‘Glenn got his knackers in a twist again?’ a voice says from my front door. It’s Cass standing there. I smile to see her and give her a hug. So this is where I lived? I peek my head through the doorway and it’s as I imagined, a shelf to the side of the front door that seems to be a display for takeaway menus and ashtrays, and a bizarre collection of items: a cello case, a pub umbrella, a very dead potted plant and the legs of an old mannequin.
‘I guess Glenn doesn’t like us much then?’ I ask, following Cass through the hallway.
Cass remembers that I have no idea who he is. ‘Oh god. Him and his wife, Sarah, are City types and, naturally, we don’t fit in with their townhouse-Wisteria-Lane vibes so he raises a fuss to try and move us out.’
‘Are those your bottles in his recycling?’ Meg asks.
‘Maybe?’ she replies, winking. ‘But Maureen the other side of him does it too because he objects to her smoking weed for her glaucoma. Ignore him, we all do.’
Meg links her arm into mine as we walk the corridor, looking up to a naked lightbulb swinging quite precariously. As we enter the kitchen, a smell of melted cheese greets us first but then Meg and I take a step back slightly to see the person standing over the hob. Firstly, the man is a giant, easily six foot eight. I see glimpses of tattoos under a black T-shirt but he’s also wearing boxer shorts, sliders and socks. I do like that he has an apron on to protect himself though. I’ve seen pics of him before but, in person, the man is quite a presence.
‘Luce! Mate!’
He has tattooed eyeballs.
‘Bill,’ he says, coming over to hug me, a stainless steel fish slice still in hand. I hug back, nestling myself into his black beard.
‘Bill the housemate?’
‘Correct.’
Meg doesn’t quite know where to look given the man needs to throw some trousers on but she smiles.
‘Sorry, I didn’t know we was expecting company.’
This implies Bill went about the place in his boxers on a regular basis, which makes me glad he was that comfortable around me.
‘This is my sister, Meg.’
‘Pleasure. Well, I’m making a frittata. Your fave… with beetroot and feta. Fancy it?’
Meg looks to me and Cass realises, again, there are gaps in my knowledge.
‘Bill is a sous chef,’ Cass tells me.
‘So you always eat incredibly well under this roof,’ he tells me, reaching over for some plates.
Meg shrugs and sits herself down as I take in the room around us. Nah, I don’t know this place but there’s a wonderfully warm and inviting feel to it. Bill obviously has all his chef equipment, spices and jars about the place, but I like all the mismatched mugs, the photos and flyers stuck to the wall with Blu-Tack, the random Persian rug in the middle of the stone floor.
‘So how many of us live here?’ I ask, looking out the window to the garden where we seem to have quite the allotment out the back, an assortment of hula hoops and three old BBQs.
‘Eight including you,’ says Cass. ‘I used to waitress with Bill and he told me about this place and we nabbed a couple of rooms. We created a mezzanine level so we could get two extra people in and that helps with the rent.’
‘That’ll explain the ladders,’ Meg says, having heard what a health and safety nightmare this place is from Emma. ‘Is it just mega parties every week then?’ Her eyes shift to a very impressive wine bottle collection on one of the counters.
‘Just every other week,’ Bill jokes. ‘We all have a range of shifts so the schedules are a nightmare. Most of us start and finish our days quite late. But it’s cosy, it’s all very like-minded. We’ve missed you, Lucy.’ He sprinkles some pea shoots on a frittata and puts it in front of us with a bowl of bread. Is he the reason I lived here? Because this looks bloody decent.
‘We’re all mates. You’ve met my mum. You and her went to one of my gigs together.’
Gigs. This feels more in keeping with his look.
‘Remind me of names…’ I ask.
‘My mum is Gwen, the band is called PissHammer.’
He takes out a photo on his phone. On it is a picture of a woman with a blonde bob, wearing beige pedal pushers. Bill and her bandmates stand around her looking like they’re about to sacrifice her to their rock gods. Oh, and that’s me. I went leather, knee-highs and eyeliner for the event at least.
‘And how is Gwen…?’ I ask.
