Chapter 2 #2
‘It’ll take time.’
Time? I’ve already given it time. Now I want to be normal again.
‘You’re okay,’ Nicole says, ‘you’re doing okay. Call me if you need.’
Nicole had sent me messages while I was off, a combination of overly positive updates about work and offers to call her if needed. I never did call.
‘Give Cian my best,’ she yells as I make my way out, ‘and enjoy your half-day, you part-timer.’
An hour later, I’m back in my patch of North London, a cheap and quiet residential area where neither the Tube nor gentrification goes. Kipling Walk runs parallel to my own Dickens Walk and halfway down I realise my garden must back onto Cian Walsh’s. What are the odds?
Despite my tiredness, I can’t bring myself to dump the bag on the doorstep and run off, like Smash It Samuel, the area’s notorious delivery driver.
So I knock and wait. A tall white man with a buzzcut of grey hair opens the door.
He’s probably in his sixties yet has the lean, slightly muscled build of a much younger man.
‘Cian Walsh? Sorry, I think I have the wrong place.’
‘Right place, wrong man,’ he says with a faint sing-songy accent. Irish? Welsh? Possibly Scottish? While I’m great with languages, accents confuse the hell out of me. ‘I’m his dad. Come in, come.’
I’d hoped to drop the stuff and leave, not be invited in to make small talk with some random colleague. Yet I follow him through to a bright yellow living room and on the sofa, there’s a big, black-clothed figure who turns slightly.
‘You’re Network Cian?’ I ask.
He narrows his eyes and says slowly, ‘Just Cian, actually. Hi.’
Just Cian.
There’s no way this guy works in the same place as me.
He’s got black fluffy hair, which he makes a quick attempt at pushing down, and glasses that he pulls off, leaving red marks either side of his nose.
I pride myself on keeping a thorough audit of attractive men who work at Chat, so how has this oversight happened?
‘Are you new?’ I ask.
‘Huh?’
‘I mean, hi. Jimmy sent me.’
‘Right,’ he replies with a slight nod of his head.
This is awkward. ‘Yeah, he said you needed some stuff. For work. Because you’re working here. At home.’
Cian doesn’t say anything, just sits there, staring.
‘So weird,’ I say. ‘I live on the next street, our gardens pretty much back onto each other.’ Am I really talking about backing onto him?
‘I can probably see into your kitchen and—’ Something rubs itself against my leg.
‘Wuffy!’ I cry. ‘Wuffy, what are you doing here?’ I dump the bag, freeing my hands to scoop up the overly trusting mackerel tabby who hangs around my garden.
I bring him to my face to nuzzle noses and it dawns on me.
‘Wuffy is your cat? No way. Tell me this isn’t your cat? ’
‘It’s not our cat,’ the dad says, ‘and I’ve told him to stop feeding it.’
Wuffy, who is probably confused at seeing me here, in the wrong house, jumps from my arms onto the sofa and walks over to Cian’s lap. ‘Stormzy looks hungry,’ Cian says to his dad.
‘It doesn’t look hungry at all,’ the dad says. ‘Tabbies are meant to be slender. You’re making it obese.’
‘Don’t call it obese,’ Cian snaps. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘So Wuffy isn’t your cat?’ I ask, interrupting their argument.
‘Wuffy?’ Cian flicks his eyebrows up at me. ‘What type of stupid name is that for a cat?’
I try to glare at him, but his gaze is way too intense, and I end up looking away first. I turn to the dad and explain, ‘Well, he’s not fluffy, so I figured Wuffy.
’ I’m ridiculous and also jealous because I have never, not through cuddles, baby voices nor cat treats, been able to coax Wuffy into my home.
‘His name is Stormzy,’ Cian states.
I laugh. ‘His name is not Stormzy.’
Wuffy sniffs at Cian’s leg, which is elevated on the coffee table and in a hinged knee brace.
‘My mum broke her leg once,’ I say. ‘She fell off a stage during a charity slave auction. Long story.’
‘My leg’s not broken.’ There’s something about the still way he looks at me that makes me squirm. ‘It’s my kneecap, it’s shattered.’
The idea of a shattered kneecap causes my eye to twitch. ‘That sounds horrible.’
‘Nothing two hours of surgery can’t fix.’
‘Tea or coffee?’ his dad asks and that’s my cue. ‘Oh. No, thanks. I’m not staying.’
‘No, but you’ll have a tea,’ he says in an almost threatening way.
‘Really, it’s okay. I don’t drink tea.’
‘You don’t drink tea,’ they say in unison, like it’s the dumbest thing they’ve ever heard.
