Chapter 18
Adam
When we bought this house, it was the middle of a freezing cold winter. The estate agent that showed us round laughed at our reaction to the master bedroom: the owners had had industrial-strength insulation put in to keep the upstairs toasty all year round, and it was like paradise.
Now, in the middle of this never-ending heatwave, the first floor is like hell’s furnace: the air is thick and heavy and still, making sleeping impossible, even with the windows open.
It’s because of this, and because I am now single with nobody to make sure that I’m maintaining normal standards of living, that I have taken to sleeping downstairs on the sofa — with a fan trained directly on my face and the kitchen window swung wide, I can usually get an uninterrupted night.
But not tonight.
It’s four o’clock in the morning, and I have just woken up to a heavy weight on my chest. For a moment, I think I’m experiencing sleep paralysis — Piotr has told me how it feels, and my eyes strain in the dark to find the figure in the corner of the room.
And then, as my brain engages, I see the mass on top of my chest, rising and falling in time with my panicked breathing.
I flail my arms, wailing, and sit bolt upright. Whatever it is falls into my lap.
I scrabble behind me for the lamp, struggling to find the switch, and eventually turn it on, illuminating the scene in front of me.
It’s the cat.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I shout, my heart hammering in my chest.
He’s lying on his back, his paws flopped in the air, staring at me.
‘Wh-what...’ I choke on my words. ‘How did you get in here?’
He closes his eyes and starts purring.
My eyes dart around the room until they find the open kitchen window. My heart rate begins to slow. There’s an outside window ledge on the patio, perfect jumping distance for a cat to get inside.
I reach out one shaky hand to touch his belly, and the purring gets louder. ‘There’s something wrong with you, mate,’ I say, as I look at his legs, splayed in the air with un-catlike abandon. ‘What is it? Are you hungry?’
I wriggle my body a little, expecting him to move, but he stays put, so I stand up and let him roll onto the sofa, where he opens one eye lazily and then closes it again.
I pad over to the kitchen, keeping my footsteps light out of habit rather than necessity, and pull a Peperami out of the fridge. I chop it into pieces and lay it on a plate, and then fill a dessert bowl with water.
‘Here.’ I go back into the living room and place my offerings on the floor. ‘If I give you this, will you go home?’
His eyes open sleepily, and he assesses the meal he’s been presented with. Slowly, he rises to his feet, stretches, and leaps off the sofa, his joints cracking.
He must be old, I think, as I watch him sniff at the plate of salami. His fur is patchy and slightly matted, and one of his ears is scabby. God, I hope he hasn’t got fleas.
After several minutes of inspection, he eventually opens his mouth to take a piece of salami. As he chews, I notice he’s missing a few teeth.
‘Ahh,’ I stroke the little patch of fur between his ears, ‘you’ve been through it a bit, haven’t you? Old sausage.’
It’s only a few days since Katie left, but the company already feels like welcome relief from the emptiness of the house. I rock back on my heels, realising how pathetic that is.
The cat moves on from the Peperami after only two pieces, and licks at his bowl of water. I feel a small pang of guilt — how much salt is in a stick of salami?
‘What’s your name, then?’ I ask, uselessly. He gazes at me over the rim of the bowl, as though this is something I really ought to know.
‘Well, for now we’ll call you Old Sausage,’ I say, feeling ridiculous but also a little bit happy.
Old Sausage finishes with his water and jumps back up onto the sofa, curling up right in the middle of my makeshift bed.
‘Great,’ I sigh.
I should send him home. I’ll give him a couple more minutes, just to let the salami go down, and then I’ll put him out through the back door.
He purrs again, and without my full permission, my feet carry me upstairs, into the heat and my empty bed.
* * *
Old Sausage has gone by the time I wake up, and I spend a large portion of the morning hoovering the sofa, cleaning up crusty Peperami and feeling a bit deflated.
It’s Saturday, so I sit in the garden all afternoon marking papers, a nervous feeling growing in my stomach.
The sun moves lazily across the sky, peeking out from under my umbrella. I stand up to move my chair and a movement catches my eye: something is running across the garden two doors down.
I squint into the distance — is that Old Sausage? Before I can tell for certain, he disappears in through an open back door.
I sit back down and check the time: 17:48. Only an hour to go. My heart rate accelerates again.
I’ve got a date with Becky tonight.
I practically ran out of Hugh’s residential home after matching with her, jumping on my bike and pedalling out of there before we could bump into each other in the corridor. By the time I’d got home, a message had appeared on my Tryst account.
Becky: Heyyy — weird q but is this Hugh’s brother Adam?
Me: Guilty as charged. Is this weird?
