And I don’t know where I fit in.
25
MICHAEL
20 June 1985
It’s a scorcher.
The sun is beating down as I head to Kate’s house. Even the small breeze feels like it’s blastin’ from Mam’s hairdryer, melting the tarmac. I cross the road, for once grateful for the shadow of the red-brick terraces. A group of kids are playing kerby, the ball careering my way. I deviate from the path, nudging the ball back to them. I bank the image: two lads sitting on the kerb, grazed knees and striped T-shirts, scruffy trainers and sticky smiles. Kids kept happy as Larry for a few hours with a half-pumped-up ball and a clear road.
I flip open the small notebook Kate gave me, scribbling down the image for later.
This year is going by so fast. It’s the summer solstice tomorrow, but ironically, I know it’ll go by quickly.
Just as I have since I was in my late teens, I’ll meet up with a few old mates who have all moved away, started new lives. I can’t remember when it became a tradition, but somewhere along the line it’s become a fixed celebration in my calendar, likeNew Year’s Eve or Easter Sunday. We all sit by Whitby Abbey, reminiscing and drinking a few cans while the sun makes its journey to the horizon. I crick my neck, loosening the tension that the extra-long days with a roller in my hands have caused. But the job finished early, so it’s given me the freedom to take the next four days off.
I round the corner, Kate’s end terrace coming into view.
Kate opens the door, dark shadows under her eyes. The broad smile she gives me does nowt to hide them. I step into the sitting room.
Words and anger build up in the back of my throat as Kate sweeps a hand through the dust motes.
‘You can’t be fucking serious?’ I ask, eyes on stalks as I take in the bare living room. She shrugs, pushing her blonde hair from her face. My hand tightens into a fist.
‘Seems he doesn’t take rejection all that well.’ She tucks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, looking around the ghost of the room, marks on the walls where photos of them both used to hang, the carpet pale beneath the space where the coffee table used to sit. He’s even taken the bloody clock.
‘All that well?’ I stand in the spot where her sofa should be. ‘He’s an absolute tool, is what he is. Could have at least left you with something to sit on.’
‘Oh, that’s not even the half of it.’ I follow her through to the small dining room, arms folded, head nodding towards the floor.
‘The carpet? He took the sodding carpet?’
From nowhere, Kate bursts out laughing, her face halfway between humour and tears. I pull her against me. She only comes halfway up my chest, her head fits neat as a pin under my chin. ‘I’ll go and speak to him,’ I say. Her head shakes against my shirt.
‘It’ll just make things worse. At least there is no going back, eh? I was wondering if I’d made a mistake, second-guessedmyself, but after this…’ She lets out a long breath. ‘There’s no going back after this, is there?’
‘No,’ I say, barely keeping the anger out of my voice. ‘No, there isn’t.’
‘Brew?’ she asks, moving towards the kitchen.
‘He left you the kettle, then. Good of him.’
She reaches for the kitchen side, tears off a piece of kitchen towel and blows her nose. She raises her eyebrows, nodding to where a pan full of water is simmering on the electric coils that Mam calls the rings of fire. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Nope.’
‘That piece of?—’
‘I broke his heart. It’s to be expected.’
‘No, it isn’t. Sarah broke my heart and we split the furniture up. I didn’t rock up like a thief in a badly fitting shell suit.’
She snorts.
I switch off the hob and take the pan off the heat.
‘Come on.’
