by Matt Shaw
“You’re moving?!”
I opened my mouth. Pointless. I knew I wouldn’t get a word in edgeways.
“Were you going to tell me or was I going to have to rely on the whoever buys your flat to tell me you’ve moved on? Jesus, James, what are you thinking? What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Thoughts of topping my mother aside?
“I take it you have tea-bags.”
She walked on through to the kitchen. Might as well close the door, looks as though she’s staying a while.
“Your phone is ringing....” she called out from the kitchen.
That’ll be the debt-collectors again.
I stood in the hallway - torn between a conversation with my mum and a debt-collector.
“Aren’t you going to get it?” she called out.
No.
“It’ll keep,” I replied, walking through to the kitchen where mum was now pouring herself a cup of tea.
She turned to me, “Are you going to tell me what you’re planning?”
“I was going to call...”
“And how are you going to call when your phone is cut off?”
“What?”
“Well, you can’t pay your bills now, can you?”
Jesus.
“No income....”
“I’m working my notice, mum. You know I hated it there. I’m just moving on, not throwing my life away.”
A lie.
I threw my life away years ago. It’s only now I’m doing something about it, not that she’d understand. I try and hide most things from my mum, saves upsetting her. She acts the cold-bitch but it’s only because she cares. Took me years to realise this. Years, unfortunately, of conflict. Now, when she goes off on one - I just take a back seat. Let it get it out of her system. Her venting. She only vents because she worries.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked.
Her voice has come down a pitch, or two. Normal sounding.
“And what’s with all the boxes?”
“I want a fresh start - this is my chance.”
“And what about Mary?”
“She left.”
“Are you telling her your plans?”
“I don’t need to anymore. Perks of separating.”
Mum went to say something and suddenly stopped herself.
She bit her tongue?
That’s new.
Now I want to know what she was going to say.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Well, this is new.
A few minutes went by with neither of us speaking.
“She was asking after you....”
“What?”
“At coffee yesterday....”
“Coffee?”
“Wednesday morning coffee....”
“Wednesday morning coffee?”
“She was asking how you were doing.”
Did she really not see a problem with this? Pretty sure I’m not being unreasonable. My mum and my ex still good friends despite the break-up. Brilliant. Probably spend Christmas together too - two lonely old women....
“You had coffee with her yesterday?”
“Every Wednesday...”
“Every Wednesday?” I laughed. “Great - nice conversations?”
“What? I shouldn’t stay friends with her because the two of you split up?”
“Erm.... no? No, you shouldn’t... You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Silence.
“There might not need to be sides - she was asking after you.”
“Probably wanting to know how much I’m suffering...”
“She cares! She was asking....”
“That doesn’t mean anything, mum. Fuck!”
“Language...”
Mid-thirties and she still gives me grief about my language. Fucking brilliant.
“If she didn’t care - she wouldn’t ask...”
“If she cared, she wouldn’t have left.”
“You pushed her away!”
“Oh.... Nice.... My fault. Of course it is. Should have known that.”
“You....”
“I think you need to leave, actually.”
“How about we just change the subject?”
“I’m busy - lots to pack up and organize.”
Mum didn’t say anything. I guess she could tell by my face that I’d had enough now - she’d know from past experience that further conversation would just lead to more arguments. Another of my many flaws, which she has also highlighted to me before.
“Call me tomorrow, yes?”
“Yes.”
I won’t but, it’s easier to say ‘yes’.
Mum put her cup of tea to one side and walked towards the front door. I followed to see her out.
“And promise me you’ll call her....”
“Fine.”
Again, I won’t. Once again it’s easier to say that I will.
Anything for a quiet life.
What’s left of it.
“I mean it,” she continued, “she wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t still care.”
What mum fails to understand is ‘caring for’ and ‘loving’ are two completely different things. Besides, I doubt Mary cares. I know for a fact, with the last conversation, she doesn’t love me....
If anything, she was asking because she wanted to gloat. I was with that woman for eight years; I know how her mind works.
2.
