On waking the next morning, I’m groggy and disorientated from my late night. Reaching for my phone, my first thought is to check the time, but before I can do that, my brain kicks into high gear and demands that I leap out of bed to check everything is in order. As much as I want to believe every word Shep told me – and I generally think the best of people until they give me a solid reason to think otherwise – he’s still a stranger and someone I know next to nothing about.
‘Please don’t have robbed me,’ I chunter to myself, while pulling on a pair of trackie bottoms and a hoodie. ‘That, I would never recover from.’
Quietly pulling open the door to my bedroom, I stick my head out into the hallway to see if there’s any sign of Shep, but the flat is silent. A little too silent. Tiptoeing across the hallway, my bare feet cool against the natural wooden floorboards, I check the living room, then the kitchen, both of which are in the state they were left the previous evening. The TV, my Bose Bluetooth speaker (a much-loved Christmas gift from my parents), the microwave and all other portable electronics are sitting snugly in their rightful places, which is certainly an encouraging sign. It’s also enough of a positive indicator for me to instruct the paranoid part of my brain to pipe down. What there is no sign of, though, is Shep. I can see he’s not in the bathroom, because the door is wide open, meaning the only place left to check is the spare room.
Creeping back across the hallway, careful to avoid the floorboards I know will creak and give me away, I put my ear up against the closed door, but there’s not a sound coming from within. Maybe he’s still asleep, I think to myself, then balk as I look over my shoulder at the skeleton clock and discover it’s gone midday. I can’t remember the last time I slept that late. Though, saying that, I can’t remember the last time I stayed up till two a.m. – sad as that might sound coming from someone who’s constantly reminded of how much partying she should be doing at her age. Returning my attention to my spare room and what might be going on inside it, I misjudge how close I am to the door and accidently headbutt it, causing a ‘thunk’ that’s definitely loud enough to attract the attention of my new roommate.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’ I dance around in panic, before realising the only thing I can do to avoid it looking like I was spying on him (which, to be fair, I was) is to make out that I was knocking on the door.
Gathering myself together, I close my eyes for a moment, then knock twice.
‘Shep? Just wondering how you are this morning, and if you’d like any breakfast?’
There’s no response, so I try once more, louder this time. Again, there’s no answer. At a loss as to what to do, my mind goes into overdrive. Why hasn’t he answered? Surely if he had been asleep, he would have woken up by now. Oh crap, what if he’s dead? What if he had internal bleeding after all, and now my guest bed is occupied by a corpse? If there’s any chance that’s the case, the last thing I want to do is enter the room; however, if he is dead, then I’m going to have a bigger issue on my hands the longer I leave it.
Whipping myself into a panicked frenzy, I realise I have no option but to open the door and face whatever’s inside. ‘Just effing do it,’ I chide myself, pushing open the door and anxiously peering into the room – only becoming aware that I’m holding my breath when I see that everything is in order.
Sagging against the wall with relief, I give a shaky laugh. However, this positive sensation is short-lived, because while Shep might not be dead, he’s also not here. And neither is any of his stuff. This can only mean one thing: he’s done a bolt.
Disappointment washes over me, followed by a rapid re-emergence of my suspicions. If he’s gone, then why has he gone? If it were for any innocent reason, wouldn’t he have waited to say goodbye? Which means he either decided our arrangement wasn’t going to work out, and didn’t have the guts to tell me, or…
Returning to the hallway, my eyes land on my handbag, which is sitting on the floor at the bottom of the coat stand – exactly where I dump it every day when I arrive home. This habit is fine when I’m living alone, but having impulsively invited some random bloke to stay, it’s not such a wise move.
‘Oh, no. Please, no.’ I rush across the room, drop to my knees and rifle through the contents, looking for my purse. ‘Oh shit, it’s not here. It’s gone. It’s bloody gone. You are a total idiot, Lea. A completely naïve and stupid—’
‘Why are you being so unkind to my landlady?’ a male voice cuts through my distressed ramblings.
My head shoots round in surprise to discover Shep standing there, watching me quizzically, the front door of the flat wide open behind him.
‘I… um…’ I’m so blindsided by his sudden reappearance that I don’t know what to say or do, but as my fingers finally locate my purse, one thing’s for sure: he’s not a thief.
‘Shep, good morning.’ I smile up at him, tugging at my hoodie guiltily. ‘Where have you been? I was just… I mean, I thought—’
‘You thought I’d done a runner with your purse.’ He steps forward and helps me to my feet.
‘What? No.’
‘You’re really gonna deny it?’
‘OK, yes, I’m sorry.’ I wring my hands in shame. ‘I guess… I mean, I was comfortable enough with my decision of inviting you to stay while I was tanked up on gin, but I’ve had a few moments since when I’ve wondered if it was stupid and/or risky. While I’m apologising for jumping to the conclusion that you might be a thief, I don’t think I should be apologising for being vigilant.’
‘Definitely not.’ He hands me a carrier bag with some groceries in it. ‘I don’t blame you one bit for questioning your decision. It was risky. I could have been a scammer pretending to be Shep the comedian, so it’s lucky for you I’m just a regular guy down on his luck. But let’s not forget that it was also a generous and selfless gesture.’
‘Well, when you put it like that…’ I offer him a toothy smile, while cringing a little at his use of the word ‘selfless’: it’s a stark reminder of the fact that I went into this arrangement also seeking something for myself, and I haven’t shared that side of things with him (though, who can blame me?). ‘Then we’re good?’
