The Flip Side

by James Bailey

  4

  It is not even 9 a.m., and I’ve already flipped the coin seventeen times since waking up.

  Heads. Get up, rather than stay in bed longer. Ugh.

  Tails. Shower instead of a bath.

  Tails. Jeans beat chinos.

  Tails. Frosties over porridge.

  Heads. Orange juice not apple.

  I’m quickly getting the hang of this, but I am not getting used to being back at home and living with my parents.

  “If you’re just going to flip that coin rather than spend it, I’ll take it off you,” Dad jokingly remarks as he joins me and Mum at the breakfast table and opens his newspaper. Apart from our brand-new, cream-cheese-stained sofa, the house is back to normal after the show-home decorations were returned.

  “Can you ask the coin if City are going to win tonight?” He looks up at me from the sports pages.

  “You know it’s not a magic coin, Dad. It doesn’t predict the future.”

  I scroll hopelessly through endless job adverts on my phone, none of which are suitable. It seems that even for the most basic role you have to go through about seven application stages. Entry-level jobs impossibly require you to have a minimum of five years’ experience in that field. And anything that seems interesting turns out to be an unpaid internship.

  “Neither of you are being very helpful.” Mum sighs as she jabs at the iPad, attempting to do the online food shop. “Can one of you tell me what you’d like for dinners this week?”

  During my first few days at home I was treated to roast meals and steak dinners. Now we’ve had beans on toast three nights in a row, and I can’t tell if this is Dad limiting the grocery budget or whether they want rid of me already.

  Before I can answer, I’m distracted by my phone vibrating. I glance down and see the message is from Jade.

  She has been texting me nonstop. Not apologizing or begging for us to get back together. Rather, she wants to sort out what’s happening with Jeremy. Everyone always bangs on about how dogs are not just for Christmas, but no one ever warns you about rabbits. There are no bumper stickers, no charity TV appeals. There is no twenty-eight-day return policy. I had planned on starting the New Year with my fiancée, and our new, very modern family. Instead I’m in a custody dispute over a pet rabbit.

  “What’s Jade saying now?” Mum leans over, looking over the top of her iPad.

  Not only does moving home mean baked beans for dinner every night, but it also means losing any sense of privacy. While Mum reads my messages, Dad thinks he works in the Royal Mail sorting office, opening all my post before passing it on to me. Bank statements are scrutinized, personal letters are read, and invitations to events are pinned to the calendar.

  “She wants to know if I’m going to take Jeremy,” I reply, knowing there is no point in hiding it from her. “Apparently George is allergic to rabbits.” My heart feels like it’s being stabbed every time she mentions his name.

  Mum puts the iPad down and Dad puts his paper down simultaneously. Dad speaks first.

  “If we have the rabbit, you’re going to have to pay for his upkeep. And look after him. I’m not going to be cleaning up after him.”

  “Yes, that’s fine. I will look after everything.”

  My only childhood pet was a goldfish, who mysteriously died after the local shop increased the price of fish food. I’m not saying Dad definitely killed him, but looking back, it does seem a bit suspicious.

  “How do you feel about her mentioning . . . George?” Mum mouths.

  My wallowing has quickly evolved into vividly fantasizing about George dying, and meticulously planning the most intricate details of his murder.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t realize they were that serious already,” I reply.

  What troubles me the most is that I just don’t understand what he has that I don’t. Sure, he is rich and handsome, and I am now unemployed, and living with my parents, but still . . .

  “I could make an appointment with Graham, if you’d like? It might help you to talk to someone?”

  Just when I think things can’t get any worse, Mum is offering to pay for me to go and see her therapist. The same man who tells her that her problems date back to her seventeenth-century self. The last time she took me to see one of her healers was when I was stressed during my school exams and she convinced me acupuncture would help. I thought she’d booked me in for a session with an actual Chinese medical therapist, not Sue Lee from the village who learned online.

