Three streets over was the last student house I’d lived in. Now that was a student house. 98 Stanmore Avenue. I’d never forget that address. So much had happened to me in the year I lived in that house it was hard to believe it was only a year. I’d got pneumonia in that house. I’d met the love of my life when I lived in that house. I was dumped by the love of my life in that house. I had what turned out to be my last shag in Leeds in that house (and hadn’t had another one for about two years after that). I got my finals results in that house. It was a very momentous house. I was hoping that 17 Stanmore Vale, the house I was about to move into, would be far less dramatic. I’d grown out of student dramatics.
I’d been clutching my Leeds A to Z and a borrowed copy of The Itchy Guide To Leeds when I first knocked on 17 Stanmore Vale. It was the first time I’d been back round these parts in well over six years and I’d needed a little help in finding my way around.
Jess, who taught at Leeds Metropolitan University (‘The Met’ to most people), had seen the advert for a double room and thought it’d be perfect for me: I knew the area (ish) and it was living with two post-graduate students as averse to first-time-away-from-home, freedom-insane undergraduates who’d want to party all night and slob all day as I was. And it was a good twenty-minute drive from her home. So, she’d noted the details then went round taking down all the flyers she could find so I’d have a chance to look at it before anyone else did.
The front door had been opened about two seconds after my knock by a lad with messy, rust-coloured hair and a pierced eyebrow. He was casually clothed in baggy jeans and a plain white T-shirt. I say lad, he was more a bloke. But could pass for a lad because he was younger than me. (Not that I was old. He was twenty-five, twenty-six and I’d almost left my twenties. But only almost.) His light eyes sparkled as he said, ‘Hi, you must be Ceri,’ and grinned. His whole face relaxed into that grin and I fell instantly in like with him. I was a relatively simple creature like that. You were nice to me, I liked you. Hell, I’d been out with blokes on the strength of them being nice to me as opposed to any kind of attraction.
‘And you’re Jake?’ I replied, grinning back.
‘Yup, that’s me. You’re right on time. Come in. Have you just come up from London?’
Is it that obvious? I wondered. I glanced down at myself. I did indeed look like I’d just crawled away from a three-hour train journey. My jacket and jeans were travel-creased, my Walkman, crisp packets, spare jumper, notebook and reading material all bulged in my bag. ‘Yeah. I’m going back straight away as well,’ I said, looking back up at Jake. ‘I could only get the afternoon off work. They’re not too happy about me leaving so want to get every second out of me.’
‘Oh, right, better get on then. This way.’
My feet bounced slightly on the ruby red carpet of the hallway. Quality carpet, and from the cushioning effect, it probably had underlay. Clever colour choice, I thought, as I followed Jake. Subconsciously you felt important, like VIP material, because you’d come into a place where they’d laid out the red carpet, literally. Or it could be a way to get a murdered body out of the house without the worry of blood stains on the carpet (but that was the kind of thought that plagued my mind).
Opposite the stairs lay the living room. I stepped in after Jake and my mouth fell open. It was straight out of a homes magazine: porridge-coloured carpet, cream walls and two squashy, tan leather sofas. Standing guard over the fireplace was a professionally-framed Dali print – The Metamorphosis of Narcissus. At the other end of the room were two huge bay windows with net curtains and everything. This was a proper sitting room, not a hashed together, student job. I’d steeled myself when I knocked on the front door for threadbare carpets, limescale plumbing and tales of a nightmare landlord.
Jake explained that he was in fact that nightmare landlord, that he owned the house, as he showed me round. ‘My parents lent me the money for a deposit on this place and acted as guarantors when I first came to college here just over four years ago. I was a mature student, I mean, not that mature, but I couldn’t stand the thought of a normal student house, so I talked them into it. They also lent me the cash to do it up properly. That’s why I rent out the other two rooms, it covers the mortgage and pays back my parents.’
I was only half listening to him; I was far too busy falling in love. The red carpet and living room were like passing someone attractive in the street and glancing back to get a second look. The rest of the house was like getting to know someone, dating them, sharing with them and finding out that everything about them is wonderful. Finding no reason not to fall in love with them.
