Chapter 50
Adam
The leather of the chair squeaks loudly as I shuffle in my seat. The room is big and airy, and I feel shrunken in the middle of it, like someone could overlook me if they came in.
A bead of sweat rolls down my back. Please, please, please...
The door opens, and Janet, the bank manager, comes back in.
‘Right, Mr Parks.’ She sits down opposite me and taps at her computer. ‘I’ll run the checks before I give you a definitive answer, but...’ She hits enter and waits a moment, and then sits back in her chair. ‘Right, yes, OK. Your earnings qualify you for the mortgage and the loan. Do you want to proceed?’
I have to stop myself from jumping up from my chair and cheering. Mine! The house is going to be mine. Granted, the interest I’ll be paying is obscene, but god, it feels good. I want to tell Janet I love her.
‘Yes, please,’ I say.
She prints off some forms, which I sign, and runs through a list of questions and some legal stuff with me. The whole process takes less than an hour, and then I’m out on the street, clutching a plastic wallet in my hand and feeling like I’ve just had my entire life fixed.
I call Katie.
‘Hi, Adam,’ she answers on the third ring. She must have re-added my number.
‘Hey, how are you?’
‘Good, thanks. I’m glad you called, actually. I’ve spoken to an estate agent and the houses on our street are generally worth at least fifteen percent more than ours was when we bought it. He thinks he can get it on the market for—’
‘I know,’ I interrupt.
‘Oh? Have you spoken to someone?’
‘I’ve had it valued,’ I say, unable to stop the satisfaction from seeping into my voice.
‘That’s great!’ She sounds happy. ‘Brilliant. How much was it worth? I’m happy to go with whichever estate agent you think is best. I think Stanley and Robson—’
I interrupt her again. ‘We’re not selling it, Katie. I’m buying it. I’ll have it all sorted by the end of the week, and you’ll have your equity by the start of next month.’
‘You’re—’ She hesitates. ‘Adam, no offence, but are you sure you can afford this?’
‘I can afford it,’ I say tersely, and then take a deep breath. ‘I’ve sorted it.’
She’s silent for a moment. I meander down a side-street and sit down on a bench.
‘Well, that’s good,’ she says eventually. ‘I’m happy for you.’
‘Yeah. Me too.’
‘Thanks,’ she says, misinterpreting. I meant that I was happy for myself.
‘I meant...’ I stop myself. ‘Yeah. Good luck with everything, Katie.’
‘You too,’ she says, and there’s a hint of sadness in her voice. ‘It was a great six years.’
‘For the most part.’
When she speaks again, it’s the first time I’ve heard regret from her since everything happened. ‘I’m sorry it ended the way it did.’
I shrug, even though she can’t see me. ‘Shit happens, doesn’t it?’
* * *
Old Sausage and I decide to treat ourselves to a takeaway and a movie night.
‘I shouldn’t be doing this,’ I say to her as I tear a piece of pepperoni pizza from its box. ‘My mortgage payments have just doubled.’
I pick up the remote and start flicking through the library of films on the TV.
‘What shall we watch, then?’ I ask her. ‘ Aristocats ?’
She looks at me scathingly.
‘Sorry. OK, what about...’ I keep flicking, and somehow end up on the Romance section. One of the thumbnails features a woman who looks a bit like Eve. I hit play and sink back into the sofa.
‘Am I obsessed?’ I ask Old Sausage through a mouthful of pizza. ‘It’s not normal this, is it?’
The film begins, but I can’t really concentrate. I know she’s there, or somewhere near here, being funny and serious and fierce and soft. With her boyfriend and his tailored jackets and smart shoes and slicked-back hair.
But I felt something that night, I know I did. And I know she did too.
I pull out my phone, and then drop it back down on the sofa. I just got out of a long-term relationship. I’m independent for the first time in over half a decade. Why am I pining over a girl I barely know who clearly has a boyfriend? Do I enjoy embarrassing myself?
No, I decide, but my hand is reaching for my phone. Old Sausage eyes me warningly. Don’t do it, idiot, she seems to be saying.
I tap onto the boys’ group chat.
Me: What you all up to?
Piotr: Have you text her?
Bil: Yes, have you???
Me: Obviously not!
Piotr: Why?
Ferg: How come?
Me: Guys
Me: Can I remind you
Me: She was literally necking someone else in her kitchen
Piotr: Why are you messaging in tiny chunks like that?
Piotr: How do you know you’ve not got the wrong end of the stick? He might have been getting something out of her eye.
Me: He was *not* getting something out of her eye. There’s no way I got the wrong end of the stick.
Fergus: You won’t know if you’ve got the wrong end of the stick unless you *look* at the stick.
Bil: Deep, Ferg
Me: I’m not messaging her. It’s invasive and rude and inappropriate.
Bil: Anything else? You sure it’s not intrusive, too?
Fergus: Intrusive is a synonym of invasive.
Bil: Shut up, Ferg. Whose side are you on?
Fergus: Sorry.
Fergus: MESSAGE HER.
I lock my phone and look back to the TV. The actress I thought looked a bit like Eve doesn’t really; her fringe is less unruly, and her eyes are brown. She’s sitting in an American diner, and the man sitting opposite her is shouting. ‘Why couldn’t you have just been honest with me?’
Yes , I think, remembering how her hand felt in mine as we lay in bed. Why couldn’t you?
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.
I drop the pizza crust I’m holding back into the box and stand up, brushing crumbs off myself, before walking over to see who it is.