‘Let’s just hope she only meant weed,’ Jess says.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But it didn’t sound like she meant a bit of weed, really, did it?’
‘Not everyone knows to differentiate,’ Jess says. ‘Plenty of people think that all drugs are basically heroin.’
‘And what do you think she had in the package?’ I ask.
‘A vibrator, I reckon,’ Jess says.
I snigger. ‘Yeah, she was kind of in a hurry, wasn’t she?’
‘Definitely,’ Jess says. ‘A rabbit, probably. I hope she remembered to order batteries, too. Otherwise there’s going to be a frantic nip down to the shops.’
It takes us fifteen minutes to drive to Lawrence Hill and another five to park up and walk back to Queen Ann Road. Most of the area looks as if it was redeveloped in the sixties or seventies: low-rise tower blocks vie for space with ugly industrial units.
Number 127, when we reach it, is the address of a long-out-of-business garage in the middle of yet another row of boarded-up shop fronts.
To the right of the defunct garage is a grubby off-white door with a carefully stencilled plaque that reads, ‘Flat 1. 127 Queen Ann Road’. Above this is a dilapidated sign, the remaining letters of which read, ‘TY E & E HAUST CHANGE • BO YWO K • VAL TI G • MOT’.
‘Queen Ann Road is pretty majestic,’ I comment as we stand in front of the doorway, peering up at the yellowed net curtains in the first-floor windows. ‘Zoe’s tour of the world’s most glamorous hotspots.’
‘I know,’ Jessica says, as she knocks on the door. ‘She’s not been moving up in the world, has she?’
The door is opened almost immediately by a young man in a dirty Nike tracksuit. ‘Yeah?’ he asks. He smiles at Jessica and then turns to look at me, actually scratching his balls as he does so.
‘We’re looking for Zoe Fuller,’ Jess tells him. ‘Do you know her?’
The guy shakes his head. ‘Should I?’ he says.
‘She used to live here,’ Jess tells him. ‘Or at least she told us she did. This is her brother. We’re trying to track her down.’
‘Our mum’s ill,’ I tell him, deciding to create a heart-rending narrative to get a maximum of information out of him, but then almost immediately feeling guilty for having invented an illness for my mother. I worry that I have somehow tempted fate. ‘I thought Zoe needed to know.’
‘Shit,’ the man says. ‘Sorry, but I’ve only been here a couple of months.’
‘Have you seen any post for her?’
The guy half-glances at a shelf behind him, which is piled up with junk mail. ‘Never,’ he says.
‘And does anyone else live here?’ Jessica asks. ‘Is there anyone else who might know something?’
‘You could ask Kira, I s’pose,’ he says. ‘Kira’s been here years. She knows everyone, Kira does.’
‘That would be great,’ I say. ‘Is Kira here now?’
The man sniffs noisily, snottily. ‘Not till seven,’ he says. ‘Maybe eight.’
‘This evening?’
‘Yeah. I’ll, um, leave her a note or something. Otherwise she probably won’t open the door. She gets nervous, Kira does.’
‘He was pretty helpful,’ I say as we walk back up the hill to the car.
‘He was,’ Jess agrees. ‘Actually, so was the woman in the other place, really. Once she got over finding a couple of Mormons on the doorstep.’
‘Jehovah’s Witnesses, actually,’ I correct her.
‘Yeah, but you look more like a Mormon. Always nicely dressed, those Mormon boys.’
‘Are you taking the piss out of my clothes again?’ I ask.
‘Maybe just a bit,’ Jess grins.
‘I thought you liked the way I dress. You told me it was sexy.’
‘It is, actually,’ she says. ‘But I’m thinking you might need to broaden your wardrobe. One suit does not fit all circumstances, you know?’
‘I could always get some Nikies,’ I suggest, jokingly.
‘I think you’d look pretty hot in activewear,’ Jess laughs. ‘There’s more than one way to look sexy, you know.’
From Lawrence Hill, we drive out to Clifton, where they don’t appear to have any council houses. Instead, the streets are lined with grand Georgian townhouses. It reminds me a bit of Chelsea.
We wander past leafy padlocked parks and peer at the menus of organic vegan restaurants – the contrast with Filwood is quite shocking, really. The final clouds have vanished, too, so it feels as if even the weather might be better in this part of town.
We duck into a coffee shop called Himalaya. It has stripped floorboards and mismatched funky furniture. Jazz is playing through Bose speakers. The facade has curved-glass bay windows through which the sun is streaming. We order soya cappuccinos and a slice of vegan carrot cake to share.
‘It’s a whole different world here,’ I say, glancing out at the street to where a bearded man is cycling past, his daughter in the child-seat on the back.
‘Different to where?’ a voice asks, and we look up to see the owner standing over us with our drinks.
‘Oh, we’re staying on the other side of town,’ I explain. ‘It’s not quite the same.’
‘We’re in Filwood,’ Jess explains.
‘Now why would anyone want to stay in Filwood?’ the guy laughs as he puts our drinks down, and though we both know what he means, and though his laughter is genuine enough, something about the comment troubles me.
It’s not until we’re back outside that Jess puts words to my unease. ‘That was really quite revealing,’ she says. ‘About the state of Britain today, I mean.’
‘How so?’ I ask.
‘Well, there wasn’t any compassion there, was there? No sadness over the state of the other side of town. No outrage that there’s masses of money here for vegan cappuccinos but not enough five miles away to even keep a Salvation Army shop open. Just that sneering British determination to avoid ever having to be confronted with the riff-raff.’
‘He wasn’t exactly sneering,’ I say.
‘No,’ Jessica agrees. ‘But I honestly don’t think he gives a shit about the state of Filwood, do you?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Perhaps not.’
After consulting some online guide on her phone for a bit, Jess leads us to the Lido. ‘It’s supposed to be beautiful,’ she tells me. And with its vast blue-tiled, heated outdoor pool and gourmet restaurant down one side, beautiful is what it is.
As an excuse to visit, we take seats in the café and order overpriced cups of tea.
Occasionally people appear from the far end of the pool before disappearing into the individual changing booths along the far side. They then reappear in their bathing costumes before plunging into the glowing pool. It looks a bit like one of David Hockney’s California paintings.
‘So, guess how much it costs to swim in here,’ Jessica says, after a fresh bout of googling.
‘Um, too much for the folks who live in Filwood?’ I ask, trying to head off her next rant before it gets started.