Jack’s problem with living in a basement flat was that this particular area of London is green and hilly. A cluster of steep parks hide behind rows of residential streets, with spectacular views of London Bridge and Canary Wharf. Jack – as grateful as he was to his parents for the low rent – always felt like he was hiding, when it suited him to be up and out. I can only hope this place is affordable.
I’ve got a Saturday late afternoon viewing. It’s a short bus ride away. I’d walk, but the shrill wind blows sideways, smacking you in the face no matter what direction you stomp. Christmas is only six weeks away. We’re in that lull before windows get their annual festive makeover; a temporary bleak darkness.
Lorraine meets me outside. She’s Amazonian. She wears blue mascara. Her size nine feet sit in flat court shoes and her whole look is eighties powerhouse: pinstripe suit with pencil skirt (at least a size too small); fine black tights. She walks with a long umbrella, using it as a stick.
‘So did your partner like the other flat?’ she asks, jangling the keys in her hand.
Did he? I don’t know. I make a comment about the weather.
She leads the way up the path towards the main entrance, unlocking the door and holding it open for me. Like the Victorian building where Jack’s parents own the flat, 68 Woodhill Road is a large, double-fronted house. The exterior has been reconstructed though and the ground-floor hallway is pristine proof that the interior has been refurbished recently.
‘What’s his name? Your other half?’ Lorraine asks. ‘I remember everyone.’
‘Jack. Jack Carmichael.’
I love saying his name. And I love Lorraine’s question. She’s innocent when it comes to the tragedy of Jack, of me. To Lorraine, Jack is still alive. Why wouldn’t he be?
‘Small guy, cycles everywhere?’ she asks.
‘Nope,’ and that single word gives it away.
‘Oh! I know Jack. Big bloke, beard. Laughs and the whole room shakes.’
‘Spot on.’
‘See? Told you I remember everyone.’
We go up six flights of stairs. The carpet is sea blue, spongey, the staircase wide.
‘Keeps you fit, this place,’ Lorraine says, out of breath and seemingly enjoying it.
We reach the top floor: the roof. Flat four has a tall plant outside and a faded Hello Kitty doormat. Flat three looks empty. Lorraine confirms it as she turns the key.
‘Nobody’s ever lived here,’ she says. ‘Brand, spanking new.’
It’s huge, perhaps due to the lack of furniture. We’re in an open-plan kitchen-diner-living area, wooden floors polished, a sloping low ceiling with beams. Three separate arched windows stretch from the floor upwards, overlooking a great distance. I press my body against the glass, taking it all in.
‘You won’t find any famous landmarks out there. That’s the Kent countryside, a few suburbs. Still impressive though, don’t you think?’ Lorraine says, then points her thumb behind her back. ‘That’s the property with the London skyline. The one your man viewed.’
I turn around. The space between us feels vast.
‘Jack viewed that flat? Opposite?’
‘While ago. Early June, maybe? It was a damn sight hotter than today, anyhow. We both had to duck to stand over by the windows – bloody slopes.’
I’d thought Jack had only been into the offices of Ashford Estates; maybe looked at photos in the window. He’s been here, though; actively viewed this place. Well, that place. Why hadn’t he told me?
‘Can I see the bedroom?’ I ask. Ironically, I need some space.
‘Plural. There’s two. And three bathrooms. Go bananas.’
I have to imagine a bed, a lamp; although there’s a delightful walk-in wardrobe. The slope ceiling is in here too, creating warmth within this somewhat sterile apartment. I wonder what we’d hang on the walls. Get some new prints of Thailand; frame them. A low bed, for sure. I can’t imagine Jack anywhere here though. The basement flat is much smaller and yet, there, he fits. Snug. Here, he’d be banging his head and walking in zigzags.
When I return to the main space, Lorraine is inspecting the cooker.
‘Thoughts?’ she asks.
‘Amazing. I completely love it. Out of me price range, like.’
‘Probably a good thing. If you know what I mean?’
‘No?’
‘Oh, because your lovely man, Jack – well, it’s not his style at all, is it? Said he’d rather be putting a deposit down on a place in the country, get some horses, build proper fires. He kept talking about chopping wood like his dad. What? What’s wrong? Have I put my foot in it again?’
She’s definitely put that bloody big foot in something; although what, I’m not sure.
‘So this place is for sale? Not rent?’ I ask.
‘Oh! Are you guys not looking to buy any more?’
Jack and I had never discussed buying a property together. We hadn’t not discussed it either. We’d fantasised about our future home together: a hot tub, a corner bar and pool table, a family cinema. We may as well have been planning to be a ballerina or an astronaut when we grew up. We had our dreams, but we weren’t getting practical about them, scaling them down to fit reality. Not yet.