The weeks are flying by, although the days seem to be going slower. The flat is on the market, getting a lot of interest, due to the ridiculously low asking price. The agent informs me that, of all the calls they receive about the property, the first question from half of the callers is them asking whether the price is a mistake.
Must really piss the estate agents off.
With regards to the property, I’m actually surprised it’s not been snapped up already. I guess the low price, half of what I was told it could fetch, puts some people off. Some people think too much.
I just want rid of it.
Rid of the flat and the bad memories which come with it.
“Well someone has put an offer in,” said the estate agent as he sat down in front of me - holding the file on my property in his right hand.
“And you accepted it?” I asked.
It had been a week since I heard from the estate agents. Normally they’d call to inform me of viewings, at least but - this week, they’ve been quiet. I guess a visit to their little office, in the centre of town, was long overdue.
“Well, no....” he said, shifting uneasily in his seat.
“No?”
“No.”
Where have all the ‘yes-men’ gone?
When I listed the flat with this small, independent estate agents - I explicitly told them.... accept any offers, I just want rid of the place. I even went into great detail about the troubles I’ve had, with my wife, in that property and how it would be a pleasure just to see the back of it. And here they are now - sitting on an offer.
They didn’t even tell me about it. I wonder, had I not come in - when were they going to call me?
“I told you to accept any offers that came in. I told you, in fact.”
“Sir, that’s not....”
“Don’t call me sir. Do I look like a sir?”
A pet-hate.
“It’s not standard policy to accept offers on behalf of our clients without first informing you of said offer.”
“Right, so when were you going to inform me I even had an offer?”
“Well, it’s considerably lower than what you were originally asking.”
The flat was estimated to be worth around a hundred thousand pounds. Two bedrooms, in the middle of town, a nice area - I was even told to put it up for more than a hundred.
I put it up for fifty thousand.
I’ve only got a month left, after all. I’d probably struggle to blow the full fifty thousand as it stood. Especially given the fact I’ve had another credit card come
through. That’s two to max out now. Sure, I don’t need to do it but.... the banks.... they’re happy to offer free money so why the hell not.
I put it up for half of what it was worth, though. Exactly how much was being offered here?
“Well?” I asked.
The estate agent, pompous little prick, pulled an A4 sheet from the file.
“Forty thousand pounds,” he quickly muttered. Perhaps he thought, by muttering it and saying it quickly - it would lessen the insult. “So you see....”
I stopped him, “Forty thousand?”
“Yes.”
He slid the piece of paper back into the file and closed it. Out of sight out of mind?
“It’s worth a hundred...”
“That’s what we had it valued at...”
“I put it up for fifty.”
“Yes.”
“So, do you really think another ten grand off the asking price was really going to bother me? I mean, seriously?”
“Pardon?”
“Call them up. Let’s do it...”
“Sir....”
“Forty thousand is more than enough. Fuck it, tell them I’ll knock it down to thirty-five myself.... just because I like their style.”
“I think you need to take a step back and think, it’s worth so much more....”
“Things are only worth what someone else is prepared to spend.”
Not sure where that came from. Did I just make it up or had I heard it before? Either way, it shut the estate agent up.
“Call them up,” I continued. “Tell them I’ll take thirty-five...”
“Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-five,” I smiled.
Thirty-five is more than enough to live off. Spread that through the thirty days I’ve given myself, not forgetting some of that will be spent traveling so less chance to be spending... that’s over a thousand pounds a day pocket money. That’s some good living.
The agent opened the file and, once again, took the paper from within. The contact details of whoever made the offer, no doubt.
“You’re sure about this.”
I smiled. He knows I’m sure.
The estate agent shrugged and walked away from the desk. Not sure why he felt he couldn’t call the buyer in front of me but, to be honest, I couldn’t care less. I just want the money. Hopefully they haven’t found somewhere else all the time the estate agent has just been sat on their offer.
A vibrating from my pocket; mobile phone.
I reached in and pulled it out. Why I bother I have no idea.... just another debt..... Mary?
Mary’s calling.
What does she want?
Mary’s calling.
Well, answer it!
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hi,” her voice down the other end of the phone.
