by Andy Jones
‘I’m going travelling,’ I blurt, cutting off Rachel halfway through a catalogue of Maputaland’s indigenous sea life.
‘A holiday?’ says Vicky. ‘Lovely. Where?’
Rachel, a little quicker on the uptake, whispers the word ‘Travelling?’
I nod.
Vicky adopts the role of disapproving parent. ‘Hold on a what now? Who’s travelling? Where?’
‘Me,’ I say, indicating myself with a forefinger. ‘All over the place.’ And the double meaning isn’t lost on me.
I’ve had more time to think than is probably good for me, and I have thought hard and repeatedly about what I am doing with my life. And one of the few conclusions I have come to with any confidence is that I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going, what I want or who I even am. Three years ago I accused Alex’s ex-girlfriend, Ines, of being spoiled. But I’m not sure that doesn’t apply to me, too. My parents have always given me everything I’ve needed and pretty much all I wanted. I passed my own exams, I earn my own wages, but . . . I’d hesitate to call myself an independent woman.
‘You know that cliché about finding yourself?’ I say, giving the phrase its requisite air quotes.
Vicky nods, Rachel looks like she’s about to cry.
‘Well . . . I can’t think of a better way of putting it than that. I need to find myself,’ I say, and I make a squeaky snorty noise that is halfway between a laugh and a cry.
‘How?’ says Rachel. ‘How are you going to pay for it?’
How many twenty-nine year olds make wills? Not me, not Alex. He only had life insurance because it came with his job, and the person he named on that policy four years ago was his mother. She also inherited his savings, pension, premium bonds, the clothes hanging on his side of the wardrobe if she’d wanted them. Six weeks after the funeral his brother Pat came to London to help take care of various morbid formalities. We put items into boxes for Alex’s mother: pictures, books, DVDs, a football mug that he never drank out of. After first offering them to me, Pat took Alex’s watch and cufflinks. I asked if he wanted the Xbox, decks and vinyl, but Pat didn’t want anything he might enjoy. Suits, clothes, shoes, we took to a charity shop – leaving the bags on the pavement because we were crying too hard to face anyone. Everything else went into bin bags and we drove in silence to the tip, where we heaved the sacks into their relevant skips. I miss the presence and weight of these items now and feel I was too quick to tidy his life away.
When you take out a joint mortgage, they give you two options. One where, in the event of your death, your half of the property passes on in the fashion of your watch, cufflinks and football mug – to whoever is named in your will, or in the absence of that document to the relevant legal beneficiary: a parent, sibling, child or spouse. Not a boyfriend or a girlfriend. The second way, the house passes to the other person named on the mortgage papers. We had laughed awkwardly at this mortal distinction, quickly agreeing to the more romantic of the two choices. Although a part of me wishes we hadn’t.
Rachel and Vicky know that the house is now mine. And the fact I can barely afford the mortgage, bills and everything else that comes with it.
Vicky frowns. ‘I thought Alex didn’t leave . . . I thought . . . aren’t you skint?’
‘As a church mouse,’ I say.
‘Travelling’s a big . . .’ Rachel reaches across the table to hold my hand. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for something like that, Zo?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘But . . . did I tell you about the bank? About Alex’s bank?’ My friends shake their heads, looking worried, braced. ‘You met Pat?’ I say to Rachel. ‘When he was down, helping me with Al’s stuff, all the admin, he had to go to the bank, to Alex’s bank. You have to actually go in, hand over his cards. So Pat – such a sweet guy, did I tell you he offered me money?’ Vicky looks aghast, and now it’s my turn to lay the consoling hand on top of hers. ‘He was embarrassed about the will, the lack of a will. Said that if me and Al had been, you know, married . . . then the money, the life insurance, it would have been mine. And did I want, you know . . .’
Rachel looks conflicted, agitated. ‘And did you?’ – I shake my head – ‘Because, well, he had a point, don’t you think?’