We wandered down the narrow corridor to the kitchen and my heart fluttered. It was another large space, this time with real wood flooring. A chrome and beechwood dream, white cabinets with real wood worktops that, Jake explained, needed special oil rubbing into them – ‘we take that in turns’. A breakfast bar divided the room, and around it stood four high, padded stools. The kitchen had stainless steel appliances, a blender, a real coffee machine, canisters that had ‘tea’, ‘sugar’, ‘coffee’ and ‘biscuits’ on them. (I had a sneaking suspicion that each jar was filled with what was written on the outside of it.)
‘There’s a little bit of a garden-patio area that we sometimes sit on, but me and Ed don’t use it that much,’ Jake added as he nodded to the back door. ‘Do you want to see upstairs now?’
‘Oh yes,’ I whispered.
The soft-pile redness of the corridor went all the way up the stairs, both flights of them. The room on offer was right at the top of the house.
I trailed behind Jake as he swung open the white painted door to the attic room, my heart pounding hard in my chest, my breath short with anticipation. I fell completely head over heels as the door revealed the mysteries of the attic.
Part of the ceiling was slanted, with two skylights set in it. The cream walls made the room seem even larger. It had a double bed, a grey metal-framed desk, an oak wardrobe, and rather thoughtfully, a window had been installed in one of the walls so you could look out at the treetops and into bedrooms of the opposite houses when you lay on the bed.
I was speechless with lust as I turned to Jake and said, ‘And you don’t want to move in here now that it’s free?’
Jake shrugged and shook his head. ‘It’s too far to stumble if I come home drunk or stoned or both. Bill, that’s the lad who lived in this room before, would often sleep on one of the sofas downstairs cos he couldn’t make it up here when he was pissed. It’s a long way.’
‘And what about the other lad?’ I added, just as breathlessly. ‘Doesn’t he want a bigger room?’
‘All the rooms are quite big. But Ed? Nah, he doesn’t want it. He’s a boy, and to him more space equals more to clean.’
‘I see,’ I said in a small, small voice. If I don’t get this room, if I end up in a hovel in Hyde Park with bars on the windows and doors, then I was Attila the Hun in a former life. ‘So, do you need references or something if I want to take it?’
‘Um, no. I mean, there’s a standard six-month contract and I’d need a month’s deposit and a month’s rent in advance, but no references,’ Jake said. ‘But you’d be interested in moving in?’
I almost nodded my head off. ‘Oh yes.’
‘Right. Well, there’s no one else waiting to see it. It’s weird, actually, no one else has rung up about it. I don’t know why . . .’ Jake went off into a stare. ‘I put up loads of flyers and no one’s called.’
‘Really?’ I replied, sympathetically. It’ll have absolutely nothing to do with Jess taking down the posters all round the college campus, I’m sure. ‘That is weird.’
I reached into my bag, pulled out my cheque book, rummaged around for a pen. ‘So, that’s £600, is it?’
‘What?’ Jake said. ‘Oh, yeah. You can make the cheque out to Jake Halder. We can set up a standing order after that.’
I was already writing at the speed of light, just in case he changed his mind and decided to
investigate the case of the disappearing flyers more closely.
‘You’re not a psycho, are you?’ he asked as he led the way back down to the ground floor, my HSBC cheque peeking out of the top of his jeans back pocket. ‘The lad who lived here before, Bill, turned out to be a bit of a nutter. Me and Ed were well pleased when he got chucked off his course and had to move. You’re not one, are you?’
‘I’ve been told I’m a bit strange sometimes, but not a nutter.’
‘Cool,’ Jake said. And there was me thinking I was easily pleased. ‘Anyway, let me know when you want to move in and either Ed or I will be here. Then I’ll give you your own set of keys and you can sign the contract. Do you want a cup of tea before you go?’
And that was it. I’d got myself a place to live. The only bind I could see would be trailing down to the second floor to the bathroom or to use the loo. But that bathroom had floor-toceiling blue and white mosaic tiles, a power shower and squashy rubber floor tiles – it was the kind of suffering I could handle.
