‘That’s the last one,’ Si says, relieved.
Lugging boxes up two flights of stairs isn’t Si’s forte. He takes a crumpled tissue from beneath his sleeve and dabs his brow, then checks himself from head to toe in the long mirror on the wall of my bedroom. He turns to the side, sticks out his belly and grabs it, giving the small roll of flab an angry shake.
‘Malcolm!’ Si exclaims. ‘He puts full-fat cream in everything!’
‘It’s called the Relationship Stone,’ I tell him. ‘Everybody puts on weight when they fall in love.’
‘Thanks for confirming I’ve let myself go, Chloe.’
‘To be honest, hun, I think you look better than ever.’
Si blushes and his eyelashes genuinely flutter. It’s adorable to see him so happy. He digs into his pockets again and takes out his keys. He removes the keyring and holds it out for me to take. It’s a silver flip-flop with the Mamma Mia! logo printed on the sole.
‘A reminder of our first date which wasn’t a date,’ he grins. ‘And how far you’ve come.’
‘How far we’ve both come,’ I smile, dangling the flip-flop between our noses.
‘I better go. You know how I can’t abide being late.’
‘Give Malcolm me love. Enjoy the matinee.’
‘And you enjoy the party.’
I attach the flip-flop to my keys and toss them onto the king-size bed, waiting for the front door to slam shut. As it does, I release a sigh followed by taking an indulgent breath in through my nose, and out. The space is all mine to enjoy – and wow, there’s a lot of it.
I moved out of the Carmichaels’ basement flat this morning. I gave my official notice after Christmas, knowing wholeheartedly that in order to get on with my life, I needed to get out. Finding a new place that’s affordable but suitable has been a challenge. My mum tries to entice me back up north daily; this morning it was news of a fabulous new boutique opening on Bold Street, yesterday a photo of the sun setting on the Mersey. Tempting as it is, I’m officially a permanent member of staff at the school now. Plus I love the friends I’ve made in London. I’ll miss being so close to Giles and Ingrid, but they’ve put their flat on the market in the hope of finding a house in the area, and Neil travels so much, he’s never there anyway. We’re all going to a dim sum place in Soho next week, before he heads off to Brazil.
As of today, I’m Si’s flatmate. Sounds like a step backwards, right? A regression to student life, or a refusal to grow up? I assure you, it’s the opposite. You see, Si’s never at home these days – he spends the majority of his time at Malcolm’s mews house in Hampstead. I mean, who wouldn’t? I spent a weekend there recently and as the log fire burnt bright, casting an orange haze across his immaculately kept bookshelves, I expected Emma Thompson to pop over with an apple pie or Bill Nighy to rock up and give us a well-meaning back-handed compliment. Anyway, Si’s old flatmate has relocated to Scotland, so he had a spare room with an en suite bathroom to fill. I’m not joking when I say this room is bigger than that whole basement flat. My plan is to flatshare and save, so I can get a deposit together for my own place and finally get on the property ladder.
I’ll unpack the boxes later. My clothes are already hanging up and I run my fingers along the garments, unsure whether to change my outfit. I’m wearing a neon-pink jumper with denim miniskirt, tights and boots. It’s the neon pink I’m unsure about. I’m going to a gender reveal party. I don’t want to look like I’m hoping for the baby to be a girl. Plus if the baby is a girl, doesn’t neon pink scream gender stereotype? Help! I’m a gender reveal party virgin. What’s the vibe? At least it’s not a baby shower. They are, by far, the most difficult social events to nail. I mean, there’s usually booze for all except the mama-to-be, but nobody drinks it. There’s always games, and they always suck. Guessing the size of the bump? Please, somebody tell me, who the fuck thought that was a bright idea for shits and giggles? And talking of shits, the last baby shower I went to had real nappies open on the nibbles table filled with Malteasers.
Ah, fuck it. I’m sticking with the pink. It goes great with my hair. It’s currently an ashy-grey silver, and honestly, I love it.
