Rachel is making a gin and slimline tonic last longer than should be legal, and Vicky – normally so reliable in these matters – has pulled the old palm-on-glass manoeuvre as I tried to top up her chardonnay. The second Tuesday in January was never going to be a wild night in the boozer, but I’m beginning to regret suggesting this ‘quiet drink’. But it’s an anniversary of sorts and I don’t want to drink on my own.
Three years ago today Alex sent a message that I still have on my phone: Single guy seeks disgruntled lawyer for bad wine, public snogging, naughty talk and snorty laughter. Beautiful smile preferable.
There are more dates heading my way: the day we first met, our first kiss, the day we moved in together, his birthday, the day he died. Others, too, and if I’m not careful I’ll ruin my calendar. But this one – the day it began properly – feels significant. I haven’t told the girls; they’re still treating me like I’m made of glass and it makes me want to scream or flash my boobs just to get a reaction.
‘How’s the first week back been?’ Vicky asks.
‘Okay,’ I say, topping up my glass. ‘It’s been okay. Be better if everyone wasn’t tiptoeing around like . . . well, like my boyfriend had just . . . you know . . .’
Vicky doesn’t exactly wince, but her features make all the preparatory contractions. Rachel takes a good swallow of her drink, which is something of a relief.
Things were less awkward in the immediate aftermath of Alex’s death. The grief was a thing we could share and address and examine. But as that fades and we transition back to normality, it’s hard to know exactly how to behave – how okay it’s appropriate to be.
‘I read a story about a pirate that wants to be a ballet dancer,’ I say, and the girls turn their eyes back to me, talking over each other in their relief to be on sounder ground.
‘That’s awesome.’
‘Sounds brilliant.’
‘I love pirates!’
‘Your job’s so much more fun than mine.’
Work told me to take as much time off as I needed, but really, what else am I going to do? All my friends work, and after a week up the Alps in November and two weeks on the coast over Christmas, I’ve had as much of my parents’ care and concern as I can handle for a while. The start of the New Year served as a neat opportunity to begin the process of picking up where I’d left off three months previously. Although where I’d left off, in any meaningful sense, I’m not sure. But work seemed as good a place as any to start.
I’ve never drunk so much coffee – it seems that no one can walk past my desk without asking if they can make me a drink, and they look so bloody uncomfortable, I don’t have the heart to say no. I’m on light duties, which is just as well because I spend around half my day in the loo on account of all the coffee. Not that anyone has put it that way, ‘light duties’, but I’m being well insulated from anything too demanding or stressful. The majority of my day revolves around reading manuscripts, but when they seldom run to more than a thousand words, I take care to read slowly.
‘What’s it called?’ asks Rachel.
‘Pirates and Pirouettes,’ I say, and I laugh reflexively at the ridiculousness of it all. The laugh catches, everyone relieved to have a legitimate outlet, and it feels like the air around us lightens a little.
Vicky reaches across the table and places her hand on top of mine. People do this a lot. And more than the tears and earnest sympathy and flowers, lasagnes and casseroles, more than the sleepovers and messages of support, it’s this, this quiet articulate contact that gets me the most.
I have become reasonably good – competent, at least – at holding myself together. Learning the knack of composure, of controlling my irregular beats of grief and guilt. There are songs, situations and places that bring on the memory of Alex and all that comes with it. I avoid them when I can, and brace myself when I can’t. On Monday nights Al used to put the bins out. I do that now. The trick, I’ve found, is not to overthink it – I put the kettle on and listen to the water boil as I remove and knot the bag. As I carry it outside, I think about the coffee I’m going to make: a spoon and a half of instant, milk on the granules, water on the milk. And before you know it there is a new liner in the bin and you don’t have to reapply your mascara. People, too, have their own tells. Reacting to a faux pas, perhaps, or an item in the news, someone will exhale through their nostrils and turn a small sympathetic smile towards me. Seeing this, I fix my own smile, control my breathing and prepare myself for whatever – a touch, a word – comes next. I hold myself together. But this, this gentle contact that says: It’s good to see you doing better, Zoe; it comes without warning and feels like a hard mass between my lungs. It triggers a reflex of despair and I simply melt into quiet uninvited tears.