  “No, thanks. I don’t really want to see Graham.”

  “OK, then, why don’t we see what your horoscope says today instead?” Mum grabs one of the newspaper supplements from Dad.

  “Mum, stop. I don’t want to see any therapists or read my horoscope. Please?”

  Dad, who is incapable of discussing feelings, looks up from his newspaper.

  “You’re better off without her, son,” he says as he chews his marmalade-smothered toast.

  I nod back, unsure of what to say in response.

  “So are we taking Jeremy in, then?” Mum asks, as Dad returns to the sports pages.

  “I guess we’ll see what the coin says.”

  I flip it for the eighteenth time today.

  “What is it? Heads is always yes, tails no?” Mum asks as she awaits the result.

  “Yep, and it’s heads. Looks like we have a new family member.” I show her the coin in the palm of my hand.

  Dad groans, whether about Jeremy or the football news I’m not sure.

  “Do you want me to give you a lift to collect him?” Mum offers.

  “No, I will be fine, thanks,” I say, as I stand up. “And anything but baked beans, please . . .”

  I TAKE THE bus into town, listening to music to pass the time as we journey through every countryside village en route. It is only when I get off that I realize the headphone jack isn’t connected properly to my phone and everyone else on the packed bus could hear me listen to “Unbreak My Heart” on repeat for the entire journey.

  Why did no one say anything?

  Eventually I let myself into the modern block of flats that towers above Bristol and was famously besieged by scandal when Cherie Blair bought a couple of apartments as an investment. Jade said she wouldn’t be in, so I buzz the tradesmen button on the intercom in order to bypass the main doors to the building and board the lift up to the top floor. As I reach the top, I remember the first time she invited me back here after we’d been on a date to the Bristol Zoo. We’d spent the day laughing and fooling around, discussing what animals we’d be, holding hands as we braved the dark creepy-crawly section, and feeding the penguins together. As I dropped her back, she asked if I wanted to watch a film, but we only saw the opening titles before we were all over each other on the sofa. It wasn’t until the next morning that I saw the view. The most wonderful panoramic views stretching across Bristol that no other flat could match.

  I wonder if Jade and George have done the same here.

  On the sofa, in the bedroom, in the kitchen, in the bathroom.

  I try to get rid of these images from my head as I unlock the door and push it open.

  The flat is small—only one bedroom with a neat kitchen, a lounge, and bathroom—but I don’t have to head farther than the entrance hall before I spot Jeremy’s cage. He, the innocent bystander in this messy situation, is asleep inside. The pet shop told me he is a Mini Lop, but there’s nothing mini about this big boy. He’s more of an Obese Lop. Considering I no longer have a job to support myself, I fear how I’m going to look after him.

  Beside the cage there is a cardboard box, with no note. I prize the Sellotape open to see what’s inside. Some more of my belongings that she’s found. Some kitchen utensils, a few books, and a tiny metallic tin with sentimental items that she has decided would mean more to me than her. It’s amazing how three years of your life can fit into a box. A whole relationship, all those moments and memories confined to no more than a biscuit tin. I flick through a hea
p of Polaroid photos we took on holiday in Majorca, ticket stubs, birthday cards, Christmas cards, Valentine’s Day cards, “just because’ cards. I realize how few photos there are of me: I was always the photographer, Jade the model.

  I turn around and notice that, despite Jeremy’s being asleep, unnervingly his eyes are wide open. Maybe Jade has asked him to keep watch. I should just pick up my things and go, but I flip the coin for permission to move past the cage and into the lounge. It feels strange sneaking around a flat I know so well, but I want to look for clues that George has already moved in.

  There is only one toothbrush standing by the sink, no man’s coat hanging up, no extra pair of shoes. In fact, now I look around, despite the cardboard box of possessions, my departure hasn’t changed the landscape of the flat in the slightest. A game of “spot the difference” would be challenging, given that all the decorative items and furniture were Jade’s. I never considered it before, nor had an issue, but now it seems like I was only a guest. I made less of a mark on the flat than the smudges of raindrops on the window.