Do you know what else I love?
The picture of the man sat in the shopping trolley.
Thanks to Justin, it now has a whole new meaning.
So, yeah, I finally read his message.
During my time with Jack, we’d had the odd chat about Christmas – you know, family traditions, memories of meeting Santa – but we never discussed how we’d spend the next one. We never got that far. In the end I’d enjoyed a quiet Christmas back at home, but I stayed with Kit and Gareth rather than my mum and dad. They got a sofa bed as a wedding gift from Gareth’s aunt, so luckily I wasn’t forced to spend Christmas Eve in a tent. I realise I’ve said enjoyed. I did. With the strength and love of my brother and brother-in-law, we embraced a different Christmas, indulged in festive activities we always said we’d do each year but never got round to doing; ice skating, going to see It’s a Wonderful Life at the Philharmonic Hall, building a gingerbread house with Gareth’s nieces. On New Year’s Eve, sitting in Kit and Gareth’s kitchen with Mabel nibbling my slouch socks, and before getting my creative genius into a serious game of Pictionary, I decided to read Justin’s message;
Hey there Chloe, look what I did. I hope this makes you smile. Jx
Attached was a photo. Of Justin. Sat in a shopping trolley.
Outside a Seven Eleven at night-time, he was giving a double thumbs up. His long legs, in purple traveller trousers patterned with tiny white elephants, were outstretched and crossed at the ankles, his calves resting on the edge of the trolley, his flip-flops flapping away from his hardened heels. Behind bushier facial hair than I’d remembered him with, his grin was goofy, his eyes dancing with a self-conscious chuckle. I imagine he’d asked another backpacker to take his picture and maybe there was a faff, or somebody walked past the pose, allowing Justin a bit too much time to feel silly, wishing he hadn’t bothered with the effort.
Beneath the photo was another message, sent some days later.
I hope this picture didn’t offend? That wasn’t my intention at all. I just wanted you to see a guy sitting in a trolley. A real guy. Somebody you spoke to. Somebody you knew stuff about. I could print this photo a thousand times and give it away to random strangers, all of whom will just see a guy they don’t know. It will mean nothing to them. But those who do know me will see something. They’ll see part of my story. They might know about my marriage and wonder if I’m okay. Or it will remind them of me acting like a dork in high school. It could prompt somebody to check in on my parents, wonder if I’m still into snowboarding (I am!), ask when I’m coming home or where I’m going next. What I’m trying to say is, I’m a real guy, with a real story. The guy in your picture isn’t nobody, isn’t nothing. He’s just a guy who you don’t know. Whether he was posing for a picture to make souvenirs or not, he will have a childhood, a family, a thought to the future of some sort. You might never know the story behind his picture, but there will be a story. Like mine. Like yours. Jx
Below this message, the following day, Justin had added two more photos.
Both images were of people I don’t know sitting in the same trolley outside the Seven Eleven. One of a young Thai girl, cross-legged with her smiling head popping over the edge, giving the peace sign. The other a Western woman, plump and sweating, her hair pulled up into a high bun and her tongue sticking out. Justin included a further message;
The Thai girl is Sopa. She’s seventeen and her family have a small laundry business in Bangkok. She has two sisters. Her passion is singing and she played ‘Hero’ by Mariah Carey on her phone and sang along to it right there on the street. She was amazing! Her dream is to go to London one day and become a student.
The other photo is Nat. She’s British, from a place called Huddersfield. Do you know it? She’s on her honeymoon but her new husband ate some king prawns in the hope his seafood allergy had magically disappeared, and he’s room-bound, or in her words ‘loo-bound’. She’s a TV script writer and huge fan of Leeds United. Her mom died last year and she found her whole wedding tough to get through. I had a few drinks with her and when it comes to doing shots, you and her could be kindred spirits!
