Chapter 4
When I get to the estate agent’s a steadying breath is necessary before entering. The entire walk here, my only thoughts have been about how ill-prepared I am for this task. Through the window I can see only one person in the office, and they are crying so they must be Gavin.
Really, why did I think I could help them?
I’m a fucking state. The nearest I’ve come to being consoled in recent memory is a random woman on the street asking if I was alright while I stood in an alleyway and cried silently.
I’d stormed off from Nicol, who had chosen our Valentine’s meal as the perfect event to list all of the things I’d done to upset him in the last six months.
All because I mentioned he’d hurt my feelings when he said I was too dolled up for a Saturday lunch date but then refused to let me change before we left the house.
When we made up, he confessed he’d felt ‘emotionally off’ because whenever I put in an effort with my appearance he would notice other men looking at me.
He loved the low-maintenance, makeup-free me who was unconventionally charming.
It made him sick that these men were enamoured with the fake Jemma who, due to creams and lotions, now met modern beauty standards.
Nicol lusted after my soul. How dare strangers covet my packaging because it was what the media they consumed told them to do.
None of this matters, because as soon as I see Gavin, for the first time in a long time, Nicol is forgotten.
They are the kind of person my mum would call ‘strapping’: tall, broad-shouldered, clearly in shape.
Their brown curly hair is shaved at the sides and allowed to run free on top.
There is an eccentricity to their aesthetic: they have a waxed moustache on their angular face, their suit is a well-tailored tweed one, their fingernails are painted a shiny French manicure shade of pink, giving a subtle nod to the feminine.
For Hamilton, they are unusually handsome and intriguing.
The Gavin I have dealt with did not present as attractive.
If I’d had an inkling they were like this I would have made an effort.
I’m no stunner, but I’m not hideous either; I could have presented as a better version of myself than the one that’s here.
As if it will make any meaningful difference, I straighten my unironed fifteen-year-old Biffy Clyro T-shirt, and am relieved that my grey jogging bottoms are not obviously dirty when I examine them.
Trying to think positively, I remind myself that my skin is clear today and the round neck of my top gives the impression of my having larger breasts than I actually do – this could have been worse. Not by much, but still.
Even though a bell above the door announces my arrival, it takes me saying ‘Gavin?’ for them to acknowledge I am there in front of their desk. They jolt their head upwards. ‘Can I help you?’
‘It’s me, Jemma.’
They bite their lip and look up at the ceiling, which is covered in square polystyrene tiles. ‘Sorry, yeah. Thank you.’ Their voice quivers.
‘Would you like a tea or a coffee or to talk or something?’
‘I would like to not be here. Can we not be here?’
Gavin is not giving me the vibe they would be capable of walking very far without collapsing from emotion. I think through our options.
‘TIME? We could go there?’ TIME is a coffee shop a few doors away. The forcefulness of the capitals of its name has always stopped me giving it a try. TIME is ticking, TIME is slipping away, TIME is forever against me.
Wordlessly, Gavin takes an aged brown leather satchel from beneath their desk and gets up. I follow them onto the street where they lock up the shop. The sign on the glass door still declares the agency OPEN; I don’t mention it through fear of setting off the next round of tears.
Inside TIME I coax Gavin to sit at a table in the back corner while I order the cappuccino they asked for, and then, because Nicol banned me from drinking them, I order one for myself, too.
The barista says they’ll bring them to me, so I sit across from Gavin, not sure what to do next.
The screech of the milk being frothed fills the space where we could speak and so neither of us says anything until the drinks arrive.
Almost immediately, I regret my choice. Nicol was correct; I cannot be trusted to consume this or any drink with a frothy topping in public.
There’s a lot of chocolate powder on the foam, and I am clumsy by nature.
I anticipate already the brown marks I will make on my face, shaming myself in front of Gavin.
After a few sips, I wipe my mouth and the tip of my nose with the back of my hand.
Gavin hasn’t said anything, hasn’t touched their drink.
