Chapter 4 #2
‘Oh, I think we can do a little more than that,’ I said, feeling a renewed sense of purpose pumping through me for the first time since I could remember, beating its own tiny drum. Determined to be heard.
‘I’ve got the money shot,’ came Jacob’s voice behind me, and I turned to see him jiggling his camera triumphantly in the air.
He did a double take when his eyes landed on Luca, head dipping to one side and then the other.
He clicked his fingers, recognition dawning on his face.
‘Hey, weren’t you the guy playing at the Old Bell last night? ’
Aha, so that’s where I recognised him from. The musician.
Luca blinked, clearly thrown by the question. ‘Um, yeah. You were there?’
‘When are we not there, more like?’ Jacob scoffed, giving me a nudge-nudge-wink-wink-style hip bump.
‘My mum owns the place,’ I added, keen to clarify that we weren’t raging alcoholics.
‘Cool.’ Luca’s blank look confirmed he had no memory of me or our brief encounter outside the toilets. Probably for the best. Drunkenly colliding with a stranger pre-8 p.m. on a Tuesday didn’t exactly scream I’m a serious professional journalist .
‘Right, well, I think we’ve got everything we need.’ I stabbed the top of my pen against my notebook with a sharp click. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ I added with a smile, turning for the exit before Luca’s memory had a chance to become less hazy.
‘I can come up if you want? We could order Dominoes and watch old episodes of Bake Off ?’
Jacob’s cajoling tone made my hand still on the door handle of his beat-up VW Polo.
Like most traditions, I couldn’t remember exactly how it had started, but somewhere along the way Wednesday nights had become me and Jacob and Joe (and Alice, when she wasn’t on shift) sardined on the sofa, pizza boxes juddering on our laps as we shook with laughter at Mary Berry’s passing comment about a contestant’s nut size.
But it had been a while. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember the last time all three of us were together . .?.
‘Maybe next week?’ I countered, forcing a smile through the wave of tiredness that swept over me. Jacob nodded, his lips pursed in that way that told me there was something else he wanted to say.
‘You know—’ he added quickly as I opened the door, one foot on the pavement, ‘—I can cover that interview for you on Friday, if you want? It’s no bother.’
‘Why would you do that?’
Jacob gave me a look. One I couldn’t fully comprehend, but if I wasn’t mistaken landed somewhere between concern and pity. An icy wind whipped down the street, making me shiver.
‘Jenny—’ Jacob started, but I was already out of the car, suddenly desperate to get inside.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow!’ I waved over my shoulder, breaking into a semi-jog towards the communal front door.
I heaved it open, throwing a longing look at the faded Out of Order sign hung across the elevator doors, and began the long ascent to the top floor.
I had to stop outside Mrs Norris’ door on the 3 rd floor to catch my breath, removing my coat and tying it around my waist.
I physically dragged myself up the final set of stairs, using the banister to aid my climb as though I were summiting the peak of Mount Everest. The second stair from the top creaked loudly beneath my shoe, making me jump even though it had been that way ever since we’d moved in.
Our own personal security system, Joe used to joke, and I smiled at the thought of him glancing up from the sofa, alerted to my arrival even before the jangle of keys could give me away.
I was so engrossed digging through the contents of my handbag to find said keys – mmm, half-eaten Twix, yes please – that I didn’t notice the piece of paper taped to the door until I was staring right at it.
I tried to focus on the tiny, typed letters but they floated aimlessly around the page, toying with me as they scrambled into an incomprehensible jumble.
I squinted, my eyes zeroing in on the giant red capital letters at the top of the page.
EVICTION NOTICE
Those two words were like a punch in the gut and I doubled over, afraid I was going to be sick, the stale Twix that had seemed so appealing thirty seconds ago now like a lump of coal in my mouth. My brain was in overdrive, a thousand questions all bouncing around demanding immediate answers.
Eviction? I mean, I know the rent is a little late – OK, a lot late – and this isn’t the first time, but they can’t evict us.
Can they? I mean, where the hell will we go?
This is my home. Our home that we built together.
Joe and me. They must have the wrong address.
Yes, that’s it. It’s probably intended for that couple with the cat that moved in downstairs a few months ago.
I’ll phone in the morning and sort this all out.
I nodded to myself, snatching the paper angrily from the door, a ripped corner clinging stubbornly to the wood as I crumpled the rest in my fist. Letting myself into the flat and closing the door behind me, I flicked the deadbolt across with a satisfying clunk , sliding the chain in place for good measure – as though I was afraid someone was going to barge in right that second and demand I leave.
The flat was dark and silent, an eerie rectangle of light on the floor courtesy of the half-moon shining in through the bay window, illuminating the place just enough for me to confirm it was empty, Joe’s spot on the right-hand side of the sofa – visibly moulded to his shape after all these years – unoccupied.
The clocks went forward this weekend, the debate Joe and I always had over whether we gained or lost an hour due its annual rematch.
But the light he’d normally leave on for me when I got home from work was off.
I flicked the switch, blinking as my eyes fell on the pile of unopened post that had begun as a neat-ish stack on the bench by the door and, at some point, had spilled over onto the floor.
A few red-stamped envelopes peeked out from amongst the sea of white letters.
LATE PAYMENT
FINAL NOTICE
LATE PAYMENT
My heart began to race, the eviction notice burning in the palm of my hand as though intent on reminding me of its existence, forcing me to connect the dots. But the picture that emerged made me feel sick to my stomach. No, this couldn’t be happening.
I dropped the ball of paper to the floor, watching it roll under the bench and out of sight.
If only the panicked thoughts that had taken root in my brain – demanding answers to questions I didn’t even want to think about – could disappear so easily.
I marched into the kitchen, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I spotted the overflowing recycling bin.
