‘You’re doing what?’
My housemates – Charlotte, Sarah and Tom – were staring at me as if I’d just dyed my hair green. Already suspicious when I’d called a house meeting, they were now sitting like the Three Wise (and Grumpy) Monkeys on the faded IKEA sofa in the living room of our shared house in Woodford. I couldn’t blame them for their suspicion: the last time we’d had a house meeting was six years ago to find out which of us knew the slightly odd man who had been sleeping on our sofa since a house party the week before. (It turned out, none of us did – and we had, in fact, been feeding and housing a random bloke who’d wandered in from the street while the party was in full flow …)
‘I lost my job yesterday. So I’m going to San Francisco for eight weeks,’ I repeated, hoping this time they would understand.
They didn’t.
‘Excuse me?’ Sarah crossed her long legs and looked at me like the headmistress she was working hard to become. Her teacher’s tone, when inflicted, could reduce a grown man to tears. I had seen this happen on several occasions, more often than not the man in question being her boyfriend Tom, who now appeared to be cowering on my behalf. ‘Have you even thought this through? What are you going to do for money once your redundancy payment runs out? And what about your room, Nell? We can’t afford to carry two people on the dole.’
She shot an accusing look at Tom, who visibly winced. It was common knowledge that Sarah had been supporting him financially since he was laid off from a London advertising agency. Tom’s experience of unemployment was another reason why I didn’t want to stay in the UK wallowing. He might have been content to spend the last six months in his pyjamas playing X-Box and watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta, but it was my idea of hell.
‘I am trying to get a job,’ he protested, sounding more like a whining three-year-old than a tragic victim of the recession. ‘It’s tough out there. For what it’s worth, Nell, I think you’ve got the right idea. Get out while you can.’
‘Tom …’ Sarah growled through gritted teeth, ‘you’re not helping.’ She turned back to me. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Nell, I think you’re being completely irresponsible.’
Charlotte, who up until now had remained silent, folded her arms and nodded in agreement. In all the time we’d shared a house, I hadn’t managed to click with her. My latest bombshell was unlikely to change this.
‘Well, that’s your opinion,’ I replied. They had never shown much interest in my life to this point, beyond when rent was due or if I’d been baking. I could hardly expect them to start now. ‘But I want to do this. And if it backfires horribly, I’m happy to bear the consequences.’
As if I didn’t exist, Charlotte turned to Sarah, flicking her too-straight blonde hair – which, apart from her eyes that seemed to stare directly through your skull, was her only truly remarkable feature. ‘Dave could move in.’
‘Could he?’ Sarah’s mood lifted from annoyed to mildly ruffled.
‘I think so. He has a good job –’ she aimed the emphasis directly at me, but I was impervious to it ‘– he’s reliable and he’d make a great housemate.’
‘Um, Nell’s still here?’ Tom said, but Sarah wasn’t listening. Clearly Charlotte’s suggestion appealed to her. Knowing how much like immature schoolgirls they could be I guessed she was probably already imagining the two couples playing house and co-ordinating a double wedding …
Sarah beamed. ‘It’s perfect. When are you moving out, Nell?’
I didn’t mind her reaction, or the blatant glee with which Charlotte and Sarah helped me to clear out my room later that day. Of course, Charlotte and Sarah made polite small talk as we worked but I knew we wouldn’t miss each other. We had never really bonded anyway – the house-share was nothing more than a sensible choice until I could afford a place of my own. The fact was we only really interacted when we passed in the hallway or occasionally met up when bills needed paying. If we’d been close friends I imagined it could have been harder to leave: as it was, they were surprisingly easy to walk away from.
‘Will you miss Woodford?’ Dad asked as we drove his packed Volvo through London traffic towards my parents’ home in Richmond.
‘Not really.’
‘Don’t blame you, Nelliegirl. Bloody awful place. Besides, your great American adventure awaits!’
I smiled back, loving my dad today even more than usual. When I had told him and Mum yesterday about my San Francisco plans, his first reaction was to congratulate me: ‘Splendid! Don’t let the Council scum grind you down, darling …’ Initially I’d wondered how they would take the news that their daughter who’d flown the nest was now creeping back into it, but neither of them batted an eyelid.
Mum fussed around me for the next few days, insisting on washing all of the clothes I planned to take with me and cooking all my favourite meals. It felt good to be surrounded by my parents, even if the sudden lack of personal space was more than a little challenging at first.
Aidan made repeated attempts to contact me, at first leaving voicemail messages, then switching to text messages and finally resorting to missed calls, all of which stacked up on my mobile screen – and all of which I resolutely ignored. I was still angry with him, not least for choosing the day I’d been made redundant to try to make a move on me. I was determined not to think about him while I was away. This was my chance to focus on myself and I wasn’t likely to waste it agonising over Aidan. He’d commandeered far too much of my time already.
As the days passed, I allowed myself to be caught up in the practicalities of my planned trip, worried that if I paused for too long I might end up reconsidering. I was doing this for me, I reminded myself whenever butterflies appeared; this was a good thing.
The day before I was due to leave, I arranged to meet Vicky. She was agog with the news of my sudden decision and concerned that this signalled the beginning of a nervous breakdown or onset of a very early mid-life crisis.
‘It can’t be a mid-life crisis,’ I laughed. ‘I’m only thirty-two.’
‘It’s possible, Nell,’ she insisted. ‘I was reading in Cosmo last week about women who reach thirty and completely change their lives. And there was that incident where you suddenly dyed your hair black last year, remember? Even you had to admit it was a daft decision. Now, I know we’ve had a setback with losing our jobs, but don’t you think this is a little – extreme – especially for you? I mean, you’re always the one I used to rely on to get us home after a wild night out. You are Ms Sensible. I’m a bit worried about this change of direction.’
‘I’m just going on holiday,’ I replied, handing her a fresh gin and tonic. ‘I’m not trying to “find myself” or anything contrived like that. But I’ve played it safe for six years and never really done anything just for me. I’m not running away. I’m just taking a break.’
Vicky had been almost convinced by this, on one condition: ‘Promise you will email me, every week. I want to make sure you’re OK. More than that, I want to know that you’re not squandering this opportunity. So I expect you to squeeze every bit of joy out of the next two months. And I expect details, missy. As often as you can.’
I happily agreed, yet again grateful that I