I can’t tell Lorraine any of this, though. It might make her think twice, hold back. She’s breaking some sort of data confidentiality, no doubt, with her stories, and I want to know more.
‘We are,’ I lie, ‘but he’s always changing his mind. Silly old Jack. One minute he wants a rooftop apartment looking over London, and the next he wants – erm – horses, like you said. No wonder it’s taken us almost six months to get back in touch with you.’
‘Well, what’s the rush? None of us are going anywhere, are we?’
Ah. Lorraine. How little you know.
‘And he really didn’t like this place, did he?’ I prompt.
‘No, not at all. But he knew you’d love it,’ and she’s laughing at herself, at the memory, at Jack, at the jokes they’d shared, ‘and he was saying how he was gonna have to buy you a pair of wellies filled with … oh, what was it … some chocolate bar. A Kinder egg … no, Bueno! Filled with Kinder Buenos! Convince you to move to the sticks.’
I turn back to face the window, let my eyes wander miles and miles past rooftops, chimneys, fields. ‘Could you give me a minute, Lorraine? I need to …’ and I swallow, steady myself on the upper window ledge.
‘I’ll be downstairs, there’s a comfy sofa in the hallway. I’ve got a few calls to make.’
She leaves the door ajar and gradually, her footsteps disappear.
It’s wonderful that Jack wanted to buy; that he was in a decent financial position. God knows I’m not there yet, not on my salary. I’ve only been a teacher for a few years. I knew he had some savings, some inheritance. I’d wondered why he hadn’t already bought somewhere, but it wasn’t a question I asked. And I would’ve asked, had the conversation come up. It just hadn’t.
I sit on the polished wood floor in the centre of the room, unravel my scarf, try to feel at home. My fingers dance, creating an invisible circle of trust, sensing the vibe. It’s clinical, this flat, but the potential is huge. For plants, plants and more plants, enjoying the sunlight from the long windows. How could Jack not love this place? I’d put some beanbags over in that small nook; a reading corner. The less I try to imagine Jack in this space, the more I see. A hanging rack for pots and pans; tall standing candles beside each window.
I think of Jack, banging his head. Wanting to chop wood.
Did we really want such different things?
Does that matter? Or, more accurately, would that have mattered?
‘Jack?’ I whisper, standing up.
With everything I do, no matter how big or small, I can sense a connection to Jack. Except in here. I don’t even feel like crying. Perhaps because this is beyond my means. Pure fantasy. I’m what the teacher in me would call a time-waster, viewing properties I can’t afford. So I wrap myself up with my scarf, bow my head and meander out of pretty much my dream apartment.
‘Miss Roscoe? Are you alright?’
I jump, dropping my satchel between flat three and flat four, startled out of my thoughts. It’s a man, maybe older than me by a few years, his hair floppy – rather retro – like the hero of a Touchstone movie. His stubble is fair, his smile kind. I don’t know him, but he definitely knows me. He’s bent down, retrieving my bag and the pens that have rolled onto the communal sea-blue carpet.
‘I didn’t mean to give you a fright,’ he laughs, unsure of himself.
‘It’s okay, I was a million miles away.’
‘One too many?’
‘Huh? Erm, no – not at all—’
‘Whoa, I was completely joking. And I wasn’t judging. Teachers are allowed to drink, I didn’t—’
‘It’s fine. I drink all the time. Just not this afternoon. Yet.’
‘Fair enough,’ he says, still holding onto my satchel. Like me, he’s wearing a denim jacket – although it’s smarter than mine, obviously more expensive, a grey hoodie sitting comfortably beneath it. I reach out to take what’s rightfully mine and get the impression he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. He mumbles a further apology and hands over the satchel, then the loose pens, one of them pink and fluffy, like a camp flamingo.
‘A gift,’ I say, defending my choice of stationery.
‘Again, not judging.’
I wonder if he works at the school. He called me Miss Roscoe. I haven’t been the most sociable member of staff; I’m not on first name terms with that many teachers … wait. Oh God. How could I be so stupid? He must be a parent.
‘Congratulations on the lovely performance before half term,’ he says, and now he’s holding his hand out to shake mine. I accept.
‘Thanks! I really can’t take the praise, though. It was all Si – Mr Sullivan. Yeah, Mr Sullivan. He’s boss. I mean, professional. A true pro.’
‘Are you from Liverpool?’
‘Yeah. How’d you guess?’
‘My mum’s from Southport.’ He leans back into his door frame.
‘Oh. Wow … erm … that’s spooky. Well, not really.’
