Alice turns the lights down in her bedroom, leaving just the kind light of a black-shaded lamp to illuminate her face. She places a large glass of wine on her desk and then goes to the mirror where she prods at her disastrous hair with blunt fingernails. The time is 7.58 p.m. For two minutes she paces back and forth, stopping at the mirror every few seconds to check that her appearance hasn’t suddenly deteriorated further. Then it comes, the lullaby plip-plop-plip of a Skype call. She rushes to her desk and breathes in hard, clears her throat, presses reply.
And there he is: ‘Hello, Alice.’
‘Hi!’
He looks tired.
‘How are you?’ she continues.
‘I’m . . . aaah, well, what can I say? Not so good.’
‘No?’
‘No. Turns out I’m not very good at being Gray Ross. Turns out I suck at it.’
‘Oh, Frank . . .’
He smiles. ‘I do like being called Frank,’ he says dreamily. ‘I miss it.’
‘You’ll always be Frank to me,’ she says.
‘I know. I know. That makes me feel . . .’
‘What?’
‘Kind of sad.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t like being Gray. You know, the kids at school call me Fifty Shades.’ He sighs and Alice laughs loudly.
‘That’s hilarious!’
‘I suppose so. But it’s not that. It’s everything. I mean . . .’ The image on the screen moves as he picks up his laptop and moves it around. ‘Look at my flat, Alice. Seriously. Look at it.’
He pans the webcam around a square room with yellow walls. There are piles of paperwork everywhere, a scruffy cream sofa, a cheap ceramic table lamp. Then he takes her into an unmodernised bathroom with a threadbare bathmat hanging at a slapdash angle on the side of the bath and a dead plant in a pot on the windowsill. His kitchen is piled with dirty dishes and his bedroom has an unmade bed at its centre and broken venetian blinds at the windows.
‘Everything was as I left it. Seriously. This is how I live.’
‘I’ve seen much worse,’ says Alice. ‘Where’s Brenda?’
‘Hold on . . .’ The image jerks as he searches his flat. Then: ‘Hello, gorgeous, there you are.’ The camera zooms in on a stripy red cat sitting curled up on a pile of dirty sheets.
‘Oh,’ she says, ‘she’s lovely!’
‘She hates me,’ he says. ‘She’s been sulking ever since I got back.’
Alice laughs; she can’t help it.
‘It’s not funny!’ he protests. ‘As far as I can tell she was the only friend I had in the world. Seriously, Alice. You wouldn’t want to know me.’
She laughs again.
‘No. I’m being serious. I’m pretty much an alcoholic. Or I was – the fugue seems to have knocked that on the head, thank God. But, Christ, the recycling is ninety-nine per cent beer cans and vodka bottles. I don’t know how I hung on to my job for so long. I’d been given warnings about coming in late and unprepared. Had a reputation for smelling of stale alcohol. And, according to my mum, I’m distant and I don’t call her enough. So.’ He shrugs, makes an L out of his thumb and forefinger and holds it in front of his face. ‘Loser.’
Alice smiles. ‘Well, then,’ she says, ‘that just about makes us quits.’
He sighs and his face becomes serious. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I’ve made a decision. Pretty monumental. I’m in a really bad place. I’m guilt-ridden and I’m angry and I hate my life and I can’t move on. I just can’t. I’ve been seeing my therapist again but it doesn’t seem to be helping so he’s recommended some time away.’ He pauses and his eyes drop to his lap. ‘He’s suggested admitting myself into a psychiatric ward. Just for a little while. Get to the bottom of this memory issue I seem to have. Get to the bottom of me. And I think he’s right.’
‘How long?’ Alice feels panicky. She’d been going to invite him up for a weekend visit, had deliberately left the next four weekends clear to ensure that he’d be able to come.
‘No idea. Four weeks minimum. Maybe longer. I just . . .’ He sighs loudly. ‘I can’t be around anyone like this. I can’t be around you. And I’d like to be around you. I really would.’
Alice smiles. ‘I’d like to be around you, too.’
He brightens and straightens up. ‘Show me the dogs,’ he says. ‘I want to see the dogs.’
‘OK!’ She lifts the laptop and takes it to her bed where Griff is stretched out and yawning. The dog wags his tail lazily when he hears Frank’s voice coming from the laptop. ‘Ah,’ says Alice, ‘look! He remembers you!’ She moves the laptop on to the landing where Hero is sitting looking grumpy because Griff doesn’t let her in Alice’s bedroom and then downstairs where Sadie lies shivering in front of the fire in a knitted jumper. Kai and Jasmine wave at him from the sofa. Romaine appears from the kitchen with a toothbrush between her teeth and kisses the screen, leaving toothpaste drool all over it.
Franks sighs. ‘I love your house,’ he says. ‘I miss your house. I miss you. I . . .’ His voice cracks. ‘There’ll be a funeral,’ he says, ‘for Kirsty. Not for a few weeks yet. Will you come?’
‘Of course I’ll come.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Good. Then that’s a date. I’ll be better by then, Alice. I’ll be . . . Well, I don’t know what I’ll be. But I’ll be better. I promise.’
‘Don’t make promises,’ she says, ‘just do what you can do. Just be what you can be. However flawed that is. I have very low standards,’ she jokes. ‘I swear, I’ll go with anyone.’
Finally Frank laughs and it’s beautiful to hear.
‘Good luck, Frank,’ Alice says. ‘I’ll see you on the other side.’
Frank kisses his knuckles and places them against the screen. Alice does the same. They stay like that for a moment, their hands touching across the ether, their eyes filled with tears.
‘I’ll see you on the other side,’ says Frank.
‘I’ll be waiting,’ says Alice.
And then the screen goes blank.