‘Macbeth, Blood Brothers, An Inspector Calls …’
‘They’re mine,’ I tell him. ‘For work.’
‘You’re an actress?’
‘No, a teacher.’
‘Ah, English literature?’
‘Drama,’ I say, apologetically. I don’t know why. ‘I’m covering someone on mat leave.’
John puts the books into a neat pile and hands them over to me, but I don’t accept them, keeping my hands tight onto my towel. He returns them to the stool. Every second that passes feels like an hour, a year.
‘So, how did …’ I attempt, but I can’t find the words to continue.
‘An accident. Hit by a van.’
‘Oh!’ I laugh again.
‘It happened on this road, just a few yards from here.’
‘But, how? I mean, Jack’s unmissable. He’s a massive, hairy bear.’
An almighty din startles me and I gasp, my heart now plunged into the pit of my stomach. My phone is ringing. It’s on the breakfast bar, dancing to the vibration. John and I both stare at the device like an alien has invaded, the single word ‘Mum’ lighting up the screen. It rings and rings and rings, and then it stops. I release a sigh, as does John, who looks as if he’s about to say something. Then a message alert interrupts him.
‘Sorry, John,’ I say, snatching my phone.
The message contains a photo of a wicker laundry basket lined with beige gingham cotton.
Isn’t this lovely? Shall I get it for your new flat? Mum x
My flat isn’t new. My mum hasn’t been to visit yet because she lives in Liverpool and I only recently moved in. My suitcases aren’t even fully unpacked yet: the Ikea drawers we purchased last weekend are still flat-packed. Jack, however, has been living here for three years. He has the laundry sorted. Had the laundry sorted. Fucking hell, must I resort to past tense already? Over a wicker basket?
I type back.
Thanks Mum but we’ve got one. Xx
She replies straight away.
It’s only 8.99 you know.
Caught in a freakish crossover of past and present, I ignore my mum’s persistence and notice that another message looms for me, unread, received at 11.33 this morning. It’s from Jack.
Pizza at Dough-Re-Mi before the comedy? X
Yes, I want to reply. Yeah, definitely. But Jack’s phone is on the bookshelf in the hall and he has no way of coming home to get it because he’s been—
‘Hit by a van?’ I ask John. ‘Seriously?’
‘Shortly after lunchtime.’
‘Why has nobody told me until now?’ Why does my voice sound so normal?
‘We didn’t know about you.’
And yet I know about John. About how he grew up on a farm in Lancashire and moved to London when he was twenty-two. He married his wife, Trish, and they settled in Berkshire, had three sons, Jack in the middle. I know that he’s retired now, but he used to own a company that made stationery. He sold it for a good amount, but not as good as he’d hoped for. I know that he supports Manchester United, although, unlike Jack, he’s never been to a game, and that he’s a huge Barry Manilow fan – like, borderline obsessed.
But John – he didn’t know about me. Seems Trish didn’t – well, doesn’t – either.
‘Jack’s driving licence still has our house as his permanent address,’ John tells me. ‘I was home today when the police came to inform us. He was killed on the scene.’
This can’t be true. We’re going to a comedy night.
‘I’m here to find Jack’s phone,’ John continues. ‘His work, his friends need to – erm – know.’
‘I was hoping for a Kinder Bueno,’ I think, perhaps aloud.
‘Sorry?’
‘Or a Magnum. Perfect weather for a Magnum.’
I stare at my phone, at the last communication I’ll ever receive from Jack; except it’s interrupted with another message from my mum, followed by another photo.
Chloe look! Cushion covers to match the wicker basket. Aren’t they lovely?
My phone slips out of my hand and crashes to the floor. John’s arms envelop my bare shoulders and I freeze, allowing this stranger’s embrace to hold me together so I don’t crack. I’m completely naked beneath this towel and I can hear Jack’s king-size laugh bouncing off these basement walls at the sight of his dad and his girlfriend being pelted head-first into a top-notch awkward moment.
Except I can’t hear Jack’s laugh, can I?
2
I arrive at Beth’s in a taxi.
It would’ve been much quicker to get to Islington on the Overground from Brockley, but that’s far too much normality to follow the news I’ve been hit with. John has stayed behind in the flat, waiting for Trish. They want to spend the night there together, because apparently Trish doesn’t like the idea of Jack’s flat being left abandoned. I did remind John that I would be there – you know, because I live there – to which he said, ‘Ah, that’s right’. By the time I’d replaced the towel around my body with actual clothes, he told me that Trish was arriving in about twenty minutes. If that wasn’t a cue to leave – well.
‘Oh, go fuck yourself!’ I overhear Beth scream.
I’m on the front step of her mid-terrace house, thirty quid down thanks to the rush hour surge, my finger hovering over the doorbell. We’ve known each other since high school and despite her living in London for the past decade, Beth hasn’t lost a smidgeon of her Liverpool twang. A door inside slams and the front door swings open.
‘Chloe?! Didn’t know you were coming.’
Beth’s husband Fergus is holding a large bin bag, bulging to match his muscles. Last month, when we went out for Beth’s birthday, Jack described Fergus to me as Garfield on steroids. He had a point.
‘Chloe?’ Fergus asks again. ‘You okay?’
I look to his grumpy face as he waits impatiently to lob the rubbish into the plastic bin beside me. I manage some sort of polite closed-mouth smile, confusing him further, and he sidles past to complete his chore.
‘She’s in the lounge,’ he says, with a sharp flick of his neat, ginger hair.
I float through their hallway, not really present, yet somehow here. I pass by the brass-framed art deco mirror, the stylish coat rack, the three canvas prints of their wedding day. My worn-out Converse barely make a sound on the monochrome tiled floor. I linger by the wooden dining bench at the end of the knocked-through lounge-diner, carefully placing my second-hand leather satchel onto the table. It might as well be a used paper bag from a greasy bakery in these surroundings. Everything in Beth and Fergus Douglas’s house is shiny and expensive, and although the house itself is small, it’s got three bedrooms so worth a fortune in this neck of the woods.
As always beyond seven o’clock, Beth’s in her pyjamas; she starts stripping off her corporate daywear before she gets her key in the door. Tonight, she’s wearing little chequered shorts and a matching t-shirt. Her smooth, tanned legs are crossed over; she’s slouching into the soft white leather sofa, surrounded by various metallic cushions, scrolling through her phone. Her caramel hair extensions are wound into a high bun sitting on the top of her head, her makeup still immaculate from the morning, a pedicure gleaming from her restless little toes.