38

‘You’re doing so well, sis,’ our Kit says, peering out from my phone screen.

‘I needed to do something,’ I say, tapping back into selfie mode. ‘Should I text Patricia Carmichael again? I don’t want her to think I’m squatting here.’

‘Hold on – Gareth wants to see the flat now.’

‘HI CHLOE!’ Gareth smacks a kiss onto Kit’s camera.

I turn the camera to show the living room again.

‘It’s nothing major,’ I say. ‘Just a few touches here and there.’

‘Oh, I love the dried flowers in those empty wine bottles,’ Gareth says. ‘And is that us?’

He’s spotted the photo of me sandwiched between the two grooms on their wedding day, in pride of place on the breakfast bar. I show Gareth the invitation he designed, sitting beside it in a matching frame.

‘Did you tidy up especially?’ Kit asks. ‘To call us?’

‘Ha. You wanna see the state of the bedroom. It’s a wonder I can find me knickers.’

‘A leopard never changes its spots,’ Gareth chuckles.

‘Is me mum still fuming?’

Kit blows out his lips. ‘She never was. It’s all in your head.’

I hadn’t gone to visit during half term, although that had been the plan. Beth was going back to that retreat in the Cotswolds and had suggested – insisted – I went with her this time. The endless yoga did get boring, as much as I’d banked on a spiritual awakening, and the whole four days could have been more of a hoot if we’d been allowed booze, but it had been the right thing to do. Liverpool had had the potential to be a nice break. I could have caught up with mates, played Fun Aunty Chlo armed with gifts for their kids, visited my nan, but I’m not ready. I’m making progress, but I’m still worried I might once again regress to hiding in my old bedroom, emerging only for cheese toasties or to bicker with my mum. Besides, Beth asked. And she only asks when she really needs something.

‘You look really good, Chloe,’ Gareth says, always happy to change the subject when it concerns his mother-in-law. ‘Doesn’t she, babe?’

‘And she’s applied for the job. You know, the full-time teaching position?’

‘Congratulations!’

‘I’ve applied,’ I say. ‘I haven’t got it.’

Yet,’ Gareth says. ‘You haven’t got it yet.’

‘This is so great, sis. Do you feel like you’re starting to move on?’ Kit asks.

I wish we were on the phone, the old-fashioned way, so they couldn’t see my face.

‘Shit, what did I say?’ he takes charge, walking away from Gareth.

‘I’m desperate to move on, but something’s stopping me. Something feels … incomplete.’

One plan of Jack’s is outstanding, stuck to the fridge door. The estate agent’s card. Jack wanted us to move out. We just never got round to discussing where or when. I’ve kept the card there as a potential starting point for who to call if I get kicked out.

‘There’s still so much I never found out.’

‘You could say that about any relationship that ends abruptly.’

‘Jack wasn’t any relationship, though, was he?’

‘You say he wasn’t. And sis, I believe you. But maybe you do need to ask yourself – what if he wasn’t the great love of your life? What if … Ah, fuck it. I’m gonna sound like me mum if I keep talking like this.’

He crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue. We share a small, comfortable laugh.

‘I’m scared, Kit. I’m so scared. Once I move on, that’s it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Jack. That’s it. He really will be gone.’

Kit’s face softens, his voice a whisper. ‘He already is, sis.’

He’s aching to help me, but he can’t. Just like a yoga retreat in the Cotswolds can’t. With every tealight I’ve lit to make the living room look pretty, with every laugh I snort watching comedy panel shows at night on the telly, every lunch I share with Si, every cuppa I enjoy with Ingrid upstairs on a Sunday afternoon, I can’t escape this dark cloud pressing down on my shoulders. Kit’s wrong. Jack hasn’t gone.

‘Jack wanted us to live somewhere with a better view, you know,’ I tell him.

‘What’s wrong with the view?’

I go to the front window.

‘Ah,’ says Kit, as he sees the stone stairs, a hint of daylight above tarmac. ‘I see his point.’

‘Dinner’s ready,’ Gareth shouts. He’s been making risotto.

Kit throws me a ‘Zig-a-zig-ah’ and I quote a couple of lines from Dirty Dancing.

‘For fuck’s sake, Kit,’ Gareth screams.

‘He’s the worst when he’s hungry,’ Kit whispers.

