Oh my God, he’s back. My landlord. Keeper of the thermostat.
The flat is FREEZING.
It’s been this way since his return on Monday. No doubt this is Edward’s way of offsetting his carbon footprint caused by flying a family of four to Verbier. He arrived back late on Monday night, but I didn’t see him as I was already tucked up in bed watching The Crown on Netflix on my laptop.
I am in love with that show. As a little girl I was obsessed with Princess Diana and her pie-crust blouses, but now I’m all over Princess Margaret. All that flouncing around, drinking and smoking and dating unsuitable men. That was me when I was younger. Though now I fear I’m more like the Queen. Standing around with my arms folded, looking disapproving in a cardie and a pair of comfy shoes.
Braving the icy temperatures, I venture into the kitchen to make something to eat. Aside from watching The Crown, I’ve spent the last couple of weeks firing off emails to various old contacts enquiring after (pleading for) work. I can’t believe it’s already the middle of January and I still haven’t finished unpacking, or got myself a job, or managed to turn my life around from Fuck-Up to Total Success. I’m going to have to really get a move on.
I’m just putting some bread in the toaster when I hear my landlord’s key in the latch. Arthur hears it too and races to the front door. We haven’t really seen each other since he got back, except for exchanging a few pleasantries as he rushes out of the door in the morning. Every day this week he’s arrived home late, by which time I’ve been in bed, but this evening he’s home early.
‘Penelope, hello,’ he beams, appearing in the kitchen carrying his fold-up Brompton bicycle, Arthur in his wake. Edward always insists on calling me by my full name.
‘Hi Edward,’ I smile. I tried Eddie, but he wasn’t having any of it.
‘How are you settling in?’
‘Good,’ I reply politely. ‘Still got some unpacking to do, but getting there . . . how was your trip?’
‘Excellent. Perfect conditions.’
His face is tanned beneath his helmet, apart from two big white circles around his eyes from where his ski goggles must have been. If he was a friend I’d tease him about them. But he’s not. So I don’t.
‘Great.’ I shift awkwardly on the other side of the kitchen island.
‘Do you ski?’
‘No, not really. Once. On a school trip.’
‘Oh. Shame.’
The conversation stalls and I turn back to the toaster. It’s really very odd, this sharing a house thing, in your forties. Here we are, two complete strangers with our own lives and nothing in common, except the fact that we’re both now living under the same roof. Which, now I think about it, is how my relationship felt towards the end.
‘It’s like a sauna in here, have you turned up the heating?’
I look up to see Edward taking off his bicycle helmet and reflective jacket. His eyes dart to the thermostat.
‘I haven’t touched it,’ I protest, suddenly back in teenager mode and living with my parents. My face floods. I am a horrible liar.
His face seems to relax as it’s confirmed that the thermostat is still set to Arctic, and he continues removing layers until he’s down to a T-shirt. Meanwhile I’m standing here looking like I’m trying to avoid paying for checked-in baggage at the easyJet counter, by wearing the entire contents of my suitcase.
What is it with men and women and the constant battle over the central heating? Growing up, I can remember how every winter my dad turned into Chief Inspector Stevens of the Heating Police, constantly policing the thermostat and turning down the dial a click. Only for him to go to work and Mum to turn it back up two notches. Back and forth it went for my entire childhood.
‘I think your toast is burning . . .’
Edward’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I snap back to see a plume of smoke. ‘Oh shit!’ I quickly press cancel at the same time as the smoke alarm starts wailing.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it.’
I finish jabbing the charred remains from the toaster to see my landlord fanning the alarm with a tea towel and opening a window.
‘Thanks.’ I smile apologetically and go to throw them away and start again, when Edward stops me.
‘I’ll eat it, I love burnt toast.’
‘You do?’
‘Sophie was addicted to it when we lived in France and she was pregnant with the twins; I was forever making it for her.’
I feel myself soften. See. He’s a nice man really. He doesn’t mean to freeze his tenant to death.
‘You lived in France?’
‘Yes. Sophie’s French; that’s where we met. We moved back when the boys started school.’
‘How old are the twins now?’
‘Fifteen . . . going on twenty-five.’ He smiles through a mouthful of blackened teeth from the charred toast. ‘Not my little boys any more.’
‘You must miss them during the week.’
‘Yes,’ he nods, then shrugs. ‘Though I’m not sure they miss me. Too busy with their heads buried in their phones to notice I’m gone, most likely.’
For a moment I feel a bit sorry for him. Perched on his bar stool, eating my burnt toast. It can’t be any fun for him either. Cycling home from a long day spent in the office to find some stranger in your kitchen, setting off fire alarms.
An icy blast blows in from the open window and I shiver. Actually, forget the toast, I’m too cold.
‘Well, have a good evening . . .’ Flinging the bread back in the fridge, I grab a couple of cans of pre-mixed G&Ts – I’ve bought a whole stash – then quickly head back upstairs. I’m going to spend the rest of the evening keeping warm under my duvet, swigging gin and imagining I’m Princess Margaret.
I’m grateful for: