Chapter 10
Now
‘You’re back?’ Eric says as I go into the kitchen. ‘What happened, did you get thrown out of the community cooking class?’
I half hoped he would have left already so I wouldn’t have to explain how the only thing I planned for my weekend was no longer happening.
‘The community centre flooded last night. Apparently, they put the message on Facebook. I’m not on Facebook.
So I walked all the way there, in the burning sun, for no reason.
’ I open the fridge to chuck in the bag of samosas I picked up on the sweaty walk back.
‘Why, Eric?’ I gesture at the packed shelves.
‘Why do you buy so much food when you’re not here most of the time.
’ I pull out packs of steak, beef mince and salmon, all past their use-by date.
‘I’ll eat that tomorrow.’
‘You can’t eat old meat.’
‘We grew up on out-of-date food, why are you picky now?’ Eric inspects the grey-tinged meat. ‘That’s a shame.’ He puts the packs not in the bin, but next to the bin. ‘Is that dirt on your feet?’ he asks. ‘Did you not shower today?’
‘It’s a tan line, from the sun.’ I rub it to check I’m right. ‘What?’ It’s so annoying how he’s observing me, though that’s pretty much the reason he moved in here: to keep watch.
At first, I thought it would be awkward, having my younger brother in my space, yet when he’s here we fall into a strange pattern of emulating parts of our childhood. French toast for breakfast, card games at the kitchen table, dodging chores and endless, slightly aggressive, bickering.
‘Eric, why are you staring at me like that?’
‘You look rough.’
‘Are you serious? Rough?’
‘Tired, then,’ he corrects as he opens the freezer. ‘Fatigued.’
‘I am tired. Didn’t sleep well. Thanks for the confidence boost.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Whatever. Like you’re so hot.’
He slams the freezer shut and heads to the cupboards. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Have a samosa.’
‘What did you use to eat? Besides pasta. I don’t know how you survived.’ He stops, a bit uneasy with what he’s walked into.
‘Kasie cooked,’ I say after a few dragging seconds.
‘All the time?’
‘Pretty much. And I cleaned.’
‘Cleaned what? I was going to suggest we get a cleaner.’
‘I’m not paying for a cleaner.’
‘I’ll pay.’
‘No. Eric. Don’t. It’s already enough that you’re here.’
From the bottom of the fruit bowl, he produces a slightly bruised mango, which he sniffs several times before putting it back.
‘How long do you think you’ll stay here anyway?’ I ask.
‘Do we really need to discuss this now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it going to take long? Because I’m going for drinks in Brick Lane.’
I drag my hands down my clammy face. ‘You’re impossible.’
‘I’m not that bad to live with, am I?’ he asks, giving that wounded-puppy face which always got him out of being told off. ‘Actually, I might have a samosa.’
I bite my tongue while he stands with the fridge door open for ten, then twelve seconds.
‘I know Mum made you move in,’ I say.
‘You really think Mum has a say in how I live my life?’
‘Yes,’ I answer. ‘She does. Because Mum controls everything except the weather.’
We both laugh, then Eric admits, ‘Of course it was Mum who suggested I move in. It made sense. I’ve been out of London for so long. I need to get to know it again before I move back permanently. This is a good samosa. Where’d you get it from?’
‘Doesn’t buying a property take months?’
‘Oh yeah, ages.’
‘So, you’re going to be here for ages?’ I ask.
Eric slowly chews at the samosa then says, ‘I think the question is more, how long are you going to be here for?’
‘It’s a rolling tenancy.’
His eyes dart around, and I know he’s stressing about having to navigate this conversation without Mum. ‘It’s a nice day. You want to get out for a few hours? Come for a drink with me and the boys.’
Eric’s boys consist of his two friends from childhood, and while we all grew up together, I doubt I’ve had more than a five-minute conversation with either of them. ‘I’d rather not go day-drinking with you and your boys.’ Then, seeing he’s trying, I add, ‘Thank you for asking, though.’
‘No problem.’
I’d told Nicole how my brother is rarely around, yet when he is he’s always suggesting we go drinking together or watch true crime documentaries. She thinks he’s trying to find a way to reach out.
Eric puts on a pair of unfashionable wraparound sunglasses which immediately age him ten years. If there was a product that worked the opposite way it would change the world.
‘Eric, I don’t want you feeling obligated to stay here and keep an eye on me. I’m not your responsibility.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he says, adjusting his sunglasses, and it’s impossible to have a serious conversation with him when he’s looking so much like a middle-aged dad into fashion. ‘Let’s talk another time. I’m going out and you –’ he points right at my face – ‘are going to clean this kitchen.’
