ‘We’re going to put up princess wallpaper and curtains at some point.’
‘Ah, right,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll just a quick look.’
He disappeared upstairs, and reappeared making notes.
Then he stuck his head into the back garden, and noted the broken toilet – possibly scribbling down the number for a sexual experience with Cindi Bailey.
‘Do you want a cup of tea or anything?’ I asked. ‘I’ve got five different kinds—’
‘It’s all right,’ said Johnny. ‘Just a flying visit today’
And off he went.
Friday 24th November
Black Friday
In a bid to forget about the court hearing, I drove into town with Brandi, Callum and Daisy today, and elbowed past shoppers, looking for bargains.
‘This is all crap,’ Brandi decided, a few shops in. ‘They’re just discounting stuff no one wants.’
Agreed.
Went to Poundland, which is cheap all year round, and bought a trolley load of Christmas decorations, mince pies and discontinued apple-flavoured hot chocolate.
Also picked up a white tinsel tree, which I thought was an absolute bargain. It looks horrible – really cheap and tacky.