What I think is No. I think we never would have been married, never should have been married. And I think that his mother, who bought bread on the day of its sell-by date and who ironed the neighbours’ shirts to look after her sons, I think the money is hers and I know I’m right. But I don’t want to go into it and I don’t want to play the martyr. And besides, it’s off the point.
‘The point is,’ I say, ‘Pat asked me to go to the bank with him. Partly, I don’t think he wanted to go on his own, and partly, I think he felt bad – guilty – that it was him, and not me – like he was prying. I don’t know. Anyway . . .’ I look at my glass and see there is one mouthful of wine left, so I leave it where it stands for now. ‘Anyway . . . we went to the bank. And they give you . . . they give you his . . .’ And I can feel the heavy invisible fingers tugging at the corners of my mouth, pulling at my cheeks; I feel a hard pressure behind my eyes and now the tears are coming and coming hard. I finish my wine, and when Vicky slides her glass towards me, I take a big gulp of hers too. ‘God! Sorry, sorry. They give you his . . . they give you his statements and then they leave the room, so you can go through them in private and check that everything’s as it should be. And you know how . . . the statements, how they go backwards? Last purchase first?’
I can tell from Rachel’s expression and her tear-glazed eyes that she is one step ahead and sees what’s coming. ‘Oh God,’ she all but whispers. ‘Oh God, Zoe.’
‘What?’ says Vicky. ‘What?’
I take a deep breath. ‘It’s silly, really. The first thing on the statement, the last place he . . .’
‘The deli,’ says Rachel.
‘And before that the florist on the corner.’
‘Flowers?’
I nod, and damn it if I can’t stop myself from crying again. Vicky offers her wine, but I slide the glass back to her. ‘Thank you, I’m . . . I’m fine.’
‘You poor thing,’ says Rachel.
‘So me and Pat, bloody hell. We just folded the statement in half and waited until the woman came back into the room and asked if everything was “in order”. We said yes, then went back to the house to finish packing up Al’s things.’
The three of us sit quietly for a while before Vicky leans forwards, clears her throat delicately and says, ‘Travelling?’
‘Oh, right. Sorry, lost my train of . . . you know. It sounds silly, I know, but Al going out to get breakfast and stuff, it’s typical, isn’t it. It’s typical of me, of people doing things for me, taking care of me – my mum and dad, Alex – carrying the heavy bags, throwing out spiders, fetching me breakfast. I can’t even wire a plug.’
‘A plug?’ says Rachel.
‘You know what I mean,’ I say. ‘I’ve been spoiled.’
Vicky shrugs like this is to be expected and is nothing to be ashamed of. ‘You’re a woman.’
Rachel shakes her head. ‘Right on, sister.’
‘Find myself,’ I say, finishing where I began and finding the two words far more articulate and pertinent than my effort at expanding.
‘I think it’s a great idea,’ says Rachel, and Vicky nods in agreement. ‘But when?’
‘I haven’t really thought it through,’ I tell them. ‘To be honest, it only really came together as a notion on the train home this evening. It’s been brewing, I think; going to France with my folks, the bank, the map on the tube . . . soon, though.’
‘You’re not missing my wedding,’ says Rachel, and it’s not a question.
‘No, God!’
‘So after August, right?’
‘I don’t want to be here in October,’ I say, and thankfully I don’t have to explain why. ‘So I suppose that means September.’
‘Give you time to save up,’ says Rachel.
‘It’ll take longer than that,’ I say, ‘I can barely afford the tube.’
‘So what’s the plan? Work your way around?’
I take a sip of Vicky’s wine, after all. ‘I’m selling the house.’
Rachel gives me a hard, almost angry stare. ‘Over my dead fucking body, Zoe.’ And then she realizes what she’s just said and her face crumples like a tent freed of its guy ropes. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, Zoe, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t . . . oops?’
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Normal, remember?’
Rachel nods. ‘In which case, Zoe Goldman, you would be out of your mind to sell a property in London in a rising market.’
‘She’s right,’ says Vicky. ‘Out – of – your – mind.’
