Zoe made her way through the damp streets, trying to ignore the dislocating feeling making her want to turn back. It was becoming familiar, this sense of constantly working against resistance, and easier to tolerate. She forced herself forward, reminding herself there was nowhere else she ought to be.
It was September now, summer was over, the weather and light were on the turn. Things were starting to happen – she’d been offered a job, one that had a tinge of optimism about it. And on Monday, Martin, one of the lawyers at the property development firm where she was temping, had said he thought he’d found her a place to live.
Martin was the only person at work who talked to Zoe. He was always slightly performative, as if being the kind of man who was nice to the receptionist was important to him, but it was better than not being talked to at all. She was explaining how hard it was to find somewhere to live in London, especially if you were on your own and didn’t make much money. He’d sympathized glibly and said things like ‘housing crisis’ and ‘millennial’ and ‘Generation Rent’, enjoying his foreign vocabulary. And then he told her about one of the other lawyers who worked there, Richard, who’d just bought a house and needed to rent out the basement, to save money for a big renovation project. It felt like one of the most positive things to have happened to her in months.
When Martin had said ‘London Fields’, that too seemed auspicious, but now she was here it felt uncanny to be returning. Zoe deliberately took a route past the flat she used to share with Laura and tried to peer through the windows. The blinds, with the same tangle of slats at the bottom, stopped her looking into the bedrooms, but the kitchen cupboards were the same, and the drying rack that hung over the sink was still there. She could see mugs hanging from the hooks that she and Laura had screwed into the bottom of the cupboards. It was reassuring, as well as surprising, to see that it hadn’t changed. The pub opposite had a new name and the paint was darker and slicker. She saw flowers on the tables and a blackboard listing things with chorizo in them. The corner shop had become a wine bar.
She knew the street Richard lived on – Litchfield Road. She and Laura used to joke that they would live there one day, as if their lives would grow and expand at the same pace as London, and for a while, they used its name as a synonym for luxury or desire. Walking down it again, she realized it was more idiosyncratic than she remembered, broken up by mansion blocks and council estates, untrimmed hedges and thick coats of ivy. Its grandiosities now seemed faded and absurd: plaster lions guarding the steps, pillars topped with gigantic pinecones, wrought-iron balconies with peeling paint, cornicing. The large bay windows started to glow in the weakening light.
She found the house and climbed the steps to the front door. She’d expected it to be smarter – she associated Richard with the bland polish of the office. The door was an unfashionably bright colour. The bell had a sing-song tone that went on too long. She saw a shape enlarge in the mottled glass.
A woman answered – Mrs Harding. Eleanor. Zoe wasn’t sure what she’d thought a lawyer’s wife ought to look like – beautiful or ostentatious perhaps – but this woman wasn’t either of those things. At first sight, she was unremarkable: her face was pale and slightly flat, and she had dark-blonde, fine, shoulder-length hair. Her clothes were casual: a blouse, dark jeans and loafers. You could easily not notice her, Zoe thought, and it was only after she followed Eleanor into the house that she saw how thoughtfully chosen everything was: the print on her blouse was subtle and unusual; her jeans were smart and well cut. She wasn’t imposing or unfriendly, but Zoe could tell she wasn’t the kind of person who made things easy.
She led Zoe into the front room. Something was not quite right. Eleanor was gathered and tasteful, and this room, with its garish walls and sagging sofas, was the opposite. She was at odds with her own home.
Eleanor wasn’t cold exactly, but she was distant as she poured Zoe a glass of wine. ‘And what are you up to at the moment?’ she asked distractedly, the openness of the question making Zoe freeze, not knowing how to start. Zoe tried to explain about her new job and why she needed somewhere cheap to live, while Eleanor just looked mildly puzzled, as if she didn’t properly understand. Zoe supposed that was reasonable; she didn’t make that much sense to herself at the moment. When she asked about the house, Eleanor answered fully and said nothing unusual – they’d only just moved, had two girls, Rosie and Isobel, one and three, major renovations were planned – but her tone was guarded and she shut down the small talk a little too quickly: ‘OK, shall I show you the basement now?’
