As time went on, I began to feel increasingly lonely and frustrated, being stuck at home for most of the day with so very little to do. With only four walls for company, it’s easy to go a little stir crazy – and though I was job hunting from the onset, I wasn’t having much luck in finding anything stable, or that I was suitably qualified for. In essence, I’d packed up my entire life in to a suitcase, and left behind all that was safe and familiar to me, to live with a man who I hardly even knew and saw so little of. Phone calls from my mum helped the days pass by a little quicker, and I’d try my best to get out and about and see as much of the city as I could – but there were places I wanted Christos and I to explore together, and experiences I longed to share with him. After all, we were supposed to be a couple.
To anybody looking in on our relationship objectively, it would certainly appear that I had it easy – Christos was the breadwinner, the one that was working hard each day to ‘bring home the bacon’ so to speak and provide for the two of us, whereas I had the opportunity to lounge around the flat all day in my pyjamas, nap, watch movies, and come and go as I pleased.
But it was never that straightforward…
I remember a conversation we had before he left for work one Friday. I’m a very light sleeper, so as Christos would be up getting himself ready for another day of climbing ladders, laying down sheets and rolling paint on to walls, more often than not I too would be awake. The sun had yet to even rise, but he was particularly energetic that morning – manic even.
“Payday today!” he said gleefully, whilst changing into his overalls, and waiting for the kettle to boil so he could grab himself a quick black coffee.
“Mmhm,” I said sleepily, “And what does that mean?”
“It means Joey – we’re going out to celebrate this weekend!”
“Celebrate what?” I asked.
“Celebrate gettin’ paid! I’ve decided I’m gonna treat us both – we’ll ’ave a proper nice meal in the West End, somewhere real classy. Fancy that, yeah? Then… well then we’re both gonna go out for drinks. I know a proper posh nightclub, I ain’t taken you there yet, but I’m tellin’ you already, you’re gonna love it. See, we gotta have money in our pockets to go these places Joey, we can’t just turn up empty ’anded like a pair of scroungers!”
My parents had always taught me the value of money, and though what he was proposing sounded thoroughly entertaining to say the least, I couldn’t help but think that that money of his could be spent much more wisely if he’d only learn to budget it. Why did he have to be so flash? What point was he trying to prove?
The flat was still, for the most part, largely unfurnished. We didn’t have curtains, nor a sofa, and the fridge was bare but for a tub of butter and some milk. I worried that with his grandiose plans for the weekend, the money he’d worked so hard to earn wouldn’t be enough to see us through the rest of the week. But I didn’t feel like I was in an appropriate position to say anything, simply because it wasn’t my pay cheque.
“What time will you be home today?” I asked.
“About 5, all bein’ well,” Christos replied. “I need to get some new shoes and maybe a nice jacket or somethin’, so be ready to leave when I get back. We’ll get a bit of shoppin’ in, then I’m takin’ you to Soho.”
“I don’t have any money on my Oyster card,” I said, suddenly remembering. “I’ll need to top it up.”
“Listen Joey,” he said, perching on the edge of a table chair and looking me directly in the eye, as if he was about to bestow upon me some wise, powerful words of wisdom. “When you ’ave money you don’t need to get the bus – I’ll be payin’ for us a taxi.”
I could see his eyes light up at the prospect.
“Yeah, that’s right – we’ll pull up in style!”
He’d barely stopped for breath, and was now practically dancing around the room, giddy with excitement and anticipation – high on the mere thought of having money in his wallet.
“Right, I best be off then!” he said, swigging down the last of his coffee. “Make sure the flat’s tidy when I get back, yeah?”
“I will,” I mumbled from under the covers. “See ya later.”
“Bye,” he said, leaning down to give me a quick peck on the cheek.
I heard the door close behind him, and rolled over. It was back to sleep for me.
I managed to get a few more hours rest, before hopping out of bed to partake in my standard ‘morning coffee and a roll-up’ routine at the kitchen table. Next, I threw on a hoody and some sweat pants, locked the flat door behind me, and made the short walk across the road to pick up a newspaper at the local corner shop.
Christos had left me with a few quid to get by on for the day whilst I waited for him to return home, so I spent the rest of it on a cheap Sainsbury’s pizza, a full-sized carton of apple juice and a bag of oatmeal cookies. I then headed back to the flat to tidy up – cleaning the dishes, sweeping the crumbs and stray strands of tobacco off the floor, and wiping down the surfaces where there were coffee-cup and ketchup stains. I felt satisfied that I’d managed to do a decent enough job of it.
5pm came, and there was no sign of Christos yet. This wasn’t unusual. Honestly, my own time keeping skills are pretty poor to say the least, so it would be highly hypocritical of me to judge him for being a little late travelling back, especially in London, and at rush hour.
But when 6pm rolled round, and I still hadn’t heard from him, I began to feel a little anxious. I dialled his number.
“This person’s phone is switched off.”
I rang it again. Nothing. Nothing but the same automated message.
I tried to reassure myself that he’d just been held up somewhere and his phone battery had gone flat. I told myself that something completely trivial had probably cropped up, and that he’d arrive back home safe and sound, or somehow be in touch, any second now. But I just couldn’t help myself from watching the clock – nor could I shake the feelings of uneasiness that rattled within the pit of my stomach.
By 9pm I’d still yet to hear a peep out of him, and was starting to unravel; pacing around the flat, a bundle of nerves. His phone had remained switched off the entire time, and though I’d tried to call it over and over, I knew deep down that it was a pointless exercise. I just didn’t know what else to do. Having chain smoked my way through all my fags, I was now picking apart at the butts in the ash tray, scraping the recycled shreds of tobacco together, and in to a stray rizla paper to spark up and smoke. Had things really come to this?