‘Oh, Zo,’ says Rachel, squeezing my hand tighter and wringing out a fresh pulse of tears. ‘Zo.’
‘Hey,’ says Vicky, placing her hand on my shoulder, ‘are you okay?’
I withdraw my hand, ostensibly to wipe my eyes, but essentially because if I allow myself to be held a moment longer I might dissolve.
I nod: Yes, I’m fine.
‘Was it something I said?’
‘No. Just . . . caught me off guard . . . I’m fine. I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
I fan my face and nod.
Vicky is looking at my hair again.
You hear stories about people’s hair turning white overnight, but it doesn’t happen that way. The change takes as long as it takes for your hair to grow through. If you were Sinead O’Connor, I suppose, you might turn white over the course of a day or two, but my hair hangs down to my shoulders. Small mercies; my hair has only lost its pigment in a localized patch three fingers wide at my right temple. Where I used to twist and pull it back in my hair-pulling days, as a matter of fact – so maybe it’s my own fault. At the moment it’s around an inch long, but by summer I’ll have a full-length streak like some kind of Disney villain or B-movie vampire.
I run my hand through my hair and Vicky looks away.
‘How’s the wedding prep?’ I say to Rachel.
Rachel shrugs. ‘Oh, fine. I’m mostly looking forward to the honeymoon now.’
This, I am certain, is a lie for my benefit. In the three months before Alex’s accident, Rachel could barely talk about anything that didn’t involve flowers, lace or something blue. But in the three months since, she has swerved every attempt I’ve made to discuss her upcoming wedding. As if she feels guilty for having a still-breathing boyfriend. The big day is seven months away now, and I’m supposed to be a bridesmaid, but knowing Rachel I’ll bet she’s agonizing over whether or not this is still appropriate. Not for her sake, but for mine. Watching her face trying to settle on a suitable expression, I know that I have to pierce this fog or choke on it. So, before I’ve thought it through, I hear myself say: ‘I snogged someone on Christmas Eve.’
‘Oh,’ says Rachel.
Vicky nods. ‘Blimey.’
‘Wow,’ says Rachel, ‘that’s . . . good,’ her face saying something subtly different – that’s odd, maybe, or that’s quick. ‘Right?’ she says, turning to Vicky.
‘Yeah,’ says Vicky, pouting with sincerity. ‘I mean, it’s only a snog, isn’t it. Christmas Eve, and all that.’
Well, the snog was the least part of it, but I’m not sure my friends are ready to deal with all of that right now.
‘Anyone we . . . know?’
‘Old school friend,’ I say. ‘A bunch of us meet up in the pub every Christmas Eve.’
‘Oh,’ says Vicky smiling with relief. ‘Great.’
‘Yeah,’ says Rachel. ‘Great.’
‘So,’ I say. ‘Do I still get a bridesmaid’s dress, or what?’
Rachel surprises me by throwing her arms around me and kissing my ear. ‘Oh, Zoe. Really? Do you still . . . really?’
‘Of course. I mean, come on – free dress!’
‘Oh, thank God,’ she says, reaching for her gin and tonic and finding it empty. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve been . . .’ She stops, puts a hand to her mouth. ‘Zoe, I’m sorry, I sound so selfish.’
‘Of course you don’t; it’s your wedding, for God’s sake. I’m happy for you.’
‘We just thought, what with . . .’ and now it’s Vicky’s turn to try and stuff her own words back into her mouth. ‘What I mean is . . . we weren’t talking about . . . oh bloody hell, Zo.’
‘It’s okay,’ I tell them, ‘honestly. This is weird as hell, I know, but . . .’ I have a tingling urge to confide in my friends that while I am in every other way upended, I am not necessarily heartbroken in the romantic sense of the word. I take a sip of wine and swallow the impulse.
‘Will you do something for me?’
Vicky and Rachel drop their hands from their mouths.
‘Of course.’
‘Anything.’
‘Can we just be normal?’
They nod in mute, bewildered agreement.
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Oh, yeah, right,’ says Vicky. ‘Normal.’ She forces a smile. ‘I . . . have a date on Thursday?’ She clenches her teeth at the end of the sentence, as if checking that this is okay.
‘That’s great,’ I say, and Vicky looks both relieved and surprised. ‘Anyone we know?’
