She eventually asked me to leave, that night I was at her flat and told her I still loved her. We’ve exchanged the odd text message since. But we haven’t spoken properly in over a year.
‘My mum died,’ is all she says.
I stare at her, confused. As far as I knew, Rachel’s had no contact with her mum for a good couple of decades. Should I tell her I’m sorry? Or is this more of a solemn high-five, let’s-bitch-about-her-over-a-tumbler-of-whisky kind of situation?
‘That’s... not what I was expecting you to say.’
She leans against the wall of the porch. ‘Can I come in?’
I just open the door.
I change my mind about the whisky when Rachel zigzags along my hallway as if she’s figure-skating.
‘Let’s have a drink,’ she says, as we head into the living room.
‘Nope. No more units for you. I’ll get some water.’
‘Hey,’ she says, stopping abruptly, ‘you decorated.’
‘Long story,’ I say.
I had the bizarre urge, one night, to paint the living room charcoal-grey, to eradicate the magnolia it had been when Rachel lived here. But as soon as I’d finished I realised I hated it. Half an hour later I was back in Homebase, shelling out another forty quid to make it all neutral again.
I guess Rachel has only surmised the walls have turned from magnolia to pale cream. But I’m pleased, deep down, that she has noticed.
‘It looks nice.’ She sighs, heavily. ‘God, I miss this flat.’
I venture a smile, amused despite the churning in my chest. ‘As in, the bricks and mortar?’
She nods earnestly, completely missing my implication. ‘Yeah. My place is nice, but it’s so bland. It’s like living inside a yoghurt pot.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘You know – all-white. A bit sour. None of my neighbours ever says hello.’ She sways a little, sits heavily down on the sofa. She adjusts the straps of her green dress, crosses then re-crosses her bare legs. Her skin is kissed with summer, blonde hair a torrent around her shoulders. ‘Do you have any coffee?’
‘Is that a serious question?’
She looks up and blinks. ‘Why, have you run out?’
She sounds so disappointed, my heart crumbles. ‘No, of course not. Coming right up.’
In the kitchen, I make coffee stronger than even I usually take it. Then I return to the living room and sit down next to her on the sofa, switch on a lamp.
‘Can’t believe you still have these,’ she says with a smile, patting the Aztec-print cushion next to her. It’s one of four I’ve held on to since the early nineties, and is an eyesore, quite frankly. But I am pathologically unable to throw anything away.
Rachel’s breath is hot, and laced with booze. We used to call itdragon breath: pure ethanol.Steer clear of open flames,Rach, I would call out, whenever she went to brush her teeth after a particularly heavy night. At which point she would lob something soft at my head, and almost always miss.
She leans against my shoulder, and within moments begins to drift off. Her breath deepens, slowing against my skin. I don’t get up, because I just want to keep feeling it.
After about ten minutes, a car door slams outside and Rachel stirs. With some effort, she blinks her eyes open, then swallows.
‘Sorry,’ she murmurs, shuffling upright.
‘Don’t be.’ I pass her the coffee. ‘It’s still warm.’
She smiles, takes a sip. ‘Thanks.’
I notice her hands are flecked with paint. I heard from Polly via Darren that she quit her job just before her maternity leave was up, to pursue her art. The news made my heart bright with pride, a planet in the strange black hole of my feelings for her. She always used to play down her talent, but it never passed me by just how good she was. Still, I know how much it must have taken, for her to leave her job.