  I stand there and look out of the wall-to-wall window, remembering the times Jade would hang out of it smoking like a French film star in a black-and-white photo, both irritating me with her bad habit and scaring me that she’d fall. Or when we’d just sit on top of the desk, kissing, drinking, and watching the world go by. The rain spitting at the windows quickly turns into an avalanche of water and interrupts my reminiscing, attacking the glass and drumming down on the roof above. Park Street below, which is normally full of students grabbing coffees, is almost vacant as the rain cascades down the hill like a water slide. A woman fighting with an umbrella races for cover under the scaffolding at St. George’s. A man dressed head to toe in an orange high-vis suit watches on as the leaves he has just brushed from the road rebel and naughtily scuttle back into the path of oncoming cars, which employ their headlights even in the middle of the day. The wind rasps and harrows as it hurls past the flats, and trees dance vigorously in the breeze. Seagulls and construction workers in white hats scuttle off building tops as swimming pools form on flat roofs. The picturesque image of Cabot Tower, surrounded by gorgeous green parkland, and rows of Bath-stone Georgian homes looks like a Seurat pointillist painting through the drops of rain stuck to the windows. A dense mist masks the Mendip Hills on the horizon, the masts of the SS Great Britain, and the towers of Bristol Cathedral no more than silhouettes.

  I swing around at the sound of a strong knock at the door. Who is it? Not Jade. She has her own key. Who else would be visiting? Maybe a neighbor? I got to know a couple of them after we attended a very awkward event next door, when the conversation fizzled out after we had each covered how long we’d lived in the flats, described our flat’s layout, and realized they were all identical.

  Could it be George?

  My heart spikes, as I consider what I’d say to him after weeks of planning to kill him.

  Should I answer it?

  I take the fifty pence out of my pocket and flip it into the air to decide, the coin now an accessory to anything that happens.

  I hold my breath as I peek through the peephole on the door, expecting to see my nemesis on the other side.

  I let out a sigh of relief when I realize it’s just the regular postwoman delivering a signed-for parcel. Working split shifts, I’ve been home plenty of times when she’s needed a signature in the past, typically for Jade’s clothes orders.

  “Hi, how are you?” she says casually, not realizing she won’t be seeing me here again.

  I sign the machine that she thrusts into my hands and give it back, not that the electronic squiggle bears any relation to my actual signature.

  As she leaves, I take one last look around the flat, saying goodbye to my former home, and my former life. I briefly consider smearing rabbit fur around the flat to induce George’s allergies but instead I simply pick up the box and the cage and shut the door on the flat for the last time, leaving my key behind.

  “It’s just you and me now, boy,” I say to Jeremy.

  He doesn’t say anything back.

  5

  Does anyone ever run a marathon without feeling the need to tell everyone they are running it?

  A month has passed since our near triumph, and ultimate disappointment, at the pub quiz. What with Jessie constantly at the gym, Jake rehearsing his latest dance routine and me bawling my eyes out, it’s our first quiz since. Jake has been caught up in the hotel and is having to stay on late to deal with a guest who is attempting to blackmail the receptionist for a free night’s stay. I am sitting with Jessie, and she is talking about her marathon preparations—again.

  This is the first time she’s run the London Marathon, or any marathon, for that matter. I have already sponsored her but have made it abundantly clear I want the money back if she fails to complete it. These online giving pages accepting your money before the actual event seems a bit of a con if you ask me.

  “Why don’t you start running too? Or join the gym at least? Trust me, it will help you. The endorphins will make you feel great, and you can focus on getting in good shape, rather than thinking about Jade.”

  I excuse the dig at me not being in good shape and imagine the torture of running. I am actually secretly impressed with her for even attempting the marathon.

  “Especially at your age. It’s good to keep fit.”

