by Austin, Lucy
My flat is the only commitment I have ever made to anything – it’s the one thing that makes me feel like a proper fully-fledged adult. Without my mortgage, I truly think I would be getting ready to buy a plane ticket somewhere, still thinking I had it all in front of me and believing in the possibilities around the corner. With my flat, I get to look responsible to potential employees, a bit more grown up to friends. I can attend a residents association to complain about the hallway, forget to put a recycling bin out on the right day, or search for a large set of keys at the bottom of my bag in an exasperated manner. My flat means everything to me. It’s just a little on the shabby side.
Hopping down the hallway in pain from the splinter, I jump out of my skin upon finding Scary Linda in the dimly lit lounge, lying across my sofa as though she were on a sun lounger, in a baby pink Divine Beauty salon tracksuit. In addition to her face lathered up in a green mask, she’s got an overly straightened Brazilian blow-dry and is sporting cucumbers over her eyes. Inhaling the pungent scent from not one but three scented candles, I then happen to notice the phrase written above her on the blackboard. ‘There is no such thing as ugly, just lazy’.
I cough loudly, prompting her to lift up one of the cucumber slices. ‘Hi Kate,’ she says. ‘How was your day? Any luck on the man front?’
Now, if ever there was a good sport, it’s Linda, happy to lie there in a sea of complacency, only there because Claire cajoled her into it. My flatmate then comes out of the bathroom with rollers in her hair, singing to herself in that way you do when you think you’re really good – like an opera singer attempting karaoke. Depending on her mood, the tunes vary but are mainly sung square on to the bathroom mirror with a hairbrush, finishing off with a Zoolander pout and a kind of shooting gun sort of gesture with her hands. I know this because I have spied her doing it when she thinks I’m not there. At school, Claire was always going on about her wonderful singing voice, and I remember thinking at the time she had better sound like Mariah Carey to justify such boasting. She’d insist that some poor girl with buckteeth play Lisa Loeb’s ‘Stay’ on her guitar, only to burst into flat song.
When I first bought this flat, I wanted to live on my own, a plan unrealistic at best, downright stupid at worst. However, the reality of forking out for the monthly train fare and having to pay all the bills by myself soon hit home and there was only one option: I had to find a tenant fast. So began a succession of flatmates, each one a worthy anecdote in their own right.
The first was Sarah, an evangelical advocate of raw food, who barely had the energy to venture outside of the flat. There was then Aimee who sat in the lounge on the landline every single evening ‘shhing’ me while she spoke to her Mum. I then thought I should try living with a man, so I rented out the room to Dillon, a rather intense musician. This was a bad idea as Dillon never washed and spent his evenings jamming in his room to Nirvana, only emerging to stink out the bathroom. When he wasn’t leaving skid marks in boxers on the bathroom floor, I’d arrive home to find the hallway stinking of beef stew and apple crumble in jiffy bags, food that his mum had posted to him in vacuum packed containers as it turns out he couldn’t so much as boil an egg. Lucky for me, he got too homesick and moved his smelly self back to his mum’s.
And last but not least, there was Sienna – the game changer herself. Oh Sienna. On paper she seemed just fine but two weeks in, she had not only committed the almighty crime of hogging my mini grill every evening, she got herself a boyfriend, Pete, who stayed over most nights – including sacred Sunday when you can barely hold a conversation and just want to watch crap on the telly. Being the landlady, I should have been more assertive so Sienna knew who was in charge. However, I had been worn down by all the tenants of old and was hoping that Sienna’s boyfriend sitting on our couch with his feet up on my coffee table was a temporary thing. I admit it, initially I felt a little sorry for Pete as he was a smooth operator, giving me compliments about my hair – that or telling me I must have a great palate as I had not just ketchup but pesto in my cupboard. It was on the umpteenth time of politely offering him an alcoholic beverage that was always accepted, I suddenly realised that this was not in fact normal and viewed him the way you do a person in a documentary. He was still living in the belief that his business wasn’t a failure and that any minute he was going to be able to open up his nightclub once again. What he was planning to do precisely I have no idea, but he was never going to build an empire sitting on that ever-increasing arse of his in my lounge.
