We’d debated the book; he had good points which I volleyed back with a counter-argument. When we talked about this a year later with our award and an almost empty bottle of warm champagne, he’d said that he had almost forgotten he was there for a job interview. And I’d said the same.
When the editor, Giuditta, came into the room from behind, neither of us had been aware of her listening to our opposing views. And when she called us both into the office, looked at our résumés she had leant back in her chair.
‘How would you feel about writing a column together?’
I’d floundered. I wasn’t a journalist; I was a historian. That’s what I studied for my degree, that was why I was looking for a job further away; London had more opportunities in my field. I was there to research, but when she’d gone through the terms, and Ryan had flashed me that smile and I saw the challenge as he’d said, ‘I’m game if you are?’ I said yes on the spot.
I place the award on the floor.
Giuditta’s face flickers in my mind: the day she’d told me that the column wasn’t working without him; that she didn’t have a position for me any more. But that she’d, of course, be really interested in any new ideas or articles I had brewing. And just like that, my life in London ended. I can still feel the dark weight of it all, the days and nights that rolled into one, how the decision to come back to Shropshire felt like running away. And now I’m here, back in the place where I grew up. And where I definitely do not have any articles or ideas brewing.
The clang of the letterbox startles me out of my thoughts. I reach over and drain the cold coffee, unfold my legs, and make my way to the door to retrieve the mail.
Most are flyers for local takeaways, a few bills for the ‘homeowner’ and one, handwritten, addressed simply to ‘Alice’. I run my fingers over the lettering.
‘Sweet Dreams’ by Eurythmics plays into the room. The reception is a little rusty, the music fading and re-emerging, the signal adjusting to my new address.
The envelope looks old. The paper almost nicotine yellow, the edges scuffed and curved, as though it’s been passed between different hands, at different times. My new address is written in blue ink, the lettering itself swooping and leaning to the right. There is a postmark from Yorkshire, a stamp that looks like it should be stuck in between plastic sheets as part of a collection.
I turn the envelope over, run my hands beneath the seal and open it, eyes scanning to see who it’s from: Michael.
I don’t know anyone called Michael.
Do I?
2
MICHAEL
10 May 1985
I’m tangled in the blue duvet I lost my virginity on. Not the beige double Sarah picked out. If things had gone to plan, I’d be lying under that, still living in the house we were saving up to put a deposit on. I’d still have my old job too, not swinging my thirty-year-old legs off the top of my brother’s bunk bed.
I sidestep Carl’s festering boxers, almost tripping over his bony ankles hanging off the bed. I sigh and shove my sketches under my mattress like dirty bleedin’ secrets.
Still, every day I go to the job centre with a shred of optimism. Since Sarah left, and Dad got sick, I’ve taken whatever jobs I can find. Worked on the roads. Did a year at a factory making engine parts. Worked in a music shop until it went out of business. Mam and Dad are barely making ends meet, and as much as I’m desperate to move out, for now, I’m stuck.
‘What about this one?’ Sandra, my ‘job searching specialist’, says through a mouthful of gum, scratching the back of her gigantic hair with a chewed pencil. She slides the card across the desk. Her yellow nail varnish makes it look like she’s dipped herfingers into a jar of Coleman’s. ‘You said you like art, and look!’ She taps the card like it’s the winning numbers for the pools.
I drag the card towards me. ‘Apprentice?’
‘Well,yes!’ She beams. ‘Look at it as an opportunity to live yourdream.’
‘It’s only a few quid more than my dole.’
‘But your dream…’ she says enthusiastically, mustard nails tap-tap-tapping on the pink card.
I’mreallyregretting sharing that bit of information about myself. Call it a moment of madness. ‘What is the dream job?’ she’d asked. ‘Art,’ I’d replied. ‘I like to draw. Paint.’ Why I told her this when I’ve only ever mentioned it to Kate, my best friend of twenty years, I’ll never know. And that was after too many cans and a victorious win by Sheffield Wednesday. Kate used to live next door. We grew up together. It’s strange being back and not hearing them all through the thin mid-terraced walls. I take the card and fold it into my jeans.
‘That’s the spirit!’ She claps her small hands together, victorious.
Aye. Victory. This is what my life has come to. An apprentice at a painting and decorating firm for twenty-five quid a week. Living the dream.
* * *
It’s Friday night and the club is packed. I shoulder my way to the bar, Kim Wilde’s ‘Kids in America’ thrumming in my bones as the lights pulse, red, blue, green, each flash landing with the beats.
‘Two pints of Tennent’s and half a Carling and lime,’ I say, raising my voice across the sticky bar. The girl behind nods, reaching beneath for the glasses, red plastic earrings swinging beneath her dark permed hair. I turn back to the dance floor;Kate is dancing, hands raised, laughing at something a guy in way too much denim is saying in her ear.
