Same Time Next Week

Chapter 19

No sooner had the estate agent put Erin’s flat on the market than there was interest. Was she available that afternoon to show someone round? There would be interest at that knockdown price of course, but she just wanted out of it. It felt like a toxic space and she wished she’d never let her old house go so quickly. Carona had pressured her to sell it, rather than carry on renting it out. Now she wondered if that was because she didn’t want to risk her having somewhere to jump to if things went wrong. She’d nagged Erin to buy something together with her – a love nest. Erin had never really liked the apartment that much, but in that period she’d been blinded. Or hoodwinked, she couldn’t work out which it was.

She was working from home that day and had polished off what she needed to do pretty early on, so she could give the house a bit of a spruce and open up the Jo Malone reed diffuser she’d bought so the scent could wander and make the place smell extra-classy. This apartment was one of the more expensive ones in the block, with an upstairs and a balcony. She’d do anything to get this property off her hands and start again somewhere else. She didn’t think she had a chance of beginning to repair herself until that happened.

She was definitely going to walk through the door of Molly’s grief club tonight and not chicken out at the last minute, even if it was guilt more than grief that she needed to get to grips with.

Mel was stuck in traffic on the way home from work and young Jason Jepson was already at her house, sitting on the bench outside with his guitar in his case, waiting for her.

‘I’m sorry I’m late, Jason,’ she said, guilt-tripped at him trembling in the April chill. Even more guilt-tripped when he said, ‘It’s okay, Mrs English, it’s not your fault. I was early.’ He had such a good nature, as well as being a talented young lad on his instrument. She’d given him that guitar because the one he’d turned up with on his first lesson had been bought in a junk shop and the wood was warped, affecting the sound and it was sending her OCD levels skyward. She hadn’t made a big deal about the gift so as not to embarrass him, had told him it was an old one he was welcome to and would save her taking it to a charity shop, but she could still see his face now, the way it lit up, still hear the hitch in his voice as he said, ‘Really?’

His mum had rung up a few months in, throat clogged with tears and said that she couldn’t afford the lessons for a while but when that changed, could Jason come back. And Mel, though she hadn’t told Steve this, had said that she’d do them for free, just for him. Jason was guitar-mad, he always bossed the homework she set him and she could see him taking off where she never had. He was far better than any other pupil she’d ever taught and she wanted the full glittery success story for him, the way people should have wanted it for her. She’d encourage him all the way and counterbalance any scoffers who’d tell him to shelve any plans he had of becoming a musician and ‘get a proper job’ instead. She’d tell him to go for it if that’s what he had decided to do, otherwise he’d end up one day regretting that he hadn’t given it his best shot. And thirty-odd years later, when one of his friends came a-calling to ask if he’d like to join a band before it was too late, he’d say no because even the voice in his own head was telling him that would be pathetic.

She’d cheered up from last night’s meal debacle and Jason had helped because he always brought a smile to her face. If she’d had a son, she would have liked one just like Jason Jepson. She made him a cheese toastie and a cup of tea when she was giving him his homework assignment. She didn’t do it for anyone else, just him and sometimes – silly as it was – she let herself believe this was what being a mum would be like.

She was going to make the best of her evening alone anyway, while Steve was on his overnight in Doncaster. She’d called in at the new M&S food hall and bought herself a chicken tikka masala and a chocolate trifle and she’d open a bottle of Jammy White Roo and watch one of the new films on their Fire Stick. As her curry was rotating in the microwave she thought of her poor husband, who would be holed up in a Premier Inn no doubt. He’d have a burger somewhere and take it back to his room in a paper bag. She wished he were here. She’d make him a chippy tea and let him watch the snooker on the TV, because the world championships were on and he loved that, and maybe some no-pressure fussing might make him open up to whatever was troubling him, because something was and it wasn’t this job in Doncaster. He wasn’t exactly the Laughing Policeman, but they did rub along well together and had a few nice times along the way. Life was simple, easy, if a bit bland and totally predictable, but better than many had it.

The doorbell rang just as the microwave pinged the halfway mark for her to add water to the rice and stir. She went to the door, opened it and her whole life changed.