Pity then gave way to frustration, as it soon became like having a boyfriend living with me, only that they wouldn’t even go off to the bedroom to leave you in peace, but sit there on the sofa monopolising the TV remote. Night after night, the two of them sat there, me the green and hairy one. And then Pete got his own set of keys and started to let himself in on route somewhere to ‘take a steaming dump’ as he called it, or to use up all my hot water. He would have drunk all our wine if it was about, but luckily we were immature enough never to have any actual wine on the wine rack. Tongue tied and nervous, I became the girl who just couldn’t face confronting Sienna, so I reasoned with myself that it just had to get better. The weeks that followed involved me locking myself away in the bedroom as though I were in a bedsit, only to hear him and Sienna in the lounge laughing and drinking.
The situation finally resolved itself but I’m ashamed to say, not through any assertiveness on my part. I just happened to burst into tears when having a coffee with Liv and Stan one day. I confessed that somehow I had found myself a guest in my own flat. Stan just told me to stop stressing and have a quiet word but not Liv – she went nuts! She marched up those stairs and chucked Pete’s Planet Hollywood jacket out the roof window to make a point, which then got stuck in the guttering where it still remains to this day. Whenever I see Pete at the pub, he’s as friendly as always. Sienna – not so much.
With Sienna now gone and leaving me somewhat traumatised, I knew I had to be more discerning in my search for a flatmate to avoid a repeat situation. This quest coincided with newly single Claire putting on Facebook that she was looking for somewhere to live. Okay, so she wasn’t very nice at school – in fact, she never actually had a proper conversation with me until her wedding day – but all these years on, it seemed so churlish to bear a grudge, so I spontaneously emailed her to say that she could rent a room off me. Admittedly, I had not seen her in the flesh for some time but figured she would have changed by now? Perhaps she was a little less mean as an adult. Unfortunately, she wasn’t.
I’m about to disappear into my room to change into loose clothing but then I think better of it. Staying in a cheap suit that has given static shocks all day makes me feel part of the happy working population. Besides, Claire, the Joan Collins to my Linda Evans, is always done up to the nines as though reality TV might ring the door at any minute, so I shall do the same. These girls don’t need to see my unemployment laid bare; my mental wellbeing reflected in dubious fashion choices. They don’t need to know that I’m fast turning into one of those people who pretend they have somewhere important to go but really go and sit in the park – or in my case, the Globe.
Claire just uses evenings like these to take full advantage of having a captive audience, even if it consists of only one other person. Credit where credit’s due, the evening theme does vary. Sometimes, she makes Linda try out a new line of shellac nails that prevent her from clapping properly, other times she threads Linda’s eyebrows to make her look permanently surprised, or like tonight, gives her a face mask that renders her unable to talk for an hour – ideal for Claire who likes nothing better than to monopolise the conversation. Claire has also been known to err in the realm of mind body spirit and concentrate on the inner self, whether it is by trying her hand at palm reading or doing numerology on Linda to mixed success. To be honest, Claire’s not changed much. At school when she wasn’t doing her makeup in the mirror, she was sitting and reading her teen diary out loud with a stream of
consciousness that wasn’t so much teen angst, as created with her audience in mind.
Over the last couple of months, Claire’s been going through various faddy diets that have her holed up in the bathroom for hours. This week she’s doing sugar-free baking that from the kitchen cupboards we share, involves a whole host of strange ingredients and rather alarmingly, a distinct lack of raising agents. Having tasted a few crumbs here and there, it is fair to say that Claire’s efforts are simply not a patch on the full fat sugar loaded real thing – not that she is concerned. She says if she weren’t such a brilliant beautician, she’d own her own sugar and gluten free cake shop in order to channel her talents. Lucky for us, she’s good at what she does.