Anyway, I could have taken more photos. That happened to be a super friendly Seven Eleven! I hope you’re doing great and doing whatever makes you happy. I’m heading back to Canada in the spring. If you’d ever like to visit, see the sights, don’t be a stranger. Jx
When I’d finished reading Justin’s messages, our Kit slid an opened Cadbury’s selection box across the table. Along with Mabel, he’d sat with me as I’d read, for no other reason than to be there. The Wispa and the chocolate buttons had already mysteriously disappeared so I selected the Fudge, chewing the soft sweetness quietly. I’d passed my phone to Kit, opened the Dairy Milk and broke it into two halves to share with him as he read what Justin had to say. Mabel stopped nibbling my slouch socks; my feet were warm and heavy. I could feel her heartbeat as she slept, the gentle comforting vibrations of her snores.
‘What do you think?’ I’d asked.
‘First impressions. Justin? Fit.’
‘Oh, bloody hell, Kit!’
‘No, sis. Don’t bloody hell me. He’s kind, considerate, eloquent, writes well and for fuck’s sake, Chloe, he’s absolutely gorgeous. You asked what I think. Don’t ask if you don’t wanna hear.’
I’d snatched my phone back, looked at the pictures again, lingered on the one of Justin.
‘What do you think, though?’ Kit had asked, taking my hand in his.
‘I think … I’ll always wonder about the man sat in the shopping trolley.’
‘Even though you said he was just a bit of tourist tat?’
‘I’ve changed me mind.’
‘Thanks to Justin?’
‘Yeah. You see, I’d rather wonder what he’s doing. It’s better than not. Makes him real.’
Kit had squeezed my hand.
‘Do us a favour though, sis. Don’t go gallivanting off to find him again, will you? Okay? Let’s go to Jamaica and drink rum. Or fuck it. Let’s go to Disneyland.’
I’d kissed his cheek.
‘Deal.’
Then I’d replied to Justin.
Hiya Justin! Where in the world are you right now? Look, I could give you a shit load of excuses as to why I didn’t read your messages and reply sooner, but I’d be lying. I saw your name, thought about our kiss and felt like I’d cheated on Jack. I’m sorry. What you’ve done with these pictures is nothing short of gorgeous. I’m so touched, overwhelmed at your kindness. I apologise for taking so long to let you know. In short, I’m okay. I’ve got brilliant people around me. And yes, I do (try to do!) whatever makes me happy. Sometimes that might be watching The Sound of Music with a Meat Feast from Dominos. Don’t judge!! I hope you’re doing the same. And Canada, well, I’ve always wanted to go. It’s actually second on my list after Japan. Love and hugs to you. Chloe x.
Now, in my new bedroom, I look at the man sat in the shopping trolley resting on the carpet against an upcycled chest of drawers, and wonder where to hang him. A horn honks – my taxi is outside. I’ve volunteered to sort the cake – the all-important will-it-be-blue-will-it-be-pink sponge covered in thick white buttercream – and I’ve got to pick it up en route. This is a mammoth responsibility. There’s no way I’m getting on the tube with it, not on a Saturday afternoon. Knowing my luck, it’ll end up on the stairs of an escalator and a load of Spanish tourists will know the gender of the baby before its bloody parents. Currently, the only people who know are the sonographer, the admin who typed the letter and the baker in Sydenham who I hand-delivered the sealed letter to. I don’t know why, but I suddenly think about Nat, the woman from Huddersfield who Justin snapped in the trolley. Will she and her new husband be trying for a baby perhaps? Is that the next part of her story?
I run down the two flights of stairs, slam the front door behind me.
The story of Jack and me has ended. Gone but not forgotten, as they say.
My story, however, will – and must – continue.
*
I arrive outside the redbrick Victorian house as a visitor, no longer a tenant. It’s only been a few hours but already, I feel disconnected from the place, like it could be days, weeks, even months since I lived here. In a material sense, yeah, all my things are no longer in the basement. Not a single joss stick remains. If I’ve forgotten my purse or my red lippy, I can’t nip downstairs to get it any more. The wind feels like it’s blowing gently in a different direction.