Becky: Lol no. It’s nice
Me: I’m glad! Sorry, I’m a bit new to the online dating thing so I’m not really sure what’s deemed normal.
Becky: Haha oh right
Me: Do you want to meet for a drink tomorrow evening?
Becky: Yeh sure :)
Was I too quick in asking her out? How do people usually do these things? I know that Bil has, in the past, matched with a woman mere minutes before meeting up with her for the first time. But is that me? It’s under twenty-four hours since Becky and I agreed to our date; is that too soon?
Is this too quick full stop? I wonder now, as I wait for the tram into town. Katie’s barely been gone a week — is it normal to be dating this early? Imagine if Becky and I do click; would I be ready for another relationship so soon?
No. The answer enters my head immediately, clearly, and I involuntarily turn towards the exit. If I’m certain nothing will come of this, what am I doing?
I think of Bil, of his life’s purpose being to take life itself less seriously. I’m relatively young and — the realisation hits me with renewed force — single. Why not? Meeting for a drink isn’t the same as getting married and having babies. Besides, my previous lifestyle of caution and care has hardly led me to relationship bliss.
Just thinking about Katie makes my heart twist. She can’t be gone.
But she is. She’s not coming back, and somehow, I have to step onto this tram and muddle my way into an unpredictable future.
I walk into the Peaky Blinders bar on Peter Street two minutes before our arranged meeting time, and Becky doesn’t seem to be here yet. The place is packed full of people, so I manage to grab an empty table and send her a quick message telling her where I am.
This is insane. This is absolutely bonkers. Two weeks ago, if you’d have told me I’d be here, waiting to meet Hugh’s new nurse for a date as a single man, I’d have called you an ambulance. Hugh’s nurse. A fresh jolt of panic shoots through me. What am I doing? This is completely unethical. It’s a conflict of interest—
‘Adam?’ Becky appears in front of me, wearing a short red dress and purple lipstick. I almost do a double take.
‘Hi!’ I stand up and knock my knee against the table. ‘Oops, sorry. I didn’t recognise you for a second! Sit down, shall we get a drink? Isn’t it busy? Sorry, should I take your coat?’
I’m babbling, and I force myself to shut up as she hands me her denim jacket. There are no coat pegs, so I hold it for a second before folding it and putting it on my lap like a complete freak.
Becky sits opposite me and stares at her hands.
‘Sorry,’ I say again. ‘I’m a bit nervous. I’ve just got out of a long-term relationship, and — sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about that. You look lovely. Have you been working today?’
‘Yeah.’ She looks up and smiles. ‘Hugh’s DVD player broke so we’ve ordered him a new one.’
‘Oh, god.’ I laugh. ‘I always imagined it’d be the DVD itself that’d give out first.’
She giggles, twisting a loose strand of hair around her finger.
We lapse into silence.
‘So... have you been here before?’ I try.
‘A couple of times.’
I nod, smiling encouragingly. She seems even more nervous than I am. ‘Shall I go and get us a drink?’ I ask, standing up. ‘What would you like?’
‘Oh, yes please. A vodka soda, thank you.’ She smiles and her trademark blush creeps up her cheeks.
By the time we’re on our second drink, she seems to have come out of her shell a little. ‘Do you like holidays?’ she asks.
‘Love them. I went to Crete last year — have you been?’
She shakes her head. ‘Is it one of the party islands?’
‘Not really — it’s quite historical.’
She looks disappointed.
‘Is that really boring?’ I laugh. ‘I promise I’m not super nerdy. I did sunbathe, too.’
‘I love sunbathing.’ She brightens. ‘Have you ever been to Dubai?’
‘No,’ I say, not wanting to admit that it’s bottom of my list of holiday destinations. ‘Is it any good?’
‘ So good. Look, I’ve got pictures.’ She pulls out her phone and flicks through a series of photos of her, posing on high balconies with city lights twinkling in the background, a serious expression on her face. An image of Katie comes into my mind — on a boat, her head thrown back, her hat blowing away in the wind. She hated that picture.
Becky keeps swiping — her in a Lamborghini, her on the beach, her at a party — but I can’t concentrate. I look at her hands, her perfect nails and smooth, tanned skin. What am I doing? I try to imagine kissing her, going for dinner, talking into the evening. I can’t.
A sudden rush of sadness makes my breath catch in my throat. I’ve lost her, I’ve lost my person.
‘They pay nurses loads in Dubai,’ Becky is saying. ‘I’m going to go and work there once I’ve got enough experience.’
I smile weakly. ‘Sounds amazing.’
She offers to get us another drink, and I accept. I watch her standing at the bar, surrounded by people, her blonde hair sending my head spinning. For six years, I have sought Katie’s chestnut ponytail in a crowd. How will I ever get used to this?