Once Eric’s gone, I wait till 1.56 p.m. before realising the day isn’t going to get any faster with me sitting around doing nothing. I pull on some scrappy clothes and rubber gloves and get to work cleaning the kitchen.
There’s a satisfaction in discovering and removing so much grime and grease. Also, some shame as I had no idea the flat was this filthy.
Two cans of Coke later and I’m onto the bathroom, loving how the bleach magics away the black mould.
Though the way the grout crumbles into my cloth is increasingly distracting, as is the dead turtle logo on almost every bottle.
4.33 p.m. and it’s still too early to lie on the sofa and get lost in watching television so I keep going, removing the three damp T-shirts Eric left in the washing machine so I can launder every piece of bedding, towel and duster I can find.
I cut long strands of my hair from the hoover-brush roll then pull the sofa apart and hoover it while sweating and convincing myself this is equivalent to a gym session.
There’s a sharp clanging sound as something other than dust and crisps gets sucked into the hose.
When I switch it off, I discover a single gold hoop earring.
Kasie used to take off her earrings as she lay on the sofa. She’d chuck them on the coffee table then get annoyed when she couldn’t find them again the next day.
I thought I’d been so thorough about all of Kasie’s things going back to her family.
The piling and packing gave me something solid to focus on for days.
It’s only now that I’m discovering how much of her stuff is still here; not even small, hidden or lost pieces like this earring, but things I simply didn’t see at the time.
The fancy pens and notepads she collected, the heat pad she kept under the TV in the living room, her winter coat which was at the back of my wardrobe for a reason I can’t remember.
The earring is light in my hand, the gold mottled. It’s worthless and it’s not her, so I feel in no way bad about marching through to the kitchen where I open the bin and drop the earring on top of the packs of gone-off meat.
6.12 p.m. and I reluctantly pick up the book Ikenna gave me and flick to a random page. I read the line ‘Distress has outstayed its welcome, choose your moment to show it the door’ then throw the book across the room.
Weekends are hard.
Sometimes I wish I could fill them with brunches, parties, shopping, and wasting hours online, like I used to. But I can’t and I don’t quite know why.
The garden is now partially in the shade, so I head towards the storage box, where I stare at the two sun loungers, still folded in on themselves from last summer.
When I reach in to pull one out, it’s too intertwined with the other to lift.
No matter how hard I tug and shake, they hold together, unwilling to be separated, until I’m propelled away.
With my back turned, I press my hands to my face, holding my breath till the threat of screaming passes.
My loneliness should have contracted and withered by now, it should have shrunk and freed up a little space in my heart for something else, anything else.
The step to the kitchen is warm, so I sit and scan through my emails to see if I can get a refund from the cooking class.
When I search the word cancellation, a bunch of emails about the Cambodia trip pop up.
That trip occupied my mind solidly for months, yet I haven’t given it a single thought since the day I found out it wasn’t going to happen.
Of course I could have still gone on my own, but how could I have enjoyed Angkor Wat without Kasie pointing out where Lara Croft stood, as if she were a real person, or visit the elephant retirement home knowing how desperate Kasie had been to see it.
How could I enjoy khmer noodles, the dish Kasie said was the most ‘delicately flavoured’ and had decided in advance she would live on, along with peelable fruit and bottled water, for the duration of our trip.
How could I enjoy any of these things without her?
I turn my phone over in my hands and pull up her number.
Me: I wish you were here.
Kasie: Undelivered.
Me: I miss you.
Kasie: Undelivered.
I have got to stop doing this to myself.
The next day the temperature ticks up to twenty-nine, flying ants plague the garden and Eric is so hungover he accuses me of ‘showering too loudly’.
To stop myself from spiralling like I did yesterday, I plunge myself into work, checking the Spanish-to-English translations on search-engine-friendly articles about the royal families of Europe and dating trends across capital cities.
I also begin jotting down some ideas for the podcast pitch Jimmy asked me for.
I come across a bunch of content creators who are getting good traction sharing what it’s like travelling with food allergies.
An American guy who’s attempting to eat his way around Italy on a gluten-free diet and a British family in India who are all allergic to tomatoes.
Something like this could work as a Chat podcast; we could easily get sponsors for it too.
I send a short proposal to Jimmy and even though it’s Sunday, he emails back straight away with two words: SNOWFLAKE ALERT!
I collapse over my laptop laughing, then go back to the drawing board.
Come mid-afternoon, my phone buzzes with a message from Cian telling me he escaped Eastbourne. He also invites me to come over. I hold my phone between my palms and try to work out what this means. It’s not a booty call, we established that at the start, so what is this? And do I want to find out?