I move things along. ‘Look, I get this is a less than ideal turn of events with Colin passing but, if it makes it any easier to deal with, he was a real arsehole as a landlord, which makes me think he was probably not a great guy generally. Not that him being dead isn’t sad, but maybe not that sad. ’
Gavin takes a sachet of sugar from a little bowl on the table and shakes it between their thumb and index finger before ripping the top off of the packet. ‘Did you know Colin, then?’
‘No, but he’s a landlord. You work with them; you know how shitty a person you need to be to be a landlord. They’re all pricks. Colin was a prick.’
They pour a stream of brown sugar into the foam of their coffee, then pick up another packet and add it in, too. ‘I did find him to have some prickish qualities, but I’m sure he was fundamentally a very average man, neither very good nor very bad. That’s how it goes with most people.’
Gavin stirs the sugar in their coffee until the froth of their cappuccino ceases to exist. It provides a pause in chat I could use to formulate a new topic of discussion, but instead I plough on with the landlord stuff because it’s been building in me for weeks with no release.
‘Colin is the reason my life is ruined, so maybe we will have to agree to disagree on whether he was nice or not.’
Coffee stirred, Gavin takes the teaspoon and delicately rests it on the saucer, the little tinkle it makes landing is the last noise before they say, ‘He ruined your life?’ They rest their head on their fist, relaxing into a listening pose. ‘How?’
‘The quick version: he kicked my friend out of her flat, she moved in with me, stole my boyfriend, now I have no best pal and no boyfriend. Then he decided to die in front of me, which I can only imagine is going to cause some issues somewhere along the line.’ Gavin nods, but not in a way that leads me to believe they have been overwhelmingly convinced by me.
I begin to backpedal. ‘I’m sure my life would have been ruined eventually; I think I’m the kind of person who isn’t meant for a chill, happy life.
Colin is just who got to ruin it before anyone else. ’
I cannot justify to you why I am still talking but I am. Subjecting this gorgeous person to my tales of woe, which have nothing to do with them. While they are also, let’s not forget, freshly grieving.
‘I’m sorry. I came here to try and make sure you were OK and here I am trauma dumping.
’ My apology sounds truly sincere, because I want Gavin to like me and, if possible, fancy me.
Not that that is likely. I am the sort of woman a man can realise, after seven years, that he doesn’t want to be with, because another woman, one he told you repeatedly was ‘funny looking’, is in his proximity for a few weeks.
‘Don’t apologise. You’re having one reaction to Colin’s death, I’m having another.
We’re all individuals, all processing the world in different ways.
Your reaction is valid. If you don’t mind me saying, you must be quite shaken up by it.
I can’t imagine what it’s like to see someone die out of the blue. ’
Colin’s dead face breaks into my mind’s eye, and a shiver of pleasure passes down my spine as I realise – for a change – I have an interesting story to tell that is mine alone. ‘I didn’t actually see him die. By the time I found him he was already dead.’
‘Was it quick?’ Gavin rotates their cup around in its saucer so the handle is facing their left hand. The ceramic squeal from the movement sets me on edge. Still, they do not drink it.
‘Very.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’
Gavin finally drinks their coffee, draining half of the cup before placing it back in its saucer.
Some colour has returned to their face, which makes it difficult for me to look at them and keep my composure.
Terrible, awful thoughts for a time like this flood my brain.
Gavin’s moustache tickling my labia as they go down on me, being held in their arms as they fuck me against my hallway wall, my head over their shoulder staring at the floor Colin died on as they thrust in and out of me.
It is clear this is not where Gavin’s thoughts are. They are attempting normal conversation while fighting the urge to cry; they do not blink as they speak. ‘So what is it you do?’
Good question, Gavin. What do I do? ‘I’ve recently become freelance’ pops out. I like it. It gives the impression of me having some get-up-and-go, an entrepreneurial spirit.
‘A freelance what?’ Another good question.
I toy with saying ‘model’ because that is how I earned my last bit of money, but am aware it will result in many more questions, the root of them being ‘you do not look like a model’, and then I’d have to get into the feet stuff and I think Gavin has had to deal with enough already today.