‘Hi,’ I said to the stringy lad who answered the door of 17 Stanmore Vale this time around. He was about twenty-two, looked like he’d been elongated on a rack, had long blond hair and wasn’t there when I’d looked around the house. And there ended the list of things I knew about him. I couldn’t even remember his name. Eric or something.
He in return cast an eye over me, my luggage, the woman technically old enough to be his mother behind me. Then he made no secret of his confusion: his forehead knitted together, his green eyes tried to calculate what was going on. ‘You all right?’ he asked, vague flirtations with a non-Yorkshire accent lilted in his voice.
‘I’m Ceri D’Altroy. I’m moving into the room? Upstairs?’
‘Ah, right,’ he replied. ‘I’m Ed.’
Ed. That was it. ‘Hi, Ed. This,’ I indicated to Jess with a slight nod of my head over my shoulder, ‘is my best mate Jessica.’
‘Hi?’ Ed offered cautiously, his face blanking out completely. He made no move to let us in. He stood guarding the doorway like one of the guards outside Buckingham Palace; we were one moment away from him putting on his bearskin hat, picking up his rifle and totally ignoring us until his shift was over.
‘OK Ed,’ Jess said, ‘are you going to let us in, or do we have to break in round the back?’
Ed, blankness aside, was polite and friendly. He made Jess and me a cuppa, even though I rarely drank proper tea. I’d been hoping he had herbal, but when I mentioned it he’d got that glazed-over expression he’d got when I introduced Jess as my best mate so ‘Ordinary’s fine,’ I’d said, quickly.
Jess gulped hers down the second he set it down on the coffee table. While gulping, she twiddled locks of her auburn hair around her fingers. She was gagging for a cigarette. She’d abstained all the way from the station (Fred, her husband, didn’t allow smoking in his car) and she didn’t want to light up in what was so blatantly a smoke-free environment. It was painful to watch; I twisted in my seat so I wouldn’t have to. Watch, that is.
After making the tea, Ed said he’d take my stuff up to my room.
‘You don’t have to, I’ll do it later,’ I’d said.
‘It’s no trouble,’ Ed replied. ‘I’m going upstairs anyway. Getting ready to go out later.’
‘If you’re sure . . .’
Ed shrugged his whole body. ‘Course.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll make you dinner one day as a thank you.’
‘Yeah, she does a fantastic Pot Noodle,’ Jessica chimed in.
I elbowed her, hard.
Despite his slender frame, Ed picked up the rucksack, suitcase and holdall effortlessly. We watched his progress up the stairs with admiration. He must’ve been muscle and bone, rather than skin and bone as he looked.
Jess hopped up on the sill of the left bay window the second he’d gone, swept back the net curtain and opened the window. One cigarette went down in frantic silence – with each puff she visibly relaxed. The second cigarette was smoked slower, she could even talk. And, ‘I’m glad you’ve got a nice place,’ she said. ‘Ed seems all right. I hope you’ll be happy here.’ Most best-est friends in the whole world would’ve been reassuring, possibly offered a hug, not Jessica. She called it like she saw it, even if I was falling apart.
Those words sparked my anxieties again. ‘Do you think I’m mad?’ I asked urgently.
‘In general, yes. In doing this, no.’ Jess’s eyes studied me, her cigarette burning away as she hung it out the window. ‘Well it’s too bloody late to have doubts now, isn’t it? You’ve chucked it all in down south and made a commitment up here.’ (Most best-est friends in the whole world would’ve been reassuring, possibly offered a hug, not Jessica. She called it like she saw it, even if I was falling apart.)
I nodded in understanding. She was right of course. It really was too late. Sudden, violent nausea surged through my veins. Every heartbeat made me feel sicker. Less sure of what I’d done. Sure, it was all sane and rational and ‘woo-hoo, life affirming’ in theory. Even on paper. In reality, I’d jacked in a life. My job was gone. My flat was rented out. My friends had thrown me a leaving do. Most people, when they had a life crisis, bleached their hair or shagged someone unsuitable. I jacked in a life and moved two hundred miles.
I chewed on my inner cheek and stared beyond Jess. It really was too late now.