Vicky shakes her head. ‘Just some, you know . . . bloke. Probably be rubbish.’
We all sip our drinks and nod.
When it becomes clear that this topic has been exhausted, Rachel takes a breath and says, as if telling us about a new recipe, ‘I, er . . . I had sex last night.’
‘Sex?’ I ask. ‘With Steve?’
Rachel nods uncertainly, as if sleeping with her fiancé might be some kind of moral transgression.
‘And this is you being normal?’ says Vicky.
‘I didn’t know what else to say. Sorry. I thought I’d sort of . . .’ – and here she illustrates her point by sliding a coaster across the table – ‘push the envelope.’
‘Any good?’ I ask.
Rachel wobbles an equivocal palm. ‘Not bad for a Monday.’
We all nod as if this makes some kind of sense, sip our drinks, nod again.
Vicky tops up her glass. ‘This is going to take some practice, isn’t it?’
‘It’s going to take more than that,’ says Rachel, standing up from the table. ‘Three tequilas?’
‘That’s better,’ I tell her. ‘And some crisps.’
Normality creeps back into the evening as the empty glasses and crisp packets stack up. Vicky opens up on the details of her impending date (French, handsome, primary school teacher, triathlete), and it turns out that Rachel really is more excited about her honeymoon (elephants, tree house, waterfall, diving) than her wedding. It’s wonderful and it’s cathartic, and I only wish I could give it my full attention. The problem is, I have an ulterior motive for dragging my best friends out on a school night in the middle of detox season but what with this outpouring of normality, it’s fast approaching chucking-out time, and if I don’t say my piece now, I’m in danger of losing my nerve.
‘I’m going travelling,’ I blurt, cutting off Rachel halfway through a catalogue of Maputaland’s indigenous sea life.
‘A holiday?’ says Vicky. ‘Lovely. Where?’
Rachel, a little quicker on the uptake, whispers the word ‘Travelling?’
I nod.
Vicky adopts the role of disapproving parent. ‘Hold on a what now? Who’s travelling? Where?’
‘Me,’ I say, indicating myself with a forefinger. ‘All over the place.’ And the double meaning isn’t lost on me.
I’ve had more time to think than is probably good for me, and I have thought hard and repeatedly about what I am doing with my life. And one of the few conclusions I have come to with any confidence is that I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going, what I want or who I even am. Three years ago I accused Alex’s ex-girlfriend, Ines, of being spoiled. But I’m not sure that doesn’t apply to me, too. My parents have always given me everything I’ve needed and pretty much all I wanted. I passed my own exams, I earn my own wages, but . . . I’d hesitate to call myself an independent woman.
‘You know that cliché about finding yourself?’ I say, giving the phrase its requisite air quotes.
Vicky nods, Rachel looks like she’s about to cry.
‘Well . . . I can’t think of a better way of putting it than that. I need to find myself,’ I say, and I make a squeaky snorty noise that is halfway between a laugh and a cry.
‘How?’ says Rachel. ‘How are you going to pay for it?’
How many twenty-nine year olds make wills? Not me, not Alex. He only had life insurance because it came with his job, and the person he named on that policy four years ago was his mother. She also inherited his savings, pension, premium bonds, the clothes hanging on his side of the wardrobe if she’d wanted them. Six weeks after the funeral his brother Pat came to London to help take care of various morbid formalities. We put items into boxes for Alex’s mother: pictures, books, DVDs, a football mug that he never drank out of. After first offering them to me, Pat took Alex’s watch and cufflinks. I asked if he wanted the Xbox, decks and vinyl, but Pat didn’t want anything he might enjoy. Suits, clothes, shoes, we took to a charity shop – leaving the bags on the pavement because we were crying too hard to face anyone. Everything else went into bin bags and we drove in silence to the tip, where we heaved the sacks into their relevant skips. I miss the presence and weight of these items now and feel I was too quick to tidy his life away.
When you take out a joint mortgage, they give you two options. One where, in the event of your death, your half of the property passes on in the fashion of your watch, cufflinks and football mug – to whoever is named in your will, or in the absence of that document to the relevant legal beneficiary: a parent, sibling, child or spouse. Not a boyfriend or a girlfriend. The second way, the house passes to the other person named on the mortgage papers. We had laughed awkwardly at this mortal distinction, quickly agreeing to the more romantic of the two choices. Although a part of me wishes we hadn’t.