‘I’m all about philanthropy Kate, I need to commit to help people’s inner wellbeing.’ The way she articulates her lofty ambitions, it sounds almost romantic, like people who talk about ‘boho’ and ‘blended’ families.
‘I’d murder some shortbread I would,’ a fresh-faced Linda murmurs to me coming out of the bathroom, as an oblivious Claire opens up a large Cath Kidston tin in excitement.
Dramatically, as though she were on an infomercial, she sniffs at a deflated bake that is looking more than a little sorry for itself: ‘It’s a crunchy nut cheesecake with rice malt syrup and a ground nut base,’ Claire offers by way of explanation, as even she knows it is not entirely clear from the appearance.
‘Wow!’ I exclaim, desperately thinking of something to say without insulting the cook.
Claire just looks at me witheringly, as though knowing I am lying, and tips her head to the side to tighten up one of her rollers. Deciding it’s probably best to not say another word, I just keep my head down and concentrate on piercing the cellophane of my ready-made lasagne to put in the microwave.
‘Too bad there’s not enough for you,’ Claire snaps, before walking out the room with her creation. She’s right as there is barely enough for one.
In the time we’ve been living together, Claire has never tried to include me in her social life. Ever. And now Scary Linda has bought the flat downstairs, it’s like school all over again, with the cliquey girls in my face every single day. Most of the time, I am philosophical about it as I know they are not on my wavelength, but every now and again, when the umpteenth random person has come through the door and Claire has greeted them with an over the top full on body hug, squealing at the top of her voice, it stings a little.
‘You wouldn’t guess what happened today,’ Claire says munching. ‘I was opening up the salon, and there is this guy who’s staring at me, just standing there. Like Wayne did at school remember? Literally. Stalking. Me. So, I ask him what he wants and you know what he says? You are not going to believe this. He shouts you are the sexiest girl I have ever seen. You. Are. Gorgeous! So I say to him, “You. Are. Kidding. Me. How sexist are you? I’m not just beautiful you know, I do have a brain”.’ Listening intently to this gripping anecdote, Linda asks for another piece of cake, only to find her request denied, as apparently Claire needs to save some for her lunch tomorrow.
Plating up my food, I eat it standing up and contemplate all the stories that come out of Claire’s mouth. There are so many of them I’ve lost track as to what is true, what is bravado and what is good old fashioned porky pies. Once again, I find myself playing a submissive role I never thought I’d be playing in a flat I happen to own. Just when will I stop doing this? I used to be pretty well versed in striking up random conversations with the best of them, but as I currently have precious little to say without launching into a self-defensive monologue, conversing with other people is proving a bit of a challenge.
When I’m working and feeling as okay as I’m ever going to be about the world, I can do small talk with the best of them, honed in that Australian hostel where I moved in knowing absolutely no one. When I wasn’t shooting the breeze with people about all manner of trivial things like who left the strip lighting on all night and who had stolen our dorm’s telly, I would be chatting to the forty year-old backpacker with the hairy mole, looking forlorn on the hostel bunk below. That weekend cleaning job was also a baptism of fire in small talk too – how many weekends did I get up at the crack of dawn, only to have to humour all nighters on the stairwell with yet more idle chatter. I’d agree with their drunken drivel and ask whether they’d mind peeing over that part of the floor as I was cleaning at this end and didn’t want a facial sauna. Oh yes, I used to be able to turn on the chitchat big time. Then I got home and my reservations of old returned as I started working in windowless offices and living with girls like Claire; girls who do nothing but tut.
Slowly taking her rollers out, Claire is now sitting in front of Linda looking like Shirley Temple, debating about whether face masks are better than facial spas with the passion of someone discussing nuclear disarmament.
Knowing she’ll hate me interrupting the heated discussion, I clear my throat. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear you mention Wayne just now. Have you seen him recently?’ I enquire, handing over a cup of tea to Linda who takes it gratefully, probably needing to swill her mouth out of cardboard cake remnants.
‘Excuse me, why would I notice him?’ Claire sneers. ‘He was such a nerd at school.’