‘When I finish this,’ Jess said, nodding at her cigarette, ‘we’ll go get you some food in Morrison’s in town and then, if you’re very good, I’ll buy you a video recorder as a welcome home pressie.’
This was how Jess was supportive. Platitudes and empty reassurances in times of need weren’t her thing; acts of true love – like buying me a video – were.
‘Don’t grin too soon D’Altroy, a video’s no good without a telly.’
chapter three
Thou Shalt Not . . .
Where the hell am I?
I know I’m in a college. But, beyond that, I’m lost.
I was stood at the bottom of a winding stone staircase with wooden handrails, wondering if I should go up it or stay where I was, stuck in that first day at school nightmare where I don’t know where I’m going and don’t know anybody. I’d had that nightmare quite a lot over the weekend because it was my first day back at school, kind of. Except I’d be lecturing as well as learning. But still, I’d had the same dream over and over. I was wearing my hideous blue school uniform and I couldn’t find out where I needed to be. When I eventually got there, all the students were older than me and laughed at me because I was wearing a school uniform. It didn’t take a psychologist to work it out. I was scared. On every level of consciousness I was scared. And now the nightmare was coming true. I couldn’t find where I needed to be.
I glanced around me, wondering how to get help. It probably had something to do with initiating eye contact.
All Souls University College, the institution who’d agreed to employ me for a year of teaching and researching, was only small. So small it’d been merely affiliated to Leeds University for years and years and had only become a college of the University in the last two years. There was a distinction between being a college affiliated to the University and being an actual college of the University, and that distinction was probably something to do with money. Most things were something to do with money. All Souls was a picturesque little college in its own way, surrounded by green playing fields. Most of it was sandstone-coloured because it’d been built during the sixties and that was the colour that was en vogue then. It was small. There were, what, 3000 students here? Small, intimate, part of the reason I’d applied here. Not as many people, not such a big pond to be a small fish in.
So why was I being belittled and looked down upon by the architecture?
I glanced up. The ceilings were so high, they were almost sky level. I took a peek at the ground. The parquet floors were made from king-size blocks, the windows went on for ever.
Scariest and biggest of all, though,
were the students. I wasn’t that big when I was a student, I thought as I side-stepped a gaggle of undergraduates. Most of them had been born in 1981 for goodness’ sake, how could they be so huge? Was there some Thatcherite plot to make the voters of the future so big and brainwashed they’d scare off anyone who didn’t think like she did? (I always knew that woman planned to stay in power for ever – Dr Evil was slightly naughty compared to her.) Were those hormones pumped into meat to make cows bigger and yield more meat, finally being shown in the youf of today? Or, horror of horrors, was I actually shrinking? Was I now shorter than the five foot four-and-a-bit, I’d left the house as this morning? Was it finally happening? My nightmare. The only age-related thing I was truly, TRULY frightened of. Getting shor—
‘You look lost,’ a male voice said behind me.
I spun to him. He had kind eyes and a soft face. He was wearing a white, long-sleeved T-shirt and blue Levi’s. Most importantly, he wasn’t as giant as everyone else. He was a lecturer.
‘Yes! Yes, yes, I am.’ Could you please try to sound more desperate there, Ceri, he is after all the Pope and he did just ask you if you wanted sex before marriage sanctioned by the Catholic Church. I cleared my throat. ‘I mean, a little.’
‘I’m Mel,’ he said, ‘I’m a sociology lecturer. You’re about to start work in the psychology department, aren’t you? I remember you being shown around last month.’
I nodded. ‘That’s me.’
‘What’s your name?’ he asked and smiled. He had good teeth: white, straight, brushed and flossed twice a day. He was probably on first name terms with his dentist.
‘Ceri. Ceri D’Altroy.’
‘OK Ceri, where do you want to be?’
At home, in London, watching Trisha, eating bananas on toast in bed. ‘The place where the secretaries are.’
‘The department office?’ he said.
That’ll be it. ‘Er, yeah. Just forgot the name of it for a second.’
Mel laughed, he thought I was joking. I was so scared, so panicked, I barely remembered my own name.
The Cupid Effect Page 2