Rachel and Vicky know that the house is now mine. And the fact I can barely afford the mortgage, bills and everything else that comes with it.
Vicky frowns. ‘I thought Alex didn’t leave . . . I thought . . . aren’t you skint?’
‘As a church mouse,’ I say.
‘Travelling’s a big . . .’ Rachel reaches across the table to hold my hand. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for something like that, Zo?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘But . . . did I tell you about the bank? About Alex’s bank?’ My friends shake their heads, looking worried, braced. ‘You met Pat?’ I say to Rachel. ‘When he was down, helping me with Al’s stuff, all the admin, he had to go to the bank, to Alex’s bank. You have to actually go in, hand over his cards. So Pat – such a sweet guy, did I tell you he offered me money?’ Vicky looks aghast, and now it’s my turn to lay the consoling hand on top of hers. ‘He was embarrassed about the will, the lack of a will. Said that if me and Al had been, you know, married . . . then the money, the life insurance, it would have been mine. And did I want, you know . . .’
Rachel looks conflicted, agitated. ‘And did you?’ – I shake my head – ‘Because, well, he had a point, don’t you think?’
What I think is No. I think we never would have been married, never should have been married. And I think that his mother, who bought bread on the day of its sell-by date and who ironed the neighbours’ shirts to look after her sons, I think the money is hers and I know I’m right. But I don’t want to go into it and I don’t want to play the martyr. And besides, it’s off the point.
‘The point is,’ I say, ‘Pat asked me to go to the bank with him. Partly, I don’t think he wanted to go on his own, and partly, I think he felt bad – guilty – that it was him, and not me – like he was prying. I don’t know. Anyway . . .’ I look at my glass and see there is one mouthful of wine left, so I leave it where it stands for now. ‘Anyway . . . we went to the bank. And they give you . . . they give you his . . .’ And I can feel the heavy invisible fingers tugging at the corners of my mouth, pulling at my cheeks; I feel a hard pressure behind my eyes and now the tears are coming and coming hard. I finish my wine, and when Vicky slides her glass towards me, I take a big gulp of hers too. ‘God! Sorry, sorry. They give you his . . . they give you his statements and then they leave the room, so you can go through them in private and check that everything’s as it should be. And you know how . . . the statements, how they go backwards? Last purchase first?’
I can tell from Rachel’s expression and her tear-glazed eyes that she is one step ahead and sees what’s coming. ‘Oh God,’ she all but whispers. ‘Oh God, Zoe.’
‘What?’ says Vicky. ‘What?’
I take a deep breath. ‘It’s silly, really. The first thing on the statement, the last place he . . .’
‘The deli,’ says Rachel.
‘And before that the florist on the corner.’
‘Flowers?’
I nod, and damn it if I can’t stop myself from crying again. Vicky offers her wine, but I slide the glass back to her. ‘Thank you, I’m . . . I’m fine.’
‘You poor thing,’ says Rachel.
‘So me and Pat, bloody hell. We just folded the statement in half and waited until the woman came back into the room and asked if everything was “in order”. We said yes, then went back to the house to finish packing up Al’s things.’
The three of us sit quietly for a while before Vicky leans forwards, clears her throat delicately and says, ‘Travelling?’
‘Oh, right. Sorry, lost my train of . . . you know. It sounds silly, I know, but Al going out to get breakfast and stuff, it’s typical, isn’t it. It’s typical of me, of people doing things for me, taking care of me – my mum and dad, Alex – carrying the heavy bags, throwing out spiders, fetching me breakfast. I can’t even wire a plug.’
‘A plug?’ says Rachel.
‘You know what I mean,’ I say. ‘I’ve been spoiled.’
Vicky shrugs like this is to be expected and is nothing to be ashamed of. ‘You’re a woman.’
Rachel shakes her head. ‘Right on, sister.’
‘Find myself,’ I say, finishing where I began and finding the two words far more articulate and pertinent than my effort at expanding.
‘I think it’s a great idea,’ says Rachel, and Vicky nods in agreement. ‘But when?’
