I can’t believe my ears. This offer genuinely couldn’t have come at a better time, and if we can stay there til Christmas, then we’ll have time for some new options to come on the market for rent.
“More than OK. I’m so excited. Thank you, Poppy. You don’t know what this means to me. To us, I mean.”
“Oh, I think I do. See you next week, sweetheart.”
The second I hang up the phone, I pull on my Converse and race out the front door. I jog all the way to the gym, a decision I almost instantly regret. This heatwave is unrelenting. I don’t know what it is about heatwaves inthe Midlands, but fuck, they hit differently. The air feels thick, tangible, as though you should be able to push through it like water, and the humidity weighs heavy like a blanket that smothers every breeze that tries and fails to cool the city.
I’m sweating by the time I pull open the door to Fitness for All and step into the bliss of air conditioning. Emma looks up sharply from her stool behind reception at my abrupt entrance, eyebrows almost reaching her hairline.
“What the—”
“Poppy called. We have a flat,” I pant, battling between exhaustion and excitement to get my words out.
“What? Babe, sit down before you fall down, eh? I’ll get ye some water.” She goes into the small staff kitchen and opens the fridge, grabbing a bottle of Scottish mineral water she and John insist we stock, even though it’s 50% more expensive than some of the others available in Costco. I gave up that argument a while ago. If I had to listen to the pair of them expound on how Scottish water is superior one more time, I was going to drown them both in one of their precious lochs, I swear to fucking God.
She chucks the cold bottle at me, the rapidly forming condensation making it slippery, and I sort of break its fall rather than catch it. “Right, what are you babbling about? Poppy rang you?”
I take a healthy swig of the water, then breathe deeply, my heart rate finally slowing. Jesus, for someone who works in a gym, I am criminally unfit.
“Yes, Poppy called me. She said that she and Chris were talking to Nash, and he told them how we were struggling to find somewhere to live, and then they talked and realised the café has a flat above that is basically just storage at the moment, and that we can rent it from them.”
“Really? Fuck, that’s great. Did she say what the rent would be?”
“She just said that it would be cheap because it’s a bit shabby, I guess, but I didn’t think you’d care?” Emma shakes her head, so I know I got that right. “And because it’s all in the same building as the café, the utilities will be included. It has to be cheaper than some of the places we’ve seen, right?”
“Definitely. I’m not fussy, I live in a tiny flat now, so it makes no odds to me. Ohmigodyay,” she bounces on her feet – fucking Crocs. “It’s a fucking good job ’nd all ’cause I handed in my notice to my landlord last week.” She grimaces, then laughs.
I roll my eyes at her, but it’s hard to rain on her parade. Emma is so ready for this move. She tends to get itchy feet, but she told me, as we were packing, it’s because she hasn’t ever really found anywhere that felt like home. But as soon as we got back to Coventry after being in Fenside Common for Nash’s birthday, she wanted to go back. She said she finally knew where home was.
Same, girl. Same.
***
The week all but disappears, and John and I are increasingly living in a maze of cardboard boxes. It’s not that I’ve suddenly accumulated loads of furniture or anything. I definitely haven’t. But what I have accumulated is a whole kit and caboodle of art supplies. Thankfully, Rain said I can store them in my old room at theirs until I figure out a longer-term storage space.
Friday afternoon sees Emma, John, and me hefting all of Emma’s stuff into the moving van, which will then swing by John’s the nextmorning to get my few bits before we head off. The difference between a ‘mover’ and a ‘man with a van’ – aside from the price – became abundantly clear when Glen, the ‘man’ turned up with a very rickety-looking Luton ‘van’, climbed out of the cab, lit a cigarette, and lifted the shutter door at the back.
“I don’t do any lifting, got a back problem y’see,” he rasped, his voice rough from hard smoke and a harder life. He proceeded to lean against the wall next door while the three of us shook our heads in disbelief and smiled amongst ourselves. Excitement had overridden frustration, and we’d had a giggle doing our best impressions of Ross from Friends as we tried to navigate the sofa downstairs.
By the time we watched Glen drive off with all of Emma’s worldly possessions, we were sweaty and more than ready for the takeaway and few drinks we have planned at John’s tonight. We watch the van turn the corner at the end of Emma’s road, looking for all the world as though it’s about to topple over.
“And he was never seen again,” I announce, in my best imitation of a TV documentary voiceover. Emma thumps me on my arm. “Fuck!” I howl. “Though she be but small, she is mighty indeed, you cowbag.” I rub my armquickly, up and down in that way a parent rubs a sore knee, pouting as she and John chuckle, ignoring me, and climb into his car.
Later, we’ve demolished an Indian takeaway.
“I think I’m going to miss The Golden Raj more than I’m going to miss you, John,” I say sweetly, as I rest my head on his shoulder. We’re sitting beside each other on the sofa, Emma is on the floor, and Andrew is kindly washing up in the kitchen. I hear him laugh and call over my shoulder.
“You’d better not defect to the Lotus Garden like you threatened, Andrew. We’re a Golden Raj family. They have the better menu.”
Andrew comes in, wiping his hands on the tea towel and chuckling sardonically.
“As if the menu matters when all you do is read it cover to cover, then order the exact same things every time.”
Andrew leans down and kisses John on the temple. Andrew is roughly twenty years John’s junior, a bookish type who works in the law department at the university. His light blond hair is styled neatly in a side part, and his wire-rimmed glasses complement his whole ‘modern academia’ vibe he has going on. They met on Grindr, and I try my hardest not to think about why my de facto father was on a gay sex app… sorry, dating app.
John’s face lights up at Andrew’s touch, even as his eyes close and he relishes it. The lines around his eyes have lessened in the last few months, and he’s been lighter, less prone to grouchiness and a sharp temper.
“So, you both are gonnae come and visit soon, eh?” Emma asks, her Scots accent loose and lyrical after a few glasses of wine.