‘I don’t see how else I can do it. I’m not going travelling to work, I don’t have any savings, the mortgage is a big fat pig, and . . . and I don’t see how else I can do it.’
‘Get a lodger,’ says Rachel brightly.
I shake my head. ‘God no, I couldn’t, it would feel . . . just . . . no.’
‘Right,’ says Rachel, holding up a finger and reaching into her handbag for a pen. She peels a beer mat in half, creating a clean square of white card. ‘How much is your mortgage?’
I tell her. I tell her how much my bills cost, my travel, my lunch, my phone, the gym, the repayments on my credit card. We estimate the rental value of the house as a vacant, furnished premises, we guess at the cost of a ticket to somewhere hot and exotic, tickets to various onward locations across the globe, how much I will need to keep me in beer and noodles and accommodation. We do a lot of mathematics and by the time Rachel has finished she has dismantled three beermats and has ink on her lip.
‘The good news is,’ she says, circling a number on one of the impromptu pages, ‘the rent should cover the mortgage and bills, and give you a few extra quid a month for spends.’
‘Bad news?’
‘The bad news,’ says Rachel, ‘is you’ll still need to save up to buy your ticket, cover sundry expenses and give yourself a buffer in case your tenants run off or smash the place up.’
‘I’ll get nice tenants.’
‘And you’ll have to drop the gym—’
‘Done.’
‘—cycle to work, shop in Aldi, and take a packed lunch to the office.’
‘Can do.’
‘No more new clothes,’ she adds, and Vicky winces as if I’ve been told I’ll need to sell an eyeball.
‘Clothes schmoves,’ I say, warming to the idea of noble austerity and Zoe the independent woman.
‘eBay your handbags and shoes.’
‘Click,’ I say, doing exactly that to an invisible mouse.
‘And,’ says Rachel, ‘you’re still fucked.’
‘What?’
‘Unless you want to put if off until next year, you’re still about three grand off target.’
‘But what about Aldi? The clothes? The egg sandwiches?’
Rachel shakes her head, taps a beer mat with the tip of her biro. ‘The numbers don’t lie.’
‘Listen,’ says Vicky, ‘don’t be offended or anything, but I could lend you—’
‘Vicky,’ I say, leaning across the table and hugging her hard, ‘thank you. Thank you, but . . . I can’t.’
‘Of course you c—’
‘No, I can’t. That’s the whole point, isn’t it. I have to do it on my own. On my own.’
‘So I suppose you’re going to sell the house, after all?’
I look to Rachel, as if for approval, and she shakes her head emphatically. ‘It’s your house,’ she says. ‘But, Zo, as a friend, I’ve got to tell you I think it would be a huge – huge – mistake.’
And if my trust in Rachel weren’t enough, my lack of faith in my own judgement is a powerful voice. After all, huge mistakes are my speciality. Vicky must read the essence of this in my body language.
‘So,’ she says, ‘next year, then.’
Now it’s my turn to shake my head. ‘Over my dead body,’ I say, but it doesn’t get the laugh I’d hoped for. ‘One way or another, I’m going in September. Even if I have to stow away.’
Zoe
Click
The camera weighs more than a bag of sugar. Over half a kilogram of dials, levers and buttons that mean little more to me than nothing. Apparently it’s a classic, but hanging around my neck it feels like a brick and the strap cuts hard into my neck.
I lift this marvel of German precision to my eye and point it at Henry, the guy cutting Rachel’s hair. As I adjust the lens (a 35mm F/2 Summicron, apparently), the bruise around his left eye comes into focus. The colours are magnificent – yellow, purple, orange – but this heavy hunk of metal is loaded with black and white film. I press the button, listening again to the solid mechanical click that so excited the geeks at my photography class.
Henry turns around, visibly awkward at having his photo taken. He angles his body away from me, working the scissors through Rachel’s hair with rhythmic, staccato movements.
Rachel gets married in three months and is having something of a hair crisis; still undecided on how to have it and who will cut it. Henry came highly recommended by one of Rachel’s colleagues – as well as cutting in a salon, he will cycle to your house and drop your split ends onto your own carpet.
