“I’m sorry?” Andrew said, jamming a finger in his free ear.
“We’re offering you the job!” Cameron said. “There’ll be the usual formalities, of course, but can’t see any problems there, mate.”
Andrew stood there, buffeted by the wind.
“Andrew? Did you catch that?”
“Gosh. Yes, I did. Wow. That’s great. I’m . . . I’m delighted.”
And he was. So delighted in fact that he beamed at the waiter through the window. The waiter rewarded him with a slightly bemused smile.
“Andrew, listen, I’m just heading off to a seminar, so I’ll ask someone to ping you an e-mail with all the deets. I’m sure there’ll be a few bits and pieces to chat through, but don’t sweat any of that now. You get home and give Diane and the kids the good news.”
— CHAPTER 4 —
It was hard for Andrew to believe that it was only five years since he’d been standing in that windswept street, trying to take in what Cameron had just said. It felt like a lifetime ago.
He stirred listlessly at the baked beans currently spluttering in the travel saucepan on the stovetop, before depositing them on a crust of whole wheat he’d cut with his one still-sharp knife, its plastic handle warped and burned. He looked intently at the square of cracked tiles behind the cooker, pretending it was a camera. “So what I’ve done there is to combine the beans and the bread, and now I’ll just add a blob of ketchup (I use Captain Tomato but any brand is fine) to make it a tasty trio. You can’t freeze any of the leftovers, but luckily you’ll have wolfed it all down in about nine seconds and you’ll be too busy hating yourself to worry about that.”
He could hear his neighbor humming downstairs. She was relatively new, the previous tenants having moved out a few months ago. They were a young couple—early twenties, both startlingly attractive; all cheekbones and toned arms. The sort of aesthetically pleasing appearance that meant they’d never had to apologize for anything in their lives. Andrew would force himself to make eye contact with them and summon up a breezy greeting when they crossed paths in the hallway, but they never really bothered to reply. He was only aware that someone new had moved in when he heard the distinctive humming. He hadn’t seen his new neighbor, but, oddly, he had smelled her. Or at least he’d smelled her perfume, which was so strong that it lingered permanently in the hallway. He tried to picture her, but when he tried to see her face it was just a smooth, featureless oval.
Just then, his phone lit up on the countertop. He saw his sister’s name and his heart sank. He checked the date in the corner of his screen: March 31. He should have known. He pictured Sally checking her calendar, seeing a red ring around the thirty-first and swearing under her breath, knowing it was time for their quarterly call.
He took a fortifying gulp of water and picked up.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hey,” Sally said.
A pause.
“Well. How are you, little bro?” Sally said. “Everything cool?”
Christ, why did she still have to speak as though they were teenagers?
“Oh, you know, the usual. You?”
“Can’t complain, dude, I guess. Me and Carl are doing a yoga retreat this weekend, help him learn the teaching side of it and all that jazz.”
Carl. Sally’s husband. Usually to be found guzzling protein shakes and voluntarily lifting heavy objects up and down.
“That sounds . . . nice,” Andrew said. Then, after the sort of short silence that clearly denotes it’s time to move on to the most pressing matter: “And how’s it going with your tests and everything?”
Sally sighed.
“Had a bunch more last month. Results all came back inconclusive, which means they still know sweet FA, basically. Still, I feel much better. And they think that it’s probably not a heart thing, so I’m not likely to do a Dad and kick the bucket without warning. They just keep telling me the usual BS, you know how it is. Exercise more, drink less, blah blah blah.”
“Well, good that they’re not unduly concerned,” Andrew said, thinking that if Sally shouldn’t talk like a teenager he probably shouldn’t talk like a repressed Oxford don. He’d have thought that after all these years it wouldn’t feel like they were strangers. It was still that simple checklist of topics: Work. Health. Family (well, Carl, the only person who came close to a shared family member). Except, this time, Sally decided to throw in a curveball.
“So, I was thinking . . . maybe we should meet up sometime soon. It’s been, like, five years now after all.”
Seven, Andrew thought. And the last time was at Uncle Dave’s funeral in a crematorium opposite a KFC in Banbury. And you were high. Then again, he conceded, he hadn’t exactly been inundating Sally with invitations to meet up since.
“That . . . that would be good,” he said. “As long as you can spare the time, of course. Maybe we could meet halfway or something.”
“Yeah, it’s cool, bro. Though we’ve moved, remember? We’re in Newquay now—Carl’s business, and everything? So halfway is somewhere else these days. But I’m going to be in London seeing a friend in May. We could hang then, maybe?”
“Yes. Okay. Just let me know when you’re coming up.”
Andrew scanned the room and chewed his lip. In the twenty years since he’d moved into the flat barely a thing had changed. Consequently, his living space was looking not so much tired as absolutely knackered. There was the dark stain where the wall met the ceiling in the area that masqueraded as a kitchen; then there were the battered gray sofa, threadbare carpet and yellowy-brown wallpaper that was meant to suggest autumn but in fact suggested digestive biscuits. As the color of the wallpaper had faded, so had the chances of Andrew’s actually doing anything about it. And his shame at the state of the place was only matched by the terror he felt at the thought of changing it or, worse, living anywhere else. There was at least one benefit to being on his own and never having anyone around—nobody could judge him for how he lived.
He decided to change the subject, recalling something Sally had told him the last time they’d spoken.
“How are things going with your . . . person?”
He heard a lighter sparking and then the faint sound of Sally exhaling smoke.
“My person?”
“The person you were going to see. To talk about things.”
“You mean my therapist?”
“Yes.”
“Ditched her when we moved. To be honest, dude, I was glad of the excuse. She kept trying to hypnotize me and it didn’t work. I told her I was immune but she wouldn’t listen. But I’ve found someone new in Newquay. She’s more of a spiritual healer, I guess? I bumped into her while she was putting up an advert next to Carl’s yoga class flyer. What are the chances?”
Well . . . , Andrew thought.
“So, listen, man,” Sally said. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Right,” Andrew said, instantly suspicious. First arranging to meet, now this. Oh god, what if she was going to try to make him spend time with Carl?
“So—and I normally wouldn’t do this as I know that . . . well, it’s not something we’d normally talk about. But, anyway, you know my old pal Sparky?”
“No.”
“You do, bud. He’s the one with the bong shop in Brighton Lanes?”
Obviously.
“Okay . . .”
“He’s got this friend. Julia. She lives in London. Crystal Palace way, actually, so not too far from you. She’s thirty-five. And about two years ago she went through a pretty shitty-sounding divorce.”
Andrew held the phone away from his ear. If this is going where I think it’s going . . .
“But she’s come out of the other side of it now, and from what Sparky tells me she’s looking to, you know, get back in the saddle. So, I was just thinking, that, like, maybe you might—”