Behind her on the stairs, the hall light on the crown of her head, Zoe noticed that Eleanor’s hair was highlighted, delicate little stripes of colour reaching almost to the root. She recognized it from when she used to get her own hair done at a salon, before she left her job and had to do it at the sink. She wondered if, underneath, Eleanor’s hair was mouse-coloured, like hers.
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a small landing and two doors, one leading to a bedroom at the back of the house. There was the base of a bed; two tartan boxes on wheels; an ornate, unsteady-looking dark wood wardrobe; and bars on the window, which looked out onto the garden. The lawn was raised, almost out of sight, and the window faced the tiered concrete banks leading up to it. There were one or two pots, filled with bare soil.
Eleanor took her round the room, apologizing brusquely. ‘The view’s not much, I’m afraid; the garden’s fairly low down our list of priorities at the moment. The furniture’s just what we’ve got spare, but we could come to some arrangement, if you had things of your own you wanted to bring. It’s just a shower room through here, but you could use our bathroom from time to time, if you wanted. With that sort of thing, we’re going to have to work it out as we go. Richard and I have never had a lodger before so we don’t have house rules or anything like that. And of course, we want this to suit you too.’
Next door, there was a living room, with mismatched armchairs and a sofa, looking out on a narrow, walled-in yard. Zoe felt a surge of excitement when she saw a door leading out to it – her own front door! – until Eleanor pointed out that there were no steps up to the street: ‘We’ll have to share the entrance upstairs, I’m afraid.’ The room was half the length of the house and to Zoe it seemed like a ballroom.
Eleanor turned to her and asked directly, ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
It sounded like a request for information, rather than an attempt to be friendly. She said she didn’t, the words feeling raw and new in her mouth.
‘Because we’d have to have some kind of rule about overnight guests. Unless, I mean, if there was someone long-term . . . perhaps we could discuss it.’
Zoe hadn’t thought about overnight guests. Eleanor seemed to be trying to politely ask if she had sex with a lot of people. She didn’t, at the moment, but she didn’t want to rule it out. She said it wouldn’t be a problem, and then worried that sounded even more peculiar – that Eleanor might think she was some kind of recluse.
Zoe pretended to assess the room, praising the fireplace and the large windows, asking pragmatic questions about bills and council tax, while she tried to work out whether she could live there. She felt dejected and elated at the same time. It was unequivocally grim: a dark, worn-out basement below someone else’s home. The furniture was a collection of things that had descended to the ranks of the unused and unwanted: awkward inheritances, second- or third-bests. There was a strange smell, as though everything had reached an age when it would never get clean: just too much sweat and skin. But it would be hers. She had never had more than a room to herself before.
The basement could have felt claustrophobic, but to Zoe, it seemed secluded and comforting: her own private cave. She could imagine herself at a desk, looking up at the street, peaceful, writing . . . But besides all that, she was determined to make this life she’d chosen work. And then there was the fact that, right now, she had no other options. She’d been house-sitting and sleeping on sofas, plugging the gaps in other people’s lives, while they went on trips, changed flatmates or partners. She was pleasantly surprised by all the transition around her and the opportunities it threw up, but she couldn’t rely on it. Really, there was nothing to consider.
‘It’s perfect. Perfect for me, I mean. I’d love to live here, if, you know, you and Richard are happy with that.’
An expression of pure relief crossed Eleanor’s face and then disappeared. She motioned for Zoe to follow her upstairs and began talking about moving dates and bank details. Something on the landing caught Zoe’s eye. She didn’t know why; it was small, almost imperceptible. Without thinking about it, she crouched down. It was writing. Pencil on white plaster, just above the skirting board. The hand was shaky but insistent, escalating from a cramped ‘E’ to a flamboyant ‘Y’. It was discreet, but defiant as well. It said, ‘Emily’.
Eleanor spoke quickly and surprisingly sharply: ‘That isn’t anything to do with us. A family lived here before we did – that must have been the little girl. We’ll wash it off before you arrive.’
There was a pause. Eleanor said, ‘It isn’t anything to worry about, you know.’
It was only later, when she’d left, that Zoe realized Eleanor hadn’t shown her the rest of the house.