Below the window lies a cobbled street lined with cafés, restaurants, and shops. The evenings stay light for hours because it’s May. My chair used to belong to my mother. It’s a classic wingback in a rich ruby colour. I am possessive over it, and even when Eva lived with me, I never let her sit in it. This is my happy place. It’s where I sit night after night watching the world beneath my window while listening to my vinyl records (mainly Coldplay), enjoying music, safe in the knowledge that there’s no risk of anyone touching me.
Tonight, people-watching, Chris Martin’s voice and Coldplay’s latest album do little to ease my stress. The worries about Aunt Polly and my financial situation are gnawing at me. I decide to make myself a comforting plate of beans on toast.
After my tea, I do some research on what Aunt Polly is about to endure with her treatment. I read several articles and watch a few YouTube video diaries from breast cancer patients. They all mention that the fatigue due to the chemo is debilitating. I need to change my original plan to visit her once a week. I am Aunt Polly’s only family, and she’s going to need support. I’ll accompany her to chemotherapy on a Wednesday, but I’ll also see her on Sundays, which is my other day off. I can do her laundry, clean the bungalow, and run errands. I checked the train prices earlier, and travelling twice a week will be costly. With my rent increase, my weekly budget is becoming alarmingly tight.
Cynthia’s face comes to mind. I know she made me cross with her business offer, but maybe I should now consider telling people how their love stories will end for money? I feel the same prickle of irritation that I did when I was sitting in her magical garage. Witnessing disastrous endings to relationships, marriages, affairs, and situationships is tough enough, but taking people’s money makes me feel uncomfortable.
But I also don’t want a flatmate, especially one who writes about first kisses, soulmates, and meet-cutes in cake shops.
However, I need to do something. I don’t want Aunt Polly to undergo chemotherapy on her own.
An idea unfolds in my mind. I could advertise for a flatmate. There must be better flatmates than Oliver James out there.
7
The cries of seagulls and a cloudless blue sky greet me as I step off the train. Journeys on packed trains can be challenging and emotionally draining, especially in the warmer months. And today, this train was packed with beach day-trippers and stopped at every little station. Despite pressing myself against the window and trying to avoid physical contact with my fellow passengers, they ignored all the signs I was giving. My curse was busy showing me an endless reel of melancholic visions about love. The little packet of boiled sweets I bought at the station was a lifesaver as they helped me feel better when the world went quiet.
The train reached the station before my aunt’s stop, and I didn’t think my journey could get any worse. ‘Is that seat taken?’ I looked up to see a young lad, clutching a skateboard. He had blond surfer hair, baggy faded jeans and a boyish smile. A door opened inside my mind, and my memories of Luke rushed out. I couldn’t get the words ‘yes, it is taken’ out of my mouth fast enough.
By the time I reached Tide-Leigh, a lively seaside town on England’s southwest coast, my head was aching with sadness and salt air. The road to Aunt Polly’s house was chaos; tourists hurrying towards the beach, screaming children, inflatable rings and cars blaring loud music. As I weaved through it, I thought of the flat share advert I had posted last night. My criteria are simple:
No scary doll collection.
Must like cats.
Must agree to strict no-physical contact rules.
Above all, must not write books about love.
‘Hello, Nelly, you took your time,’ says Aunt Polly with a wry smile.
‘It’s hell out there.’ I chuckle. ‘I’ll need extra cake after that journey.’
Entering Aunt Polly’s bungalow feels like stepping back in time. The walls are decorated with framed photos of me growing up and images from before her falling-out with Hilary. When Hilary wasn’t arguing with her three daughters, her ex-husband, or playing a supportive role, she was Aunt Polly’s social sidekick. Aunt Polly and Hilary knew how to enjoy themselves, organising babysitting for Hilary’s daughters, then going on drunken trips to Blackpool, where they got tipsy, sprayed their hair pink, and took silly photos. They would also go to Spain for wild weekends, raving with whistles and glow sticks, or head to London to drink cocktails and shop. Seeing Hilary’s photos, I still hear her high-pitched laugh and the sound of her high stilettos on Aunt Polly’s tiled kitchen floor.
‘Let’s go to the café,’ says Aunt Polly, grabbing her cardigan and bag from the hook. ‘Those cream cakes have got me through a difficult week.’
After she locks up her house, I take her hand. A flash in my mind shows Aunt Polly’s hand holding someone else’s, recognisable by a delicate silver chain on their wrist. Hanging from the bracelet is a tiny padlock. I’ve seen this vision since my aunt moved to Tide-Leigh ten years ago, and it has never changed. I believe it’s a sign that my aunt’s ex-girlfriend, Sandra, still holds the key to her heart and will one day return. This always makes me feel uncomfortable.
My father and his sister weren’t close. I remember asking my mum at a family wedding who the woman with black hair was and why she was holding hands with the woman with long golden hair like Rapunzel. Mum explained that the black-haired lady was Aunt Polly and Sandra was her girlfriend. They broke up six months after the crash. I had confided in Aunt Polly about my curse and told her every time I touched her hand, I saw Sandra kissing the woman across the street. It turned out Sandra was having an affair with the woman who lived opposite my aunt. I will never forget the nights I sat in my bedroom listening to my aunt cry in the next room after Sandra left.
When Aunt Polly asks me what I see when we touch, I always lie and say I see her enjoying a wonderful single life in Tide-Leigh. I don’t mention Sandra’s bracelet with the tiny padlock. However, my curse is never wrong, and at some point, I do need to accept that she and my aunt will reunite one day. This is a future I’m not yet ready to face.
A cooling sea breeze greets us as we walk up her street. I squeeze her hand. ‘We are going to get through this together.’
She casts me a weak smile. ‘Thank you, Nelly. It’s been a bit daunting. Come on. There are two cream cakes and a pot of tea waiting for us.’
Aunt Polly’s café, The Sailing Boat, is on Tide-Leigh Bay’s pedestrian street. Facing it are pastel-coloured shops and a promenade of golden sand leading to the sea. The royal-blue exterior features a hand-painted boat with white sails. Inside, the nautical theme continues with a ship’s wheel on the counter and plastic menus with tiny boats. Once we’re seated in our favourite spot by the window and have given the waitress our order, I look at Aunt Polly.
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
‘Everything happened so fast after my regular mammogram. Before I knew it, I was having a biopsy and then sitting in front of a consultant being told I had cancer. I had to have a lumpectomy, and then I was told I needed to have chemo.’
Shock at what she’s gone through by herself takes hold of me. ‘You went through all that without calling me?’
She tries to calm down her mass of black hair. ‘You know me, Nelly. I don’t like being unwell. I tried to shrug it off and told myself I would handle it on my own. A few days ago, the thought of having treatment scared me. I realised I needed help.’
‘I’ll come to the hospital with you on a Wednesday, and we will fight this. I’m also going to come over every Sunday to help with housework.’