‘I haven’t really thought it through,’ I tell them. ‘To be honest, it only really came together as a notion on the train home this evening. It’s been brewing, I think; going to France with my folks, the bank, the map on the tube . . . soon, though.’
‘You’re not missing my wedding,’ says Rachel, and it’s not a question.
‘No, God!’
‘So after August, right?’
‘I don’t want to be here in October,’ I say, and thankfully I don’t have to explain why. ‘So I suppose that means September.’
‘Give you time to save up,’ says Rachel.
‘It’ll take longer than that,’ I say, ‘I can barely afford the tube.’
‘So what’s the plan? Work your way around?’
I take a sip of Vicky’s wine, after all. ‘I’m selling the house.’
Rachel gives me a hard, almost angry stare. ‘Over my dead fucking body, Zoe.’ And then she realizes what she’s just said and her face crumples like a tent freed of its guy ropes. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, Zoe, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t . . . oops?’
‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Normal, remember?’
Rachel nods. ‘In which case, Zoe Goldman, you would be out of your mind to sell a property in London in a rising market.’
‘She’s right,’ says Vicky. ‘Out – of – your – mind.’
‘I don’t see how else I can do it. I’m not going travelling to work, I don’t have any savings, the mortgage is a big fat pig, and . . . and I don’t see how else I can do it.’
‘Get a lodger,’ says Rachel brightly.
I shake my head. ‘God no, I couldn’t, it would feel . . . just . . . no.’
‘Right,’ says Rachel, holding up a finger and reaching into her handbag for a pen. She peels a beer mat in half, creating a clean square of white card. ‘How much is your mortgage?’
I tell her. I tell her how much my bills cost, my travel, my lunch, my phone, the gym, the repayments on my credit card. We estimate the rental value of the house as a vacant, furnished premises, we guess at the cost of a ticket to somewhere hot and exotic, tickets to various onward locations across the globe, how much I will need to keep me in beer and noodles and accommodation. We do a lot of mathematics and by the time Rachel has finished she has dismantled three beermats and has ink on her lip.
‘The good news is,’ she says, circling a number on one of the impromptu pages, ‘the rent should cover the mortgage and bills, and give you a few extra quid a month for spends.’
‘Bad news?’
‘The bad news,’ says Rachel, ‘is you’ll still need to save up to buy your ticket, cover sundry expenses and give yourself a buffer in case your tenants run off or smash the place up.’
‘I’ll get nice tenants.’
‘And you’ll have to drop the gym—’
‘Done.’
‘—cycle to work, shop in Aldi, and take a packed lunch to the office.’
‘Can do.’
‘No more new clothes,’ she adds, and Vicky winces as if I’ve been told I’ll need to sell an eyeball.
‘Clothes schmoves,’ I say, warming to the idea of noble austerity and Zoe the independent woman.
‘eBay your handbags and shoes.’
‘Click,’ I say, doing exactly that to an invisible mouse.
‘And,’ says Rachel, ‘you’re still fucked.’
‘What?’
‘Unless you want to put if off until next year, you’re still about three grand off target.’
‘But what about Aldi? The clothes? The egg sandwiches?’
Rachel shakes her head, taps a beer mat with the tip of her biro. ‘The numbers don’t lie.’
‘Listen,’ says Vicky, ‘don’t be offended or anything, but I could lend you—’
‘Vicky,’ I say, leaning across the table and hugging her hard, ‘thank you. Thank you, but . . . I can’t.’
‘Of course you c—’
‘No, I can’t. That’s the whole point, isn’t it. I have to do it on my own. On my own.’
‘So I suppose you’re going to sell the house, after all?’
I look to Rachel, as if for approval, and she shakes her head emphatically. ‘It’s your house,’ she says. ‘But, Zo, as a friend, I’ve got to tell you I think it would be a huge – huge – mistake.’
And if my trust in Rachel weren’t enough, my lack of faith in my own judgement is a powerful voice. After all, huge mistakes are my speciality. Vicky must read the essence of this in my body language.
‘So,’ she says, ‘next year, then.’
Now it’s my turn to shake my head. ‘Over my dead body,’ I say, but it doesn’t get the laugh I’d hoped for. ‘One way or another, I’m going in September. Even if I have to stow away.’