‘A coincidence, maybe?’
‘A mature spin on spooky. I’ll go with that. Anyway, I’m glad you enjoyed the show.’
‘I did. It was a very special night.’
‘Well, like I said. You should tell Mr Sullivan, he’ll be thrilled.’
‘No, it was you I wanted to tell, actually. You’re wrong when you say you didn’t do much, Miss Roscoe. You did everything.’
I stuff the pens into my satchel and blow a raspberry to dismiss his comments. I’ve honestly no idea why. In a panic, I blow another raspberry, just to highlight how ridiculous I am.
‘You helped my daughter,’ the man says, unaware of my silliness. ‘I’m Layla Birch’s dad.’
‘Oh my! Layla Birch’s dad,’ I squeal, and I shake his hand. Again.
‘Oliver,’ he says. ‘Ollie.’
‘It’s so nice to meet you, Oliver … Ollie.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine.’
‘You have an amazing kid.’
‘You’re an amazing teacher. Layla tells me you have a lovely singing voice.’
‘Mediocre at best. But your daughter, well, she’s gonna go far.’
‘Thanks to you, Miss Roscoe.’
‘Chloe! Call me Chloe. Or Chlo?’
‘Okay. Chlo.’
‘Unless we’re in school and then you’d have to call me Miss Roscoe.’
‘I’m a bit old for school, don’t you think?’
And I laugh. Well, that was funny. He’s funny. Oliver. Ollie. God, I’m just so made up that I helped Layla Birch; and I mean, really, really helped her, because I’m standing here with her dad, and he’s genuinely grateful. And funny. He’s been through hell and yet he’s being funny.
‘I was here to—’ I feel the need to explain.
‘So now you know—’ Ollie says at the same time, then, ‘Sorry. You first, Chlo.’
‘Oh, I was just gonna say that I came here to view this flat, Number three.’
‘And I was going to say – now you know where I live. I mean, where Layla lives. Should I tell her that her teacher is about to become her neighbour?’
‘God no!’
‘You didn’t like it?’
‘No, I loved it. I do. It’s – erm – not the right time.’
‘Well, if you have second thoughts and want to see how the place can look – you know, lived in, slight leak in the bathroom, clothes hanging on the radiator ’cause I never get a chance to fix the tumble dryer – honestly, drop by.’
‘I will. Your flat has the better view, too. So I hear.’
‘It was the deal-breaker. We needed something extra special, Layla and me.’
I nod, and desperately want to reach out, squeeze his hand.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘shame I won’t have a private tutor across the hall.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything I could teach you—’
‘I meant, for Layla. Obviously.’
‘Obviously!’
‘Look, I have to dash,’ Ollie says and taps the NHS badge hanging on a blue cord around his neck. ‘I’m on my way to work. Night shift.’
‘Oh, rubbish.’
‘Nah. It’s fine. And anyway, I’m one proud dad. Always counting my blessings.’
Ollie Birch goes away as quickly as he showed up. I look for the shadow hanging over him, try to spot the hunch in his shoulders, the weight he must carry. But I don’t see anything: just a man jogging down the stairs, on his way to work. A dad feeling proud of his little girl.
And I’m proud, too. Of myself. I did good. As a teacher. I actually did good, didn’t I?
Cold air from the vacant flat tickles my neck.
It will be warmer inside Ollie and Layla’s place. Lived in.
How I’d love a place to call my own, to paint with my colours.
Outside, I bid Lorraine farewell, tap my satchel and tell her that I’ll keep her card, it’s safe in there. She knows I won’t call. As I watch her go, the stick of the umbrella leading her way, my own phone vibrates. Somebody is calling me.
‘Chloe!’ It’s Trish. She’s so in control of her words, so rich with authority as she speaks, that I listen to her as if it were a recorded message. ‘Accept my apologies for not contacting you sooner. It’s been a difficult patch. Can you bring Jack’s things over tomorrow? I know it’s short notice but I’m sure you’re as eager to get rid of them as I am to see them. Yes, dear?’
All I can manage to say is ‘Yeah.’
‘And let’s get that contract signed. Cheerio.’
When I get back to the flat, I remove Jack’s magnets from the fridge. For all I know, they might hold meaning to Trish and John. Maybe they went to Pisa together. I take each one down and wrap them collectively in kitchen foil. Then I message Beth, asking if I can borrow her car tomorrow. I’ll get Neil’s spare key from Giles and Ingrid in the morning.
The fridge looks bare: an empty white space.
Or a blank canvas.
‘I’m not ready,’ I say, my breathing shallow. ‘I’m not … I’m not ready.’