‘You alright?’ Brian asks. ‘You look a bit spacey.’
I’m replaying the sexual chemistry I saw between them in my head. Not for the first time, I am concerned I have no barometer for what real love looks like. ‘Think I just need a drink.’
In the kitchen, the artificial light gives the space an unreal quality, which is only amplified when I hear a tinny version of – it really does sound like him but it can’t be – Nicol’s voice chanting, ‘Here to stay, here to fight, housing is a human right.’
There’s a fleeting second where I think this has all been a weird dream. That is the kind of thing he’d say, and he wouldn’t be wrong, would he? Then I walk a few paces, and the toes of my tights, soggy from the rain, confirm I am indeed awake and there is a voice that very much sounds like Nicol screaming.
Back on the office floor, I see Gavin is on the phone, their hand over the ear that’s not attached to the handset so they can hear over the chanting. Brian is standing looking out into the street, hands on his waist. ‘Fucking renter’s union.’
Gavin hangs up their phone. ‘The police will come, but, like I said before you made me call them, this isn’t an actual emergency.’
Getting close to the window, I see what is happening. In good news, I am not experiencing auditory hallucinations. In bad, my worst nightmares are coming to fruition. ‘Here to stay, here to fight, housing is a human right!’ Nicol shouts on a continuous loop into his loudspeaker. Despite being the source of the racket, in his dream position of loudly spewing his views where it is inconvenient for people, Nicol is hard to locate. It takes me some time to spot him, because he’s wearing a blue anorak I’ve never seen before. We can all assume this is second-hand, as Nicol would be the first to tell you, as he has told me many times, that the environmental impact of the textile industry on the planet is disgusting. I would expect Amara to be beside him in support, but she’s nowhere in my eyeline. If she’s not close to him, then this must mean she’s on the day shift. A sadness sweeps over me. I’ve retained her shift patterns alongside thousands of other facts about her I will never have cause to use ever again.
Moving further back from the window, a new protester in a long grey parka rocks up, their hood obscuring most of their face. From this angle only their nose peeks out, and that’s all it takes for me to know it’s Amara. So maybe I do know what love looks like after all.
20
Despite Brian having sold a house in Lanark to one of the police officers who turns up, there’s nothing they can do. People have a right to protest. They concede that Nicol’s loudhailer is a pain in the arse, so he’s made to put it down on the pavement. He raises his hands like a criminal, showing the weapon has been dropped, reminiscent of an argument we had outside a pub in town once because he thought I was chatting up the barman who I did not fancy even a little bit.
After the officers leave, I busy myself in the back corner, organising the filing cabinets, keeping out of view and listening to Gavin and Brian discussing the cause of the protest. It’s all Heather Gray’s fault, apparently. She illegally evicted some guy and Brian told her not to, at least he thinks he did. Actually, now he properly considers it, he might have joked about tossing the guy and all his things out onto the street, but he was clearly – very clearly – having a laugh. Whatever was said, it was definitely Heather who did the chucking out so it’s nothing to do with Perfect Property Solutions. By the end of this conversation Brian’s done a great job of convincing himself he’s entirely blameless in the matter and decides to go out onto the street to talk with the mob.
Releasing my grip on the filing cabinet drawer it snaps back, trapping my finger. ‘Fuck,’ I mutter.Don’t do that, he won’t like that, Brian, I think to myself. It’s too late, he’s already on the street. Through the glass I hear him say, ‘Who’s in charge then?’
The yucca I’m meant to water every Friday, its dry, dusty soil telling on me, shields me from view. I inch closer to watch; the leaves rustle.
‘Who do you know out there, then?’ Gavin shouts from their desk.
‘The one leading the chants is Nicol, my ex.’
‘And you don’t want to see him?’ Gavin remains facing their computer, inputting data on a spreadsheet for Go Holdings as if rowdy mobs turn up at the office all the time and lack any intrigue.
My real reason for not wanting Nicol to notice me is because I look like shit from running about to the flat viewing and am wearing a very drab, stereotypical woman-in-an-office outfit: a black pencil skirt with a thin-knit black polo-neck jumper. I don’t want to draw Gavin’s attention to this, should they find my appearance lacking too, once I point it out, so I say another equally embarrassing truth. ‘He’ll think he’s won and he hasn’t. Even though working here is paying my bills, facilitating me to pursue things I love outside of work, all he’ll see is me working at an estate agent’s and he’ll think I’m morally bankrupt and he – the cheater – can convince himself he’s superior once more.’
Early on in our relationship I mispronounced the word ‘superfluous’ because I’d only ever read it, never heard it said. Nicol corrected me when I said it aloud for the first time in my life to him as ‘super-flus’. He’d been kind in his correction but stored my mistake away, using it against me regularly to cast doubt on my thoughts, beliefs and actions for the next seven years. For example, ‘Are you sure we have enough oat milk in? Because you used to think it was “super-flus” so maybe get some on your way home so I don’t run out.’
Gavin’s nails start click-clacking on their keyboard. They’re not done with me, though. ‘And what are these pursuits you love so much?’
The first thing that comes to mind is Willie’s floating body. The second is the jogs that preceded Willie’s death, which have now become a regular part of my routine. I jog most mornings before work. ‘Running,’ I blurt out, then because one hobby on its own sounds as sad as none, I tack on, ‘and the arts’. Endlessly watching episodes ofFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammersounds too pathetic and insane.
‘You like going to the cinema, then?’ Click-clack, click-clack; their fingers don’t stop when they speak like mine would. They must be able to touch type, which impresses me much more than it should.
‘Yeah, I do like going to the pictures. Although I haven’t been in ages.’
‘Do you know what I learned from Colin’s funeral?’
This is a sharp conversational turn. Colin has been resurrected more times than I care for in chats at work.
‘No, what?’
‘That I need to stop fannying about with whatever me and you are. So, with that in mind, do you fancy going with me to see a film on Friday night?’
Two thoughts happen in unison at this question. Thought one is that, in all the chatter and the surprise of what Gavin has said, I’ve been sloppy. I’ve allowed too much of my head to get above the glossy leaves of the plant. The second is how, upon hearing the question, my entire being feels lighter, a lift in my soul that Gavin wants me. Words in response fail me as I re-stoop; the crowd turns on Brian. There are a few boos and then, now the rain has stopped, dismantled brollies jab towards him like swords.
He shouts, ‘There is no point trying to deal with unreasonable people. You will be hearing from my solicitor.’ They heckle him until he’s back inside, snapping the lock shut, while the chant resumes.
‘What a bunch of bastards.’ He straightens his suit. ‘I explained the situation, but they kept banging on about how the rental agreement is with us, therefore the issue is with us. Blah, blah, blah.’
When his jacket sleeve is at the precise point he wants it against his shirt, Brian is at a loss about what to do. The visual and aural noise of the protesters is impossible to ignore. ‘Right,’ he says to the room. ‘Let’s all head into my office and plan our next steps.’