  “Jessie, I’m one year older than you.”

  I toss the coin nonchalantly.

  “I suppose it can’t hurt to give it a go,” I say, grimacing, hating the coin’s decision.

  “What? Are you still doing that flipping the coin thing?”

  “What do you mean am I still doing it? I only started a few weeks ago, it’s meant to last for the whole year. Don’t you remember?”

  “Well, yes, obviously I remember, but you’re already three weeks further into this than I thought you’d be. Normally these fads of yours last two days, max.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t have fads.”

  “OK, remember last summer when you told me you were going to become a magician?”

  “I don’t think I quite said I’d become a magician per se . . .”

  “OK, you were going to learn some magic tricks.”

  “I wanted to learn one magic trick that I could use as my party piece, as I realized I didn’t have any party pieces.”

  This was after everyone went around in a circle performing their party tricks at Jake’s birthday, at which point I realized I had no discernible talent whatsoever. At least Jake can act, Jessie can run. I can’t play an instrument, I can’t sing, I can’t even juggle. I decided I wanted to learn to play the piano and one magic trick.

  “OK, so did you learn that one magic trick?”

  “Well, it depends.” I sip my drink, a new craft beer they are stocking, which Big D recommended to me.

  “It depends on what? I’m not asking if you’re Harry Houdini. It’s a yes or no. Can you perform a trick for me right now? And before you make excuses, I know they have a pack of cards behind the bar.”

  “If you put it like that, probably not without risking injuring you, no.”

  “And how long did you try and learn your trick for?”

  “Fine, it lasted about one day, but you can’t stereotype me forever because of one thing.”

  “Can you play the piano? Have you written that novel? Have you set up that new candle business—what was it called, Wicks and Mix . . . Pick and Wicks?”

  I still have two thousand unused candles in storage. I thought it would be the next big thing.

  “We’re not talking about any of those things. This isn’t a fad. It’s a way of life.”

  I am quite happy with that line. It sounds like something well-paid ad executives at Saatchi & Saatchi would think up during a brainstorming session.

  “If you’re still following this ‘way of life’ in a month’s time, I’ll start to take note.” There is no need for her to make quote
marks with her fingers. That is uncalled for.

  “So, do you want to hear how it’s been going so far, then?” I ask Jessie, who is now spreading out over the comfy, cushioned leather inbuilt seats while I’m stuck on the wooden chair. She looks more interested in singing along to the Rihanna song that is playing through the speakers.

  “I’m guessing you’re going to tell me whether I want to or not. And I’m presuming from what you’re wearing it’s certainly having an impact on your style.” She laughs as she looks me up and down.

  I am sitting in bright-red trousers and an old green top that the coin selected from my wardrobe this morning. It is a daring combination, and this must be the only time Jessie’s not been wearing a more outlandish outfit than me.

  “It made its first big decision over the weekend. Did you not notice I’ve had my hair cut?”

  “Umm, not really, it looks the same as normal. Maybe a bit shorter on the sides?”

  The coin’s decision for me to cheat on my usual barber hasn’t paid off. That was a waste of time, going to a new hairdresser, paying triple the price and meaning my journey time anywhere across Bristol is ten minutes longer, because of the diversion I have to take to avoid walking past my normal barber’s.

  Jake strolls in. He has to pull down his glasses and squint to see where we are. He’s obviously had a long day. His Jake is either away or has had enough of our team already. Probably the latter.

  “You’ve missed hearing all about Josh’s new way of life.”

  She says it again with air quotes.

  “Is this the whole coin thing still?” Jake asks.

  “Yes, it’s the whole coin thing still,” I say back.

  “OK, I’ve got a decision for you to make—would you like to buy me a drink?”

  Even having had time to ruminate about my new way of life, he clearly still doesn’t understand it.

  “That’s not really what this is about, you see.”

  “Come on, let’s see what the coin says.”

  I cave in.