Holding the white cake box with both hands, I slowly walk up the steps to the main front door. I’ve made it this far without a cock-up, haven’t even opened the box to see the cake for fear of ripping the lid or sneezing on the icing. But I don’t have a free hand to ring the doorbell. I scuffle around the open porch; attempt to lift my elbow. That’s ridiculous. I rise onto my tiptoes, lightly headbutt the bell. No sound. Shit.
‘Hey, Chlo! Let me get that for you,’ a voice behind me calls out.
I hear the brush of footsteps coming up closer as I turn around. Peering over the top of the cake box, I’m shocked to recognise the man in front of me, although this is the first time I notice golden flecks in his brown eyes. Gasping, my knees jerk and the tense right angles in my arms break loose.
‘Whoa!’
‘WHOA!’
Legs bent, full squat, the man saves the cake box with one swift underarm catch.
‘Layla Birch’s dad!’ is the best I manage.
‘Miss Roscoe,’ he says. ‘That was almost a tragedy!’
‘You literally just saved me life.’
‘Best stick to teaching the drama, rather than creating it, eh?’
In his khaki trench coat and smart striped scarf, he straightens himself up and holds out the box for me to retrieve. Dying inside, I accept.
‘Thank you …’ I say.
‘Ollie,’ he reminds me.
I knew that. ‘I knew that.’
‘You called me “Layla Birch’s dad”. Which I am. But once upon a time, about fifteen and a half years ago, I was – surprisingly – a person with my own identity. I like to think he still comes out of the cupboard now and then.’
I break into a wide smile and then panic that my front teeth are stained with red lippy.
‘I meant the bell, by the way,’ Ollie says. ‘When I said, “let me get that for you”.’
‘Well, you’ve got good instincts.’
‘One of my few rare talents.’
I grip the edges of the box tight. It cannot drop again.
‘Shall I?’ he asks, pointing his index finger up.
‘Hold on, what are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
He smirks, coy rather than cheeky maybe, like he just answered back to the teacher. I could shoot him my best unimpressed face; give him a warning. But I’m genuinely interested. What the hell is Oliver Birch doing here, where I used to live?
‘I work with Giles,’ Ollie says. ‘He’s a good mate.’
‘Wow! Really? What a small world. I used to live downstairs, in the basement flat.’
Ollie laughs. ‘It’s brilliant news, isn’t it? Giles and Ingrid.’
‘Ah, deffo. They’re gonna be the cutest parents.’
‘With the cutest kid.’
‘Yeah, it’ll be pristine. No snotty nose or food in her hair.’
‘Wait – her? How do you know it’s a girl? Isn’t this a gender reveal party?’
‘Oh! Shit. I dunno. Just rolled off me tongue. I meant his or her hair.’
‘Unless, Chlo, you’ve got good instincts, too.’
I mean to laugh, politely, but I choke a bit, then clear my throat like a sick monster. Ollie rings the doorbell and we wait for Giles or Ingrid to buzz us up. I grip the box tighter. Ollie rocks back and forth. I can’t see his shoes – the box is blinding my vision – but I bet they’re smart Timberlands, or similar.
‘Have you been to a gender reveal party before?’ Ollie asks.
‘Nope, I’m a total virgin.’
‘That’s something else we have in common, then.’
‘Hello?’ Ingrid sings through the intercom.
‘Hey, it’s Ollie and Chlo,’ Ollie sings back.
We’re buzzed in and Ollie pushes the door open wide.
‘After you,’ he says.
I’m being overcautious, taking my time with each step. Ollie’s sniggering behind me.
‘Stop it!’ I snap. ‘If I drop this cake, it’s on you!’
‘Literally.’
We make it to the top of the stairs and just before we go in, Ollie stops, his hand naturally landing upon my elbow as he looks down at the cake box.
‘So, what’s your prediction?’ he asks.
I give a small, careful shrug, then look up.
Our eyes meet.
‘Well, Ollie. I guess we’re about to find out.’