“Mary?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t noticed it was her when the phone was ringing.
“Hi,” she repeated.
God, her voice - she sounds so cute. I can hear how pretty she is. My heart skips a beat. Come on, man, hold it together. Hold it together.
“What are you calling for?”
I haven’t heard from her since she walked out, after that argument.
“I needed to talk to you,” she said.
Her voice. Like silk. I missed her voice.
I missed her.
The last time we spoke - her tone wasn’t the same. It was filled with venom, anger, hostility. The look on her once beautiful face, mirroring the tone. I won’t forget either. How could I have pushed her.... someone so gentle.... so kind.... so pure.... I pushed her into that state. With my moods I shoved her so hard she was never able to come back to the loving girl she used to be, with me.
My moods.
I broke her.
The love of my life and I broke her. Destroyed her over the years as the Demon within me took control. When he was in the driving seat - no one was safe from being made to feel worthless and unloved. The other day, mum was right - she left because I pushed her. Every day Mary felt as though she needed to walk on egg-shells around me, until she knew what sort of mood I was in. If I were in a bad mood, she’d try and make herself scarce and, if I were in a good mood - she’d make the most of it but still.... she’d still walk on the egg-shells for fear of turning me. I hate being like this but I can’t help it. Like I’ve said before, I don’t wish to be part of the Zombie Nation. I just need to learn how to control it better - it’s just... the people who want to help.... their ‘help’ is always the same - fill you with medication... turn you into one of the braindead so you’re not a danger to anyone, or yourself.
I don’t need to control it.
The clock is still very much ticking.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Can I see you?”
She’s treading on egg-shells now. It’s in her tone.
“Sure, I’m just with someone now but.... could meet for lunch, if you’d like?”
“Lunch would be nice.”
“The usual? Shall we say about midday?”
“See you then,” she said.
She didn’t wait for my reply. The phone-line went dead.
What if she wants to take me back? Carry on as though nothing went wrong, in the first place? Move back in with me....
“They’ve agreed upon thirty-five thousand,” said the agent as he walked back over to the table.
If she does take me back, I wonder where we’ll live...
* * * * *
I got to our usual little cafe at about half eleven.
Our cafe.
Whenever we had a weekend off work together and the mood suited, we’d often grab a spot of lunch in this cafe. Quiet corner cafe overlooking the park. On a Summer’s day, a great little sun spot. A bit of lunch followed by an idle walk through the park, hand in hand - blissfully watching the world go by. Good days.
The cafe used to be quiet too but, it seems more and more couples are finding it too. Copying Mary and I - they’d eat their lunch and then head off towards the park for their stroll. That’s why I got here half an hour early.... ensure we got a nice seat outside, before the lunchtime rush.
“Hi.”
I span around to see Mary standing in the doorway to the cafe. She must have got here early and chosen a seat inside. We never sit inside. She knows that.
“Hi,” I said. “I’ve got us a seat....”
“I’ve got one in here,” she said before turning around and going back inside.
We never sit inside.
I followed her in.
She’d already sat in the far corner of the room, away from prying eyes.
“Hi,” I said as I approached her table. “Can I get you a drink?”
“I’m good, thank you.”
Her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, which rested on the small wooden table. I sat down opposite her.
“It’s good to see you again,” I said. “How have you been?”
“Your mother said you were moving?”
Oh, right. Straight to the point then.
“Wednesday coffee?” I asked.
For the first time since getting to the cafe - I noticed how upset Mary was looking. Her eyes were red. Had she been crying? Was mum right? Did she regret leaving me?
“Is it true?”
“Maybe.”
Depends. If she wants me back... it’ll give me a sense of purpose. I’ll want to stick around. If she doesn’t.... nothing changes. I’m tired. The course of action I’ve chosen - I could never put it in place all the time I had someone waiting for me at home.... someone caring about me.... someone loving me.... I couldn’t ruin their lives by allowing them to live with the guilt of not being able to help me. When she left - it kick started my need to be done with it all again. I figured - without her there.... I have nothing stopping me. Nothing holding me back from doing what needed to be done to find some peace once and for all.