‘Put that thing away,’ says Rachel. ‘I look like a bag lady.’
‘No film,’ I lie.
‘Then what are you playing at?’
‘I like the sound of the spring.’
‘You a photographer?’ asks Henry. Despite the bruising he has nice eyes. No, they’re better than nice, more interesting than nice. Blue mostly, but not the kind to make a fuss about – nothing evocative of sea or sky. Zooming in further until I can see flecks of green and grey and black, the effect is diminished. It’s the way he looks when he’s concentrating, the way he looks when he looks at you – there is confidence, but also something . . . guarded it seems. They say you can learn a lot from someone’s eyes, but Henry’s aren’t telling. He’d be magazine handsome if it wasn’t for his broken nose, but there’s definitely something about him. And it gives me butterflies; quick, struggling wings beating in my stomach.
Rachel thinks he’s gay, but the butterflies disagree.
I shake my head. ‘Just a hobby.’
‘So you’re going back?’ says Rachel, referring to the photography class.
We talked about apertures, shutter speeds, ISO numbers – the holy trinity of photography. And even without the pervasive smell of body odour, I doubt any of it would have clicked my shutter. In the pub afterwards, some guy with bits of crisp in his beard cornered me and talked at excruciating length about the ‘honesty of film and the purity of black and white’, and all I could think was that it was a shame he cared less about the purity of his breath.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I dunno; it’s a bit . . .’
‘Pretentious?’ tries Rachel.
‘Hold still,’ says Henry, placing a hand on top of her head and rotating it back into position.
Alex bought the thing off eBay, drunk one night, bored and disgruntled with work. ‘A hobby.’ Typical Alex; rushing into something full of enthusiasm and good intentions. I remember the look of disappointment when we collected his first roll of developed film from Snappy Snaps. A flimsy cardboard wallet containing twenty-four mostly out-of-focus prints of trees, brick walls, railings and a dog. Undeterred, Alex decided the solution was to develop his own film and print his own photographs. He ordered chemicals, gizmos, and a scanner to convert the negatives into digital images. I should have let him get on with it, but couldn’t resist pointing out – and ridiculing – the preposterous irony of spending eight hundred pounds on a manual camera, turning the spare bedroom into a darkroom, hanging up dripping rolls of film and then converting them into a format I can take on my mobile phone. He used an analogy of baking bread – saying you can buy it, bake it in the oven or make i
t in a bread-maker. What he was doing, Alex said, was akin to the latter, ‘getting your hands dirty, but with a bit of assistance in the final step.’ And when I still refused to let it go, he called me a killjoy and suggested I might be better getting a hobby of my own instead of ‘pissing all over’ his. And don’t I feel like a bitch. He took the camera out only once after that, and never did get around to setting up his darkroom. I tried to be encouraging, inviting him and his camera out for walks, but the Leica remained on a shelf and the scanner stayed in its box. For his last – final – birthday, I bought him vouchers for a photography class, but then October happened.
I put the camera down and pick up the remote, flicking through the channels, stopping on a young Meg Ryan.
‘Love this film,’ says Rachel. ‘“I’ll have what she’s having.”’
‘Did you know that the woman, the lady at the next table, she’s the director’s mother?’ says Henry.
‘Ha,’ says Rachel, flicking me a look, which I interpret to be her presenting evidence that Henry is, indeed, gay. ‘I did not know that.’
Henry lifts a handful of Rachel’s hair. ‘Maybe we could go for something a bit Albright,’ he says.
‘Alright?’ says Rachel.
‘Albright,’ he repeats, nodding at the TV. ‘Sally Albright.’
‘Of course,’ I say, ‘All bright, I never noticed that before.’
‘Yeah,’ says Henry. ‘Bit obvious, but . . . well, amazing film, so what do I know?’
Again, that look – gay – from Rachel. ‘But her hair’s a bit . . . eighties, isn’t it?’ she says.