‘We’re good.’ He gives me a little wink. ‘I only nipped out because I was gonna cook us some breakfast, then I clocked that you’re low on milk and you didn’t have any soda bread.’
‘Oh, right. And soda bread is important?’
‘It’s like a comedian without a decent punchline. Everything falls flat.’
I tip my head back in amusement. ‘Noted. So, are you still going to make that breakfast, then? Though I’m not sure I’m in any position to ask.’
‘That’s enough, you.’ Shep gives me a jovial nudge. ‘I’ve got to earn my keep somehow. You up for playing sous-chef?’
‘Absolutely.’ I clap my hands enthusiastically. ‘What does that involve?’
‘Making the tea and toast.’
‘Think I can manage that.’ I head into the kitchen, with him following behind. ‘By the way, how did you get back in? You don’t have a key… And I thought all your money was stolen?’
‘I had some cash stashed away in my holdall, and I left the two doors on the snib. Was only for a few minutes, hope that’s not a problem.’
‘No, it’s fine. But also, where’s all your stuff? The spare room is empty.’
He looks at me and chuckles. ‘Ever heard of a wardrobe?’
‘Obviously.’ I facepalm, wishing I’d had the presence of mind to think of that.
After a leisurely breakfast, which by definition turns into brunch, Shep and I hit the sofa with full bellies that leave us capable of doing little else. In addition to checking on his injury from the evening before and trying to persuade him to get it looked at, we’ve had more of a ‘getting to know each other’ chat than the day before. I’ve learned that his real name is actually Ciaran Shepperd (Shep being a nickname he acquired at school), he comes from a small town near Belfast, and his parents, brother and sister still live in that town, just a few streets away from each other. They also all work in the same hospital.
Although I don’t like spending so much time alone, the thought of that is suffocating. My parents would have happily kept me at home, commuting to the nearest university, but I knew there was no way I could do that without killing them (not literally, to be clear). It would have been too much at a time when I was finding my independence, so I can fully understand Shep’s need to follow his own path, even if that makes him the outcast of the family.
I also learned that he was the class clown in school – so basically a stand-up comedian with an audience since before he hit puberty – and he’s been doing gigs in Belfast comedy clubs for eight years, while working as a customer service advisor for a bank. The latter he took on so he could afford to rent a small flat in the city and get away from the ‘parental glare’, as he calls it.
It was so lovely to have someone to chew the fat with, and I couldn’t help but beam with delight in between mouthfuls of my food. It reminded me of my uni days, when there was always someone around to hang out with. And not only did I have company, but I also learned something new: fried soda bread is indeed the pièce de résistance of a cooked breakfast. Who’d have thought it?
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital for a check-up?’ I say once again to Shep as we’re clearing up in the kitchen a bit later on. ‘That injury looked bad.’
‘I’m grand, honestly,’ he replies. ‘It’s just bruised. Looks worse than it is, and it’s not as painful today.’
‘OK, but if anything changes you need to let me know. And you need to go to the police and report it. You can’t let those thugs get away with what they did.’
Shep shrugs. ‘I don’t expect the police will do much. They’ve much bigger issues to deal with.’
‘Hmm.’ I narrow my eyes at him, aware that some of that self-confessed male pride might be holding him back from coming forward as a victim of violence, but I don’t want to push it too hard. ‘I hope you will,’ I add and then change the subject. ‘So, I know I’m not allowed to request comedy on-demand, but I’m super curious about your stand-up career. It’s just so different to what I do.’
‘What do you want to know?’ He hands me the tomato ketchup, which I put back in the fridge, then I pick up the empty egg box from the countertop.
‘I don’t know… like, where do you get your inspiration from? And what’s your on-stage persona or whatever? I won’t be using the right lingo, but you know what I mean, right?’
Shep grins at me. ‘If you’re that keen to see me in action, why don’t you come to my show? I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s great craic.’
I pause, halfway to the recycling bin. ‘Really? You’d be OK with that?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘I don’t know. I wondered if maybe it would be off-putting having someone you know there.’
He laughs loudly. ‘Says the woman who keeps reminding me I’m a stranger, and who has on two occasions suspected me of being a conman.’
‘That’s not entirely true.’ I pull a pouty face. ‘I only once thought you were a conman. The other time I just thought you’d gone home to Belfast without telling me, and then when you did turn up, I had you pegged as an unreliable roommate.’
‘Ah, that’s totally different, then.’ He mocks me lightly, earning a tea towel in the face as a response. ‘Lea, you’re fine. You’re not gonna put me off. Not unless you’re one of those hecklers who make it their mission to destroy comedy careers purely so they can look smart – which they don’t. They look like the tools that they are, ruining everyone else’s fun.’
‘That sounds like a voice of experience.’ I load the final dishes into the dishwasher and set it off. ‘I don’t think you have any worries there.’
‘Then you’re more than welcome. It’s good to know I’ll have an audience of at least one tonight – and that I can look forward to your sizeable donation at the end of the show.’
‘Oh, you’re a cheeky one. A rent-free room isn’t enough of a donation?’
‘You make a good point. I’ll just use you in my show instead, then.’ He gives me a cheeky wink and I gulp, wondering what I’ve just let myself in for.