I opened the door, putting on an ingratiating look – not that the fat postman on the doorstep gave a toss.
‘Parcel.’
I signed for it, trying not to get too excited, but this was one huge parcel. Perhaps I had a secret admirer who was sending me precious gifts because they were totally rich and also perhaps completely famous.
Fran wandered through to try and use the loo. The fat postman noticed her – every man noticed her.
‘Hello, fat postman,’ she said. Then, indicating the parcel: ‘Hey, is that for you?’
I turned it over in anticipation. ‘No, it’s for Linda. Bum bum bum.’
‘God, what is it – the latest in the Woodland Farm Princess Diana Star Wars plate collection?’
‘No, too heavy.’
The postman wobbled off. As ever, we looked at each other, wondering how a man who walked ten miles a day could get that fat.
‘Books?’
‘Linda doesn’t read books. She eats them.’
‘Is that true, or is it just that you don’t like her?’
I looked at my feet.
‘It’s just that I don’t like her.’
‘Well then, can we open it?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Why not? She wouldn’t mind.’
‘Fran, I believe she might, in fact, mind.’
To be honest, I had no idea whether she’d mind or not. In fact, all I knew about Linda was that she worked in a bank – I couldn’t remember which one – was an only child, and had inherited money from her grandmother to buy this lovely flat and cover it in pastel tat. And I had learnt all this from the flat interview, where I had tried to look unbelievably fascinated, thus moving in under false pretences – which was a huge relief, as at the time I’d been on the run from a cabal of physiotherapists who were terrorizing me out of my shared flat in Edmonton, a period of my life I normally only flashed back to at four o’clock in the morning, wide awake and sweating.
As if hearing our thoughts – or, more likely, she’d had her ear up against the door earwigging our entire conversation – Linda stomped out into the corridor from her big bedroom at the back of the house, managing not to look either of us in the eye, even while grabbing the parcel out of my hand. She was short and round, with a definite aura of moustache. As she stomped back to her room, Fran and I swapped our familiar ‘Linda’ look.
‘Erm, guys … ha ha …’ came a strangulated voice, ‘can I, er, come out of the bathroom now?’
Fran raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Any time you like, darling. We’ll be right here.’
I started to giggle.
‘Right, OK, right …’ came the voice. Then there was a pause, during which we didn’t move back to the kitchen.
Finally, the door started to open and Nicholas emerged, with a mass of tissue paper covering his genitals. And I mean a mass.
‘Bwah hah! Corking night, eh, ladies!’ he hollered, putting on a good front, I have to say. ‘What’s for breakfast?’
‘For you, a number sixty-eight bus,’ said Fran. ‘They deliver.’
‘Haw haw haw – I’ll get my dancing trousers on and be right with you. And how are you, my darling?’
We both looked round, till I realized he was talking to me.
‘Oh, you know, some variation of fantastic,’ I said, hunched over, still in my towel. ‘The negative one.’ Suddenly I saw something on the floor which I hadn’t seen previously. I picked it up. It was a postcard, and this time it was for me.
‘Fra-an!’ my voice quavered as I followed her into the living room. ‘It’s a postcard.’
‘So I see. Oh, and look over there, Nicholas – it’s a door!’
‘Cwah cwah!’ came the voice from the other room. ‘Just wait till I tell the boys at work about this.’
I sighed. ‘Look,’ I said urgently. ‘Look who it’s from.’
The postcard was of the Empire State Building, almost completely obscured by a close-up of a woman’s breasts. On the other side it said simply: Darling, I’m so sorry – big mistake. I’m coming home. Alex.
There was a long dramatic pause. Or, well, there would have been a long dramatic pause, except that Nicholas chose that moment to launch into the room wearing purple trousers (I hadn’t noticed they were purple; the effect was like a terrible plum-canning factory accident), shouting, ‘Hey, I know what would be hysterical – let’s make some French toast!!’
Fran gave him a Paddington Bear hard stare. ‘Go look for some chocolate, Nicholas.’
I was in shock, and scarcely noticed when Nicholas disappeared, then returned obediently with a dozen chocolate mini rolls. I was too busy staring straight ahead without blinking and trying to work everything out: Alex, Alex, Alex – my ‘one true love’, according to me. Alex, Alex, Alex, that ‘low-level rat bastard’ according to Fran and pretty much everyone else in the world.
The first time I ever saw Alex I thought, ‘Phwoar, I’d like to get into his pants!’ And he looked at me and thought exactly the same thing: it was a true meeting of minds. Oh! That shitty West London party (well, I should have known better than to go to parties in West London and expect to have a good time, but just that once it paid off).
I was searching for the more expensive beer that hosts hide at the back of the fridge, when:
‘Is it just me,’ growled a tall voice, ‘or does everyone here look like they’ve got something uncomfortable up their bums?’
‘That’s trendy,’ I hissed. ‘You’re supposed to be envying them. They’re only pretending not to be having a good time.’
‘Ohhhhh, now I understand. Right. So I can either try and get out of West London …’
‘Can’t be done,’ I pointed out.
‘True … Or I could get absolutely wasted and do something awful which I could later abdicate any responsibility for.’
This was so pointed that I gulped and took a closer look at this six foot two, dark-haired, unruly-looking character with the most heavy-lidded, pointy-lashed brown eyes I’d ever seen.
‘That,’ I said, ‘sounds like it would be completely out of character.’
Eighteen astonishing hours later, damp, grubby and absolutely starving, lying in an unfamiliar bedroom having my tummy tickled with a tea bag, I realized I was on to something.
A