‘Don’t be daft,’ the dad says, already moving off. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Cian reaches over to remove the books piled on the sofa next to him, creating space for me to sit. ‘You’re not going to get out of here without a cup of tea.’ He chucks the books on the coffee table. ‘Nobody does.’
I study the spot and the distance from him, then perch on the opposite end of the sofa.
After a few moments of nothing, I turn to face Cian, taking in his tiny workout shorts and Nike T-shirt, and conclude that yes, he seems like the type of person who engages in climbing mountains, cliffs or walls for fun.
‘So,’ my voice comes out a little louder than planned, ‘I hope you now have everything you need to work from home. Cables. Files. Collectable novelty figurines.’
He huffs out something of a laugh. ‘Can’t work without them.’
We fall back to silence, Wuffy’s purr the only thing between us. This is odd. Can I leave? Do I want to? The plastic-wrapped library books catch my attention. ‘Hiroshima, A Doctor’s Story.’
‘Keeping myself educated,’ Cian replies.
Underneath that is, ‘The Final Days of Waco.’ I wait for an explanation and get a quick flash of his dark eyes and then, ‘It’s even more depressing than it sounds.’
At the bottom of the pile is, ‘The Next Pandemic: Why We’re Not Ready. These all sound like a lot of fun.’
‘I find it helps to concentrate on someone else’s pain.’ One corner of his mouth goes up, very briefly.
Is he messing with me?
‘Your dad has a nice accent,’ I say, ‘he’s—’
‘Irish,’ Cian helpfully fills in.
‘Irish. Of course. But you are—’
He stares at me then says, ‘My mum is Malaysian.’
‘Ah.’ And now I’m embarrassed at how obviously I was fishing for this information. ‘You’re half Malaysian. Like Henry Golding.’
‘Who’s Henry Golding?’
‘No one. Ignore me.’
That slight smile appears on the left side of his mouth again, then disappears as he scratches under Wuffy’s chin.
‘Do you speak Malay?’ I ask.
‘No. Just English and GCSE French. Though my desk plaque might say something different.’
It strikes me how desperate I am to see his smile travel the full width of his face.
‘You?’ he asks.
‘Spanish, Portuguese and Italian.’
‘Fluently?’
‘Of course not. Spanish, yes, because my dad’s Spanish, and Portuguese, conversationally, because I lived there for a bit.’
‘Wow,’ he says, briefly making eye contact.
‘It’s not that impressive; almost half of Londoners speak two or more languages.’
‘I don’t. I’ve been on level one Mandarin since I started working at Chat.’
‘Oh, I know Mandarin.’
Cian laughs, his face softening.
‘Not fluently,’ I backtrack. ‘I taught English in Shanghai for a year. That was a long time ago and even then, I only knew how to, like, order braised pork belly and hit on local guys.’ I wince and wonder why I can’t stop talking.
‘I’m Brendan,’ the dad says as he comes back. Thank God. Two large mugs are set on the table, and he asks, ‘Are you from round here?’
‘Not quite. I’ve lived here for a while, though.
I live with my . . .’ This is the first time I’m saying it: ‘My brother. Or, at least, on paper I do. He moved in at the end of last month and I’ve hardly seen him.
Though his crap is all over the place, just like pants and T-shirts on every surface.
It’s very, um, different.’ I lurch forward to grab the drink I don’t want.
With the amount of milk Brendan’s poured in, you wouldn’t think it would be possible for the tea to remain hot, but my scalded tongue says otherwise.
I look from Cian to his dad and hope one of them will talk soon, rather than simply watch me consume boiling water.
‘You moved here on purpose?’ Cian asks.
‘See, told you young people are moving to the area,’ Brendan says to Cian. ‘I’m trying to convince him to buy here but he thinks he’s too good for it. He’s only here now because his poncey rented flat in Kennington doesn’t have a lift.’
‘It’s actually not a flat in Kennington,’ Cian says, ‘it’s an apartment in Battersea.’
Brendan, who is still standing, laughs.
‘You grew up around here?’ I ask Cian.
‘Yeah, and I hate it. There’s absolutely nothing to do.’
Brendan, clearly offended, jumps in with, ‘There’s a high street. A library. A grade two listed pub.’
‘I’ve been for a drink there,’ I say. ‘It’s nice.’
Cian turns his nose up. ‘You drink at The Crown. Why? It’s such a depressing place. Full of pensioners wanting to talk about Jesus or their heating bills.’
‘That’s what makes it nice. You don’t like old people?’ I ask.
‘All the middle class are moving in around here now,’ Brendan says. ‘Getting green doors and white shutters.’
‘I’m not middle class, Dad.’