‘I know. He makes Jack seem like an angel in comparison.’

‘CHRISTOPHER!’

‘Go! Go!’ I say.

‘Bye, sis!’

He hangs up. Their abrupt absence like somebody switching the main light on when you’ve just got into bed. I want risotto, too. But like Kit, like Gareth, I want it with my other half. Something I can’t do.

There is something I can do, though. One last thing.

I dial the number from the business card on the fridge.

‘Ashford Estates, Lorraine speaking,’ says a woman, a meaty melody to her voice.

‘Hiya, I’m looking for … erm …’

I haven’t got a clue. Luckily, Lorraine is better at this than me.

‘Rental or sales?’ she asks.

‘Rental.’

‘What area?’

‘This one, I think. It’s pretty hilly around here, I bet there are some nice views—’

‘Can you tell me the area? Postcode?’ Lorraine doesn’t show much emotion over the phone, which isn’t a bad thing. She could be asking for my National Insurance number or whether I’ve ever had a threesome. She keeps her judgement tucked away.

‘Oh God,’ I say, rubbing my forehead, as if trying to remove a dirty stain. ‘Your card’s been on our fridge for a while. I think me partner was in touch with you or one of your colleagues, maybe late May or early June this year? He must’ve dropped by, unless someone he knew gave him your card.’

‘Can’t you just ask him?’

I gasp. That word just – so simple. So throwaway.

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘He’s not here.’

‘Maybe give us a call back when you’ve had a chance to chat to him? I’m here ’til six.’

What I’d give for that chance.

I remove the card from beneath the flip-flop magnet that doubles as a bottle opener, hold it between my thumb and index finger. The last person to touch this was Jack. I bring the card to my lips and kiss it. Slipping from my grip, it flutters away, landing beneath the washing machine. I drop to my knees but my fingers can’t reach to retrieve it. I grab a fork from the draining board and coax it out, my phone still pressed to my ear with my shoulder.

‘Lorraine? Are you still there?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Can I help you with anything else?’

I’m not reading the front of the card, where the logo for Ashford Estates is printed above its address, a few metres from the Sainsbury’s Local. A different address altogether is written on the back. In Jack’s handwriting.

‘Flat four, 68 Woodhill Road please,’ I say, reading aloud. ‘I’d like to view it, please.’

‘Of course, Woodhill Road. Lovely. Just what you’re after, on a hill. Perfect. Oh, no. Not perfect. It’s no longer on the market. Never mind.’

‘Oh.’ I deflate. Gutted. On the verge of crying. Oh God. Over a flat I’ve never fucking seen. It was on a hill. Whoop-de-doo! That would mean a steep, breathless trek from the station or the bus stop every day on the way home from school. Wonky floors. Dodgy stairs. Visitors would avoid the trip. I’ve saved myself the bother.

‘Would you be interested in …’ Lorraine begins, pauses. I hear the click of her mouse.

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘It was 68 Woodhill Road or nothing.’

‘68 Woodhill Road is still available. It’s only flat four that’s gone. You can view flat three. Same floor, flat opposite. Like a mirror image?’

‘A mirror image?’

‘That’s what I said. Now what’s your name and I’ll book you in.’

On the spot, I oblige.

‘Are you coming alone or should I expect your husband as well?’

‘We’re not married,’ I say, somehow finding that marginally easier to say than ‘alone’.

Lorraine releases a high-pitched, ‘Oh!’ and decorates her mistake with an unashamed giggle. I hear her hand banging on her desk. ‘You’d think I’d learnt my lesson,’ she says, catching her breath. ‘Been with my other half thirty-two years. Never got round to tying the knot, though. And still, I always presume everybody else is shacked up with a ring on their finger. Oh, what am I like?!’

Lorraine from Ashford Estates has let her guard down.

Now that I’m booked in for a property viewing, Lorraine is my friend. She’s telling me about a divorced couple who put their house on the market last year, how she cocked it all up – ‘Oh, not the sale, just their dignity’ – by putting her ‘big bleeding size nine’ foot in it, and well, on she goes. I might just put the phone on speaker, start tidying up, make some toast.

The man sat in the shopping trolley shares my opinion of Lorraine.

‘Don’t worry,’ I think. ‘You’ll be coming with me.’

And on and on she goes.