Reaching for my own cup of tea, I sit down. ‘You probably have seen him you know. You just wouldn’t recognise him.’ Despite her best efforts to look indifferent, even Claire seems a bit surprised to hear that Wayne has lost that pubescent moustache that he tended to as though it were a bonsai tree.
‘I don’t care,’ she then says, slightly too defensively. ‘Once a nerd, always a nerd.’
Looking at her sun-baked skin born from too many lunches in the tanning booth and her receding hairline from years of extensions, not to mention those heavy fake lashes, if Wayne is still the nerd what does that make Claire?
Wayne and Claire knew each other from school, but they weren’t exactly the best of friends as he was hopelessly in love with her. It all started when fifteen-year old Wayne, who up until then had just been hanging out with his mates from the IT club in the common room, decided to shake it up a little. Leaving his friends chewing gum and arguing about one of those really big computers that never looked any fun to use, he strutted over and casually asked Claire out in front of all her friends. I remember sitting nearby with my teeth glued together by strawberry bon bons, looking on in absolute horror. What on earth was he doing?
Claire then made him repeat himself as though she hadn’t heard him properly before laughing in his face.
‘Yeah right, like I would ever go out with a loser like you!’ she shrieked, prompting Wayne to go bright red in embarrassment. I just remember thinking that it was a mean thing to say, as from where I was standing self-assured Wayne was way cooler than vain Claire. Wayne was far cooler as he wasn’t trying to be anything other than he was and while a little on the stocky side, was built like a brick shithouse. He could have confidently taken on the big guy in a fight any day. Even Andy Happy, who had been going out with Claire for all of two lunch breaks, came to Wayne’s defence.
Claire didn’t seem to care. She just laughed and laughed until Wayne walked slowly away, scratching his head in humiliation. I just sat there unpicking sweets from my fillings, wondering why some people got to decide on the fate of others. And I asked myself a question that still plagues me to this day: Just what did Claire have that was so special?
After that public humiliation, you would have thought Wayne would have given Claire a wide berth, but far from it. For the next year, he bought her two bars of chocolate every single day, doubling the gifts on her birthday and at Christmas. Mars and Snickers were the favourite, and although Claire still ridiculed him, she did so behind his back as she quite liked it all. She would wait for the common room doorbell to ring then disappear for a minute, only to reappear with a load of chocolate bars to put in her bag.
‘He’s such a sucker,’ she would laugh, and I would watch her slice open the foil of the chocolate bar wi
th a single tap of one of those long nails of hers.
Then one day, Wayne didn’t drop off his usual supply of chocolate. It turns out that he had got his first proper girlfriend Debbie, who upon finding out his odd habit gave him an ultimatum – Claire or her. I’m sure he had to think about it long and hard, but next we knew he left Claire alone. And despite being the daughter of a sweet shop owner, you could tell Claire was ever so slightly put out.
Back to the present day, Linda suddenly sits up. ‘Wait a minute, are we talking about Wayne Jones, my number one sales executive, the man who singlehandedly sold more flights to New York last month than anyone else combined?’ I slowly nod thinking that Linda must have a really bad memory not to recognise a former classmate. Before she has time to say anything else, Linda gets distracted by Claire who starts drumming home the importance of using moisturiser, ‘to seal the goodness in’ and I see my opportunity to make a swift exit to the sanctuary of my room.
‘Oh, Kate, a man called for you on the landline,’ Claire shouts after me. ‘Said he’d tried you on your mobile but you’re not picking up. He left his number but I didn’t have time to take it down as I was having a nail crisis.’
CHAPTER 10 - PLUS ONE
Over the last twenty years, Stan has occupied a special place in my heart for one simple reason: He was my first proper male friend. When all the other boys at school were avoiding eye contact at the disco, Stan actually talked to me normally and was courteous and kind. There were no strings attached, no ulterior motives. He didn’t fancy me, or I him. We just got on really well. Now and again, he would give me a glimpse of the man he was going to be, so much so my heart would swell with something I can only interpret as absolute delight that I had here a rock solid friend.
