I suppose before I show you around, I should tell you about the man in my life.’
This was news to me. ‘You have a man?’
‘Yes, I do. And it’s important the two of you get on because you’re going to be spending a lot of time together.’
‘Lizzie Sullivan, you dark horse! Is he here now?’ I peered into the apartment half-expecting her beau to appear.
‘He is, as a matter of fact.’ She walked over to a vintage sideboard and patted the lid of a blue glass tank, where a small goldfish was swimming.
‘Nell, I’d like to introduce you to Pablo.’
I suppressed a giggle. ‘Pablo?’
She nodded with mock seriousness. ‘Pablo the Goldfish. Sharer of my space, confidant of my secrets, more-or-less-constant companion. In Pablo I have found all the qualities I could want from a man. Apart from – you know – the obvious …’
‘Ugh! That’s a mental picture I don’t need.’
Her face flushed red. ‘No! I mean he can’t put out the trash. Or mow the lawn. Not that I have a lawn yet, but … OK, I think I’ve taken that analogy far enough.’
‘I think you have. Seriously though, are there any blokes on the scene?’
She shrugged. ‘A few dates. Nothing major. How about you? Is that Aidan chap still hanging around?’
‘He’s the one who told me I was losing my job.’
‘Ooh, nasty. And not exactly conducive to romance.’
‘Nope.’ The memory of Aidan was sharper than I expected. ‘He tried calling me before I came out here but I don’t think we’ve anything more to say to each other.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
I hoped my answer was believable. ‘I think so. But it’s fine. It’s been a long time coming, really.’
Lizzie hugged me. ‘Well I think you’re worth more, anyhow. And you’re here to have fun, so that’s all that matters. Right, let me give you the guided tour of Apartment 24B Cole Street. Which should last approximately thirty seconds. So – this is the kitchen area. I’m hoping for lots of your amazing baking creations to be inspired here. But no pressure! That’s the dining area over there and main living room – feel free to sit wherever you like, I don’t have a favourite chair. Then the first door on the right is my bedroom, the middle door is the bathroom, which is, thankfully, much bigger than you think it’s going to be. And then the last door is your room. It’s actually my office but I prefer to work at the table anyway so don’t go worrying that you’re inconveniencing me. I’ve put a futon in there, which is really comfy, and I’ve cleared the closet so you can hang your stuff up. Everything is yours for the next eight weeks, so if you want to watch TV or make yourself some food or coffee, even if it’s in the middle of the night, you’re welcome to help yourself.’
It was homely and kooky and completely Lizzie – and, considering I had been awake for over twenty-four hours and was now standing in an apartment I had never been in before, I felt surprisingly at home. Seeing my cousin so excited about me spending two months with her went a long way to making me feel like that, but there was also something distinctly familiar about Haight-Ashbury, even from the small amount I had seen during our taxi ride and arriving in Lizzie’s neighbourhood. I had a feeling I was going to enjoy living here for the next eight weeks.
‘Now sit down and I’ll pop the kettle on,’ Lizzie said, hurrying into the kitchen. ‘We’ll go and grab something to eat if you like, but first you need a decent cuppa.’ She reached into an overhead cupboard and produced a box of English breakfast tea like it was the most precious gem in the world. ‘Mum sends me these,’ she said, popping two teabags into a brightly painted teapot. ‘I’ve been able to cope with most changes living in America but decent tea is something I refuse to compromise on.’
‘I like your teapot. Did you paint it yourself?’
‘No – although I did take a pottery class when I first got here. You know me, always a bit crafty. I made those vases on the bookcase – not bad for a beginner. I bought this in Brighton when I last came home, actually. One of Mum’s friends Guin owns a fab pottery studio in Shoreham-by-Sea and I bought this when I met her. Had to smuggle it home in my hand luggage – I think airport security thought I was mad.’ She grinned as she filled the teapot and brought it over. ‘And now I have three things in my house from England: the tea, the teapot and you.’
Growing up together on the Kent coast before my parents moved to Richmond, Lizzie and I had always been close. I envied her artiness and creativity – she was always making something, learning a new instrument or baking. Where I had swimming lessons and occasionally went horse riding at the local stables, Lizzie’s calendar of clubs, groups and lessons for the week was dizzying. Art club, chess club, ballet, jazz dance, drama club, photography class and singing lessons … By the time my family moved to Richmond, however, Lizzie’s attention had been claimed by two loves: playing piano and baking. While I didn’t possess a single musical bone in my body, I did love to bake and that became the activity that bound us together, even when we only saw each other during school holidays. When Lizzie emigrated to the States eight years ago, recipes became our primary form of communication, both of us emailing each other with links to new recipes and photos of our most recent culinary endeavours.
Lizzie now worked as a piano teacher, going into Bay Area schools to teach music classes and tutoring some private students in the neighbourhood. She also ran an after-school baking and crafts club at an elementary school in the Mission District, which had become so successful that three other schools in the city had adopted Lizzie’s programme. Because of this she had been asked to advise on after-school programmes for the California Department of Education.
‘What’s great about it all is that everything I’m doing now happened by chance,’ she grinned. ‘I offered to do a one-off after-school session at the school in Mission and it all stemmed from that. It isn’t what I thought I’d spend my life doing but I can’t imagine doing anything else now.’
As she told me about the recent developments of her life I was immensely proud of my cousin. I remembered how nervous she had been when she first booked her gap year trip to the States; how, nine days into her adventure, she had reverse-charge called me in tears, insisting that she’d made the biggest mistake of her life, was almost broke already and wanted to come home. But then she had a chance meeting with a travelling music and theatre company who were visiting a school in the town where she was staying. When they heard her play they invited her to join them. The wealthy organisation funding the company arranged Lizzie’s Green Card and within a year she was a fully-fledged American citizen. She had settled in San Francisco after falling in love with the city while on tour – and looking at her now I honestly couldn’t imagine her living anywhere else.
‘This is a bit weird, catching up on large amounts of our lives, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘I mean, it’s great, but it’s only when we talk about it that I realise how many years it’s been since we last did this.’
‘I like what I’m discovering, though. You’ve done so well.’
‘Aw, thanks hun. And so have you.’
I stared at her. ‘Hardly. I’ve just lost my job – thanks to my ex who I had mistakenly assumed I was about to get back together with. I’ve moved back with my parents and