I opt for: ‘Administrative assistant work, receptionist, office manager, that sort of thing.’
‘Does that keep you busy?’
The answer is surely obvious. With no notice I was able to come to them in the middle of the working day. ‘You know, it comes in waves.’
My phone vibrates; it’s Dave.
Money will be with you in a few hours. I expect my pics by midnight.
I smile as I read. Yes please to the money, Dave.
‘You could help at the agency if you have availability? Our receptionist, she quit a few weeks ago saying she couldn’t stand working there another day, and we haven’t replaced her. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been my suboptimal self at work. I’ve been doing two people’s jobs at once.’
As we know, I’m not exactly dripping with cash.
I was never one of those kids given an allowance who didn’t need to work.
My dad got made redundant and didn’t work for years when I was a teenager, so I’ve had a job since I was fifteen to pay my way.
This current run of unemployment is the longest I’ve ever been without work since then.
Even in better times, whenever I walked past a takeaway or a shop with a sign in the window advertising for staff I’d always clock it, wonder if I could fit sixteen hours a week helping out at a bakery into my schedule.
For Gavin to offer me any position, especially one I have the skills for and where payment isn’t reliant on the whims of an internet pervert, is too good to say no to.
However, no other job before has involved working with estate agents.
‘What do you think?’
Every weekday spent looking at Gavin while I apply for better jobs elsewhere could be nice. ‘I have space over the next few weeks, actually.’
‘Could you come in tomorrow for nine?’
‘Sure.’ No one I know can ever find out about this. ‘Will you be my boss, then?’ The idea of Gavin holding power over me brings back the bad thoughts.
‘Sort of. I mean, I should be, and I will be one day. For now, I manage the day-to-day running of things and Brian is the big boss. Which is… well it’s a whole thing.
His wife’s dad started the company, and when he retired Brian was put in charge, despite the fact he is utterly useless.
’ They spin their teaspoon around in their fingers.
‘Anyway, you’ll be the receptionist for the whole agency, do our admin, act as his PA at times. His diary is…’
Gavin takes ages to find the word. ‘Full?’ I offer.
‘Complicated.’ Gavin looks sincere, like they’ve shared valuable information with me. I don’t understand how a man who shows people houses for a living can lead that complex an existence, but who am I to argue?
The avenues to asking for further details on Brian and his diary are shut off when the two women who work in the cafe begin noisily cleaning around us.
Unlike Gavin, they remember to turn the sign in the window over from OPEN to CLOSED.
A yellow plastic wet floor safety sign is placed beside us with a thwack.
What is happening is obvious, and yet Gavin says to the woman who has started mopping around our feet, ‘Oh, sorry, are you closing?’
I gather my things and am forced to take a leaping step away from the table so as not to tread on the freshly cleaned patch of floor as I go to the counter to pay.
Pressing my debit card against the reader, I will my account to have the funds to cover the two drinks.
The machine takes ages to make its decision before it eventually spits out a receipt, which means we’re able to leave.
Outside, under natural light, Gavin looks sleepy, drained, the hint of colour I noted before a trick of TIME’s lighting or my own enthusiastic gaze. ‘You’re not going back to work, are you?’
They stare at the pavement, shake their head. ‘No. It feels like a day I should draw a line under and go home.’
‘OK, well, I’ll let you get back to your’ – I falter as I check their hands and see no rings declaring commitment – ‘to your partner.’ They bristle at my words, so I tack on, ‘Or housemate or parents or whatever.’
‘I live alone. There was somebody until recently but not anymore. Just me.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.’ A lie.
‘Don’t be. Even though it still stings it’s better this way.
’ This is also probably a lie. ‘Actually, sorry if this is too much information, I was going through it around about the same time you changed your rental agreement after splitting with your ex. I remember feeling less awful because it wasn’t just me it was happening to.
Do you know what I mean or have I just made it weird? ’
‘No, I know exactly what you mean.’
We do that thing where you look at someone and know the moment is over but don’t end it definitively for a beat or two, until I say goodbye for both of us. Gavin goes one way, I go the other.