It has been months since David told me about Naomi. How long exactly is hazy. I’m drunk, now, as I often am. Sometimes I don’t sleep for days; other times I sleep for eighteen hours. I am barely working; my bank account is in the red.
I picture Naomi’s soft cheek, I hear her telling me to leave the house. I think of her, sitting the tea down in front of me. I picture her in the photo from her friend’s wedding framed on the shelf, smiling, no worries.
‘Was it me?’ I ask out loud.
I did that to her; she ended her life. How can anyone but me be to blame?
On Monday, at the time Tom usually comes home, I stumble downstairs and I hover, checking my post, checking my phone, checking the menu outside the restaurant next to our flats, checking with the porter to see if any parcels have come for me. Check, check, check, check. I need something to take me away from Naomi, something to shift the focus.
I don’t see Tom. But three days later, going through the same routine, check, check, check, I do.
‘Hey!’ I shout, run-walking across the courtyard, past the bench and the shared garden that everyone who lives here feels too self-conscious to use.
Instead, we pay the service charge to have access to it and then walk half a mile to a park. The water feature sounds beaten down, drip dripping despite no interest or admiration from the hoards of residents who hurry past it to the tube every day.
Tom turns, his bag falling off his shoulder.
‘Oh, hey,’ he says, shrugging it back on.
‘I’ll jump in the elevator with you, if that’s all right?’ I say, heart pounding. ‘Sorry, I know everyone hates getting in with someone else.’
He laughs.
‘It’s all right; we know each other now so it’s less awkward. It’s the ones where you have to stand facing forwards and not acknowledging each other’s existence that I struggle with.’
The elevator cranks into action.
‘Actually, while I have you, I had an industry book I thought might be useful, if you were still thinking about a musical theatre documentary,’ I say, as I have planned to say.
Confidence comes in the form of rum, drunk before dinnertime.
Tom looks embarrassed that he never followed up.
Whatever. I just need to get him inside. Bury Luke under a layer of Tom newness. Get these thoughts about Naomi out of my head. Move on.
‘But you probably decided it wouldn’t work or you need to get home or …’ I ramble.
‘No, no, it’s still a potential, just on the backburner,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll pop round now, shall I? The book would be great. Hey, also, I meant to ask ages ago – did you ever have any issues with post? We’ve had a couple of bits go missing. Hospital stuff. I mentioned it to the porter in case someone was stealing it for identity theft or anything.’
I avoid eye contact.
‘Huh, weird. No, nothing from my end.’
The elevator opens and Tom and I head into my flat. Tom, Luke, Tom, Luke. Blaming me for Naomi’s death. Tom, Luke, Tom, Luke. Getting on with your lives. Leaving me behind. Tom, Luke, Tom, Luke.
‘It’s Lexie’s, mostly,’ he says, carrying on the conversation as we walk into the flat. ‘Her post seems to go AWOL the most.’
Bloody Lexie, here again. Stop interfering, Lexie, leave us the hell alone.
I head into the kitchen and faff around with teabags, sending snippets of conversation over my shoulder into the living room. Tom is in there, studiously examining the spines of the handful of books on the bookshelves to give himself something to do.
I take a breath and pour Tom’s tea. The one in the G mug – sure, my name doesn’t begin with G, but a colleague bought it for me for a Secret Santa once and told me it stood for ‘Great’. It was clearly the only one M&S had; this is the effort I inspire in people.
My own drink is alcoholic, of course.
‘There you go,’ I say, handing the mug to him. ‘Milk, no sugar.’
I glance at the suspicious white dots floating on the surface; the milk almost certainly off. It’s certainly been a while since I made it to a shop. Tom doesn’t notice.
He holds his drink in two hands but looks too distracted to consume it and I can tell he’s building up to something.
He sits down and puts his cup on the table next to him. I sit down on the other side of him, too close.
He looks around.
‘I could have sworn this was the place I came to that party,’ he says, shifting ever so slightly to put extra millimetres between us.
This tortures him, evidently.
‘It feels so familiar. And you have a lot of parties here, don’t you?’
I do a look so blank that it is hammy, to toy with him more and because this way, there is more distance between his lost keys and me.
‘Sure, I have a few. But I know quite a lot of the other flats on this floor have a lot, too. Maybe it was one of those?’
I can’t make eye contact and my hands dart around like they are playing an imaginary piano. It’s a tick that helps me to remember my place in the world, remember that I have a role. Remember that I am good at something. Though right now, it’s not working well.
I think about how unsure I was that I could rebuild a career, when I changed my surname after what happened to Naomi. About how easy it was, in the end. A new website, with the same information and an ability I could demonstrate when I turned up to interviews. Beyond that, nobody checked too much and I cried with relief. I could carry on. This part of my life – such a fundamental one – could keep going, after all.
I look at the clock. We’ve been here ten minutes and once Tom finishes that drink, I don’t expect him to stay for much longer. I need to up the ante. Move things along.
I touch his arm when I speak, I fling my head back and flick my hair, I open a button on my shirt, I copy all of the most clichéd flirting moves there are and I hope that he is battered over the head by my intentions.
‘Another drink?’ I say, moving my hand to his thigh.
I point to my own glass. ‘We could upgrade you to an amaretto and Coke?’
An odd look crosses his face. He shifts his leg away from my touch.
‘So I definitely didn’t come here to a party?’ he says, ignoring my question.
The word ‘party’ strikes me as funny, suddenly. There are parties here, sure, but they aren’t the kind you picture when people say the word. They are the bad kind, the kind no one feels great about in the morning. The kind filled with strangers and sadness and people who want to drink away their day. They wouldn’t inspire smiles, years later, at their memory. They wouldn’t lead to in-jokes or nostalgia or true friendships, people who bonded at 2 a.m. singing loudly with their arms around each other.
And in the mornings, when the people and the whisky bottles are gone, I can see the reality. There are no photos here and just a few books. No life, either – not a plant, not a voice from a radio, not a cut flower.
The rooms feel as sparse as the wine rack, until I stock it again for next time. There are no framed prints, no old vinyl, no handmade card from a glitter-obsessed goddaughter. The piano is the only hint of art – at parties, I cover it with a tablecloth, because it is the only item I truly care about. Everywhere smells airless and stale.
‘Definitely not here,’ I say vaguely, the room rocking slightly now. ‘Maybe your next-door neighbour on the other side?’
Tom glances towards the piano and frowns. Then he remembers my question.
‘I’m all right for a drink,’ he says.
My hand, I realise, is gripped to his thigh.
‘I’ll just grab the book.’
‘Are you sure?’ I say, leaning over.
And just like that, I kiss him. Slip a hand under his T-shirt. Knowing that my iPad is recording this across the room.
‘Just the book,’ he says, pulling away, taking my hand firmly from under his T-shirt. ‘Then I’m going to get home. To my girlfriend.’
I pause. Consider. Then I decide to do it.
‘You weren’t in such a rush to get home last time,’ I say, flatly.
He turns from where he is about to head out of my front door.
‘What?’
I smile.
‘You know? When you came here, partied and then slept with me?’