Shane picks up his mug and blows across it, wondering what Josie is doing now. Whether his esteemed lady friend is busily searching recruitment sites, and has given that cuddly llama to her granddaughter yet? She’ll be cracking on with things, he reckons. Getting on with her life. He takes a sip of tea.
Shane
All good, mate. Really appreciate it?—
He breaks off and sits bolt upright. He heard something there – a heavy thud. Just somebody upstairs, he decides. The walls and floors of this building are paper-thin. He often hears the ping of a microwave in the flat above.
No, it’s not upstairs, Shane realises. Someone’s here in his flat – in the hallway he thinks. ‘Who’s there?’ he calls out sharply.
Another thud. He leaps up, still clutching his mug, his heart banging hard.
‘Whoa, sorry, mate!’
‘What the hell—?’ Shane reels back, sloshing tea onto himself as a man appears in the doorway. It takes him a moment to register that this tall, powerfully built individual is entirely naked.
‘Didn’t realise you were here!’ the man exclaims.
Shane stares at him. ‘I fucking live here, mate! Who are you?’
‘So you’re Shane,’ he says, ignoring the question. It’s my flat! Who else might I be? Casually, the stranger tugs earbuds from his ears, reaches for a pair of black joggers from the back of a chair – Shane had assumed they were Elaine’s – and, seeming in no particular hurry, pulls them on. His man bun, Shane notices, is secured with what looks like one of Elaine’s glittery scrunchies. ‘I’m Valter,’ he adds belatedly. ‘Didn’t mean to shock you there. Also, I think you’re out of cereal. Sorry, mate.’
He’s been strutting around with his cock out yet is apologising for eating the last Weetabix. ‘Where’s Elaine?’ Shane barks at him.
‘She’s away for a couple of days,’ Valter says blithely.
‘What?’
‘Yeah, some friends of hers are having a girls’ thing in Brighton,’ he explains with a throaty chuckle. ‘Livin’ it large.’
Shane baulks at the phrase he hasn’t heard since circa 1998. ‘Right,’ he says as Valter lands heavily on the armchair, swipes the remote from the coffee table and flicks on the TV. Shane watches him with a blend of amazement and quickly rising fury.
If there’s anything he finds difficult in life, it’s confrontation – a legacy from keeping his head down as a child, never wanting to anger Pete or rock the boat. He’s too soft on the kids, Paula is always telling him: rushing over to school that day Liv had forgotten her packed lunch. Replacing Ryan’s football boots after he’d left them on the bus. However, he knows with absolute certainty that, on this occasion, he will not be ‘soft.’
Picking up his plate and mug, Shane heads for the kitchen where he stands at the sink, exhaling fully and staring down at the scrubby playground below. Then, even though it’s not even lunchtime, he reaches into the cupboard for the bottle of whisky that Fletch gave him for Christmas. He pours himself a generous measure and studies it, holding it up against the light.
This is too much. Not the measure – he might even have another after this one, a triple – but Elaine. She’s overstepped it this time and he’s about to go back in there and switch off his telly and tell Valter to get his stuff together and leave his flat.
But first, Shane lifts the glass to his lips and takes a huge swig of Scotch. And then, without pondering it or wondering what to say, he taps out a message to Elaine.
35
JOSIE
I’d expected to feel weird, coming home to my flat. After all, Lloyd had been here, possibly with his ‘friend’ – she of no name (‘not relevant!’). But I hadn’t been prepared to find that he had actually finished my kitchen shelves, and extremely professional they were, too!
That didn’t make up for the fact that there was no wine. Just one lone bottle sitting in the door shelf of the fridge – of apple juice. What use was that? Disgruntled, I took myself off to bed and slept terribly, craving Boris’s pancake-thin mattress, because then Shane would be there with me.
And now, as I wake up all scratchy and groggy in my second-worst pyjamas, I slope through to the kitchen to inspect the shelves again. They’re so beautifully made, I can’t help admiring Lloyd’s handiwork and attention to detail. However, we weren’t exclusive. I’d guess that there are other shelves like these – in kitchens all over London, probably. Lloyd always seemed to be on the move, driving here and there, bemoaning the parking in Vauxhall and Camden and Battersea. I wonder if he’s been on at other women to start up foot fetish side hustles. Maybe they show more than their feet. How square I must have seemed to him – squeamish about stomping about in a box of soil!
The day stretches bleakly before me, the newness of the shelves somehow highlighting the shabbiness of my flat. When will I own a sofa that I don’t feel the need to shroud in a variety of throws? I launch into a whirl of cleaning and even thoroughly de-gunk the fridge, repositioning my magnets neatly. In Cora’s room – what I still think of as her room – I dust, hoover and polish the mirror at her dressing table. Cora moved out eight years ago. I can still hardly believe she’s a mum herself. Why am I preserving her room like this? It’s not as if she’ll ever move back.
When there’s nothing left to clean, I settle at the kitchen table with my laptop, checking out the website of Rupert Featherstone Fine Art Books, realising how dated it looks. I guess at work, I was always too busy keeping on top of orders to consider how it could be improved. Yet we – or rather, Rupert – specialise in books about the world’s most beautiful objects! And this site looks like it was designed by a kid in his bedroom.
I eye my phone, seized by an urge to call Rupert, just to tell him I’m back from terrifying Yorkshire and that I survived my mission. That, apart from ill-advised sex with my oldest friend and behaving abominably the next morning (and, as a final flourish, nearly choking on Monster Munch fumes on the journey home), it’s all been fucking fantastic.
I’d also like to tell Rupert how sorry I am that things ended so horribly. Yes, he was wrong – but we all make mistakes, don’t we? I certainly do. Briefly, I think of Shane and wonder what he’s doing now. Happily working away in his shop, I’d imagine. Getting on with his life.
I fiddle with my phone, wondering how Rupert would react if I asked if I could pop in sometime, just to say hi. Plus, I’m fond of that initialled china cup he gave me. I’d like to pick it up. I’d also like a look around the shop, just to make sure the window display is up to standard – because I know he’s lax with it, forgetting to fill spaces whenever books are sold. The place could look so much more welcoming, I’ve always thought. Parked there at the desk, he looks like he’s guarding the shop against undesirables. I’ve noticed countless people glancing in, clearly intrigued, but lacking the courage to enter. ‘You’re a bit intimidating,’ I’ve told him.
