Billy’s tail wags with anticipation – but that’s only because he doesn’t yet know of the disappointment to come. I fork half a tin of food into his bowl and then put it on the floor next to the sink. He sniffs it and then looks up at me, betrayed.
‘Sorry, mate,’ I tell him. ‘Those tins were four for a fiver. Unless you fancy getting a job, it’s all there is.’
He sniffs the food once more and then takes a reticent mouthful.
As he eats slowly, I open the mail. It’s the end of the month, so my usual credit card bill has arrived. I have no idea how I got approved for it – but it is, essentially, the only reason I can afford to live. The minimum payment is £15, but I owe a little over £200 in total. It’s not much, not in the bigger picture of inflated house prices and brand-new cars, but it feels like so much more than it is. There was a time when I wouldn’t have thought twice about spending £200 on an evening away, or a new dress for some posh function.
Not any longer.
It doesn’t feel as if I’ll ever clear it. I never thought I’d end up as one of those people who always owes money – but here I am.
Billy is getting into the swing of eating a little more now, not quite so put out by the treachery of cheap food.
I find myself staring at the envelope of money on the table: £3,640 that I’m definitely going to hand in.
Before I know it, the envelope is in my hand and I’m not entirely sure when I crossed the room. The apartment’s only room. I lift the envelope flap slowly, peering at the packed rows of twenty-pound notes.
I’m lost in thoughts of the good I could do with the windfall. The way I could turn my life around… which is when a noise thumps through the apartment.
I shriek and possibly even jump a little. Literally jump. There’s somebody at the door. I cram the envelope into the drawer underneath the television and then shout ‘hang on’ as I double-check the money is definitely still inside the envelope. There’s an addictive intoxication to it. A lure.
Billy is still in the kitchenette, half watching the door in case this newcomer is interested in his food.
The identity of the person at the door is no surprise. It’s not as if I have a gargantuan circle of friends who pop in unannounced at regular intervals. I don’t live in a sitcom.
Karen is leaning on my door frame, half turned to the door opposite.
‘You seen ’im yet, then?’ she asks.
‘Who?’ I reply.
Karen nods across the hall. ‘Our new neighbour.’
She looks between me and the closed door expectantly, as if whoever it is might appear through the sheer force of her will. Nobody does, of course.
‘I don’t know why you think it’s a him,’ I say.
‘I saw Lauren on her way out today and wheedled it out of her. She’s still fuming that Jade up and left without paying the rent.’ Karen turns from the closed door back to me. ‘Did you know Jade left all her stuff? There wasn’t much, but Lauren reckons she had to pay someone to come and take it all. Guess that’s what happens with students.’
Karen pushes herself up from leaning into a standing position. She’s still eyeing the door across the hallway as if there’s a prize behind it. If I was in there, I’d probably be hiding from Karen, too. She’s lovely – and my best friend, if I’m honest. That’s partly because a single woman in a crappy flat with a crappier job and no money isn’t really in demand among the social circles of society. It’s also because we really do get on. She does enjoy the gossip a lot more than I do, however, and the identity of our new neighbour is something that’s been a constant source of speculation and conversation since we found out Jade had left a few months ago.
I always liked Jade. She seemed assertive enough and, more importantly in a place like this, never made any noise. The fact that she upped and left without telling Lauren, our building manager, seems a bit unlike her – but then I guess we never had a real conversation. It’s funny how much you think you know about a person through snatched snippets of interaction.
‘He’s probably hiding,’ I say.
Karen turns back to me. ‘Who?’
‘Our new neighbour. He’s heard you’re prowling around the hallway and is keeping his head down.’
I grin and Karen acknowledges the truth with a smirk. ‘I’m not prowling,’ she says. ‘I baked a welcome-to-your-new-home cake – and then no one’s seen him in two weeks.’ She pauses, biting her bottom lip. ‘I reckon it’s a rich businessman using it as a place to meet his mistress. Y’know… cheap flat… no one’s gonna suspect he’d bring anyone here.’
She’s right about one thing. Hamilton House has been around for more than six decades and is gradually becoming more and more run-down. The people who live in the flats do so not through choice but because there’s hardly anywhere cheaper in the local area. It’s the sort of place where people can spend decades and it’s a competition to see whether the building is condemned before the tenants die of gas poisoning or respiratory lung problems brought on by the damp. We literally live in an eyesore.
There’s no way a rich businessman is bringing anyone here, secret mistress or not, but I can’t be bothered to talk about it any longer.
‘You’re probably right,’ I say.
‘Did you hear ’im playing Elton John the other day?’ Karen asks.
I blink at her, silenced for a second before I find my voice. ‘Really?’
It’s only a single word, but I still manage to falter in saying it.
Karen looks to me, picking up on the crack in my voice. She frowns: ‘You okay?’
‘Yes, I um…’
If she noticed my momentary stumble, then Karen moves on quickly. ‘I’m going to invite him to my birthday party,’ she says, before taking two steps across the hall and rapping her knuckles on the door.
We wait in silence as nothing happens. Karen tries knocking a second time but gets the same response, so she shrugs, crouches, and slips an envelope under the door. She turns back to me.
‘You’re coming, aren’t you?’
I shrink back into my apartment. ‘I don’t know. It’s on bonfire night and Billy gets scared by the fireworks.’
As I glance back into the flat, Billy’s ears prick up at the sound of his name. He’s finished his food and is sitting next to the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink. Sometimes, it feels like he’s the bouncing, excitable dog he once was; other times, it’s like he can barely muster the energy to move.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Karen replies. ‘The Rec Centre says dogs are okay. I asked especially. The party’s in the room at the back, so you probably won’t hear the fireworks in there. There’ll be music to drown it out anyway.’
Damn.
Parties are not my thing and haven’t been for a long, long time. It’s all true about Billy and bonfire night, but, as much as I like Karen, I was also hoping to use him as an excuse to get out of going to her party. I think, deep down, that’s how everybody feels about this sort of thing. The minute a wedding invite arrives, or there’s a mention of a birthday or anniversary party, those summoned start thinking of the best way to get out of it. Sickness is an obvious one, but we pray for an altered work rota or to be hit by a taxi. Sure, it might mean a shattered limb – but it will provide the sweet, sweet respite from an evening’s pretence of enjoying ourselves.