The game of Tetris I’d been playing for the past few weeks was clearly over, the empty milk cartons and cereal packets I’d been carefully balancing atop the bin now littering the floor.
My eyes fell wearily on the bin collection timetable stuck to the fridge door, trying to make sense of the complicated colour-coded system.
Joe always did the bins. Giving up, I scraped my hair up into a messy bun, opening all the kitchen cabinets with a clatter and transferring their contents onto the countertop.
‘Everything all right?’
Joe had appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, leaning casually against the doorframe as he assessed the scene before him with a modicum of amusement.
‘Mhmm,’ I mumbled with a brisk nod of the head, focused on organising the ten different types of flour we had into military- like formation.
‘Yeah, I’m not buying it. You’re doing that thing you do.’
‘What thing?’
‘You know, the thing where you organise pointless stuff when you’re stressed.’
‘That’s not what I’m doing,’ I huffed, blowing a stray hair out of my face.
‘Really? So, Wednesday night is the perfect time to be alphabetising the canned goods?’
I thought my resulting silence and the way I slammed the cupboard door shut would be answer enough, but apparently not.
‘I know I should probably know this, but did I do something wrong? ‘Cause I’m getting the vibe that I did?’
I ignored him, grinding my teeth as I busied myself with pulling random cans out of the cupboard. Anything but look in his direction, into those eyes of his. Because then I knew there’d be no holding it together anymore.
‘Or maybe it’s just something you think I did?’
I closed my eyes slowly, grip tightening around a can of baked beans.
‘No, it was definitely me,’ Joe backtracked quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘I did it. I was wrong. It was a stupid, awful, terrible thing to do; please don’t make me sleep in the bathtub again.’
He walked towards me, head cocked as he tried to get my attention with that lopsided smile of his.
The one that made my insides melt like ice cream on a summer’s day.
But I was too focused on trying to decipher the sell-by date on a can of minestrone soup to notice.
The fact it was faded to the point that I was struggling to read it was probably all the information I needed to know, but I continued to squint at the numbers all the same.
‘Come on, Jenny, I’m sorry. With all my heart.
I shouldn’t have done it. Thought it? Said it?
’ He was down on his knees now, hands clasped dramatically against his heart.
I could feel my palms starting to sweat, my heart beating too fast behind my ribcage as my chest heaved up and down with the effort.
Was that a one or a seven? Surely that didn’t say 2013?
! Although 2073 seemed even more worrisome somehow.
Taking my chances, I shoved it back in the cupboard, slowly twisting the can until the label faced outwards.
‘Jenny, babe, help me out here,’ Joe pleaded with a chuckle, performing a series of fake dodges either side as he battled to get in my line of vision. ‘I can’t apologise if I don’t know what I did wrong. If I even did do anything wrong, that is, I mean seriously, what could be so bad that .?.?.’
‘ You died, Joe! ’
The words echoed around the walls of the kitchen again and again, each time more painful than the last. It was the first time I’d said them out loud, heavy and unwilling as they finally broke free.
I sank to the floor, my knees no longer strong enough to hold me up – the weight of the world, of my world, simply too great to bear.
A dent appeared between Joe’s eyebrows and he opened his mouth as though to say something, but then shut it again.
What was there to say? Instead, he fiddled awkwardly with a loose thread at the hem of his fisherman’s jumper.
The same jumper he’d been wearing for the past 162 days.
The same navy jumper, the same overly loved Chelsea boots with the left heel that was almost completely worn down, the same pair of jeans.
His favourite ones that hung low and loose around his hips.
The denim so worn that they were soft to the touch.
The same outfit he’d been wearing that day.
The day of the accident. The day my whole world fell apart.
It was also the day that this Joe first appeared. He was there, waiting for me in his usual spot on the sofa, when I eventually made my way home from the hospital. Broken and alone.
‘Hey you,’ he’d smiled, that dimple-topped, crooked smile that warmed me to my very core. ‘Did you pick up some of those chocolate Hobnobs?’
I’d blinked. Hard. Several times. But every time, Joe was there. Sat in his dented spot on the sofa, his left leg jiggling up and down in that way that used to drive me crazy.
‘Jenny?’
‘Hmm?’
‘The Hobnobs?’ Joe had repeated, looking right at me this time. Those eyes, those perfect-colour-of-raindrops eyes. ‘Oh God, you didn’t get Garibaldis again, did you? Look, we might have to seriously rethink this whole marriage thing if you’ve come back with those abominations again.’
A bubble of laughter had escaped my lips.
It sounded so foreign as it echoed around the living room, almost as though it belonged to someone else.
Someone I used to know. I didn’t question it.
In fact, I don’t think I even hesitated before walking over and taking my place beside him.
Questioning required careful, rational thought and careful, rational thought would most likely cause this walking, talking, leg-twitching version of Joe to disappear.
And that simply wasn’t an option. Perhaps it was a dream.
A hallucination. A sign that I’d finally gone completely bonkers.
I didn’t care. As long as I didn’t have to live in a world without Joe.
And for 162 days, I hadn’t. Which is how I came to be sat on the kitchen floor, surrounded by canned goods, talking to my dead fiancé. We were as close as two human beings could be without touching, if I just tilted my head a fraction to the right it could rest on his shoulder—
My head snapped upwards when it met nothing but air, as though jolting awake from a dream.
A sob exploded out of me, tears streaming down my face as I felt the deep, gaping hole that had ripped its way through my heart five months ago tear a little bit wider.
Something was digging into the fabric of my trousers and while I welcomed the discomfort – anything to distract from the crippling heartache that was threatening to tear me in two – I reached down and pulled a now-very-squashed packet of Garibaldis out from under me.
I turned it over in my hands, watching my tears land with a plop on the plastic packaging, right next to the sell-by date.
February 2024. They, like Joe, had also expired.