‘Cool.’ Luca’s blank look confirmed he had no memory of me or our brief encounter outside the toilets. Probably for the best. Drunkenly colliding with a stranger pre-8 p.m. on a Tuesday didn’t exactly screamI’m a serious professional journalist.
‘Right, well, I think we’ve got everything we need.’ I stabbed the top of my pen against my notebook with a sharp click. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ I added with a smile, turning for the exit before Luca’s memory had a chance to become less hazy.
‘I can come up if you want? We could order Dominoes and watch old episodes ofBake Off?’
Jacob’s cajoling tone made my hand still on the door handle of his beat-up VW Polo. Like most traditions, I couldn’t remember exactly how it had started, but somewhere along the way Wednesday nights had become me and Jacob and Joe (and Alice, when she wasn’t on shift) sardined on the sofa, pizza boxes juddering on our laps as we shook with laughter at Mary Berry’s passing comment about a contestant’s nut size. But it had been a while. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember the last time all three of us were together .?.?.
‘Maybe next week?’ I countered, forcing a smile through the wave of tiredness that swept over me. Jacob nodded, his lipspursed in that way that told me there was something else he wanted to say.
‘You know—’ he added quickly as I opened the door, one foot on the pavement, ‘—I can cover that interview for you on Friday, if you want? It’s no bother.’
‘Why would you do that?’
Jacob gave me a look. One I couldn’t fully comprehend, but if I wasn’t mistaken landed somewhere between concern and pity. An icy wind whipped down the street, making me shiver.
‘Jenny—’ Jacob started, but I was already out of the car, suddenly desperate to get inside.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow!’ I waved over my shoulder, breaking into a semi-jog towards the communal front door. I heaved it open, throwing a longing look at the faded Out of Order sign hung across the elevator doors, and began the long ascent to the top floor. I had to stop outside Mrs Norris’ door on the 3rdfloor to catch my breath, removing my coat and tying it around my waist.
I physically dragged myself up the final set of stairs, using the banister to aid my climb as though I were summiting the peak of Mount Everest. The second stair from the top creaked loudly beneath my shoe, making me jump even though it had been that way ever since we’d moved in. Our own personal security system, Joe used to joke, and I smiled at the thought of him glancing up from the sofa, alerted to my arrival even before the jangle of keys could give me away. I was so engrossed digging through the contents of my handbag to find said keys – mmm, half-eaten Twix, yes please – that I didn’t notice the piece of paper taped to the door until I was staring right at it. I tried to focus on the tiny, typed letters but they floated aimlessly around the page, toying with me as they scrambled into an incomprehensible jumble. I squinted, my eyes zeroing in on the giant red capital letters at the top of the page.
EVICTION NOTICE
Those two words were like a punch in the gut and I doubled over, afraid I was going to be sick, the stale Twix that had seemed so appealing thirty seconds ago now like a lump of coal in my mouth. My brain was in overdrive, a thousand questions all bouncing around demanding immediate answers.
Eviction? I mean, I know the rent is a little late – OK, a lot late – and this isn’t the first time, but they can’t evict us. Can they? I mean, where the hell will we go? This is my home. Our home that we built together. Joe and me. They must have the wrong address. Yes, that’s it. It’s probably intended for that couple with the cat that moved in downstairs a few months ago. I’ll phone in the morning and sort this all out.
I nodded to myself, snatching the paper angrily from the door, a ripped corner clinging stubbornly to the wood as I crumpled the rest in my fist. Letting myself into the flat and closing the door behind me, I flicked the deadbolt across with a satisfyingclunk, sliding the chain in place for good measure – as though I was afraid someone was going to barge in right that second and demand I leave.
The flat was dark and silent, an eerie rectangle of light on the floor courtesy of the half-moon shining in through the bay window, illuminating the place just enough for me to confirm it was empty, Joe’s spot on the right-hand side of the sofa – visibly moulded to his shape after all these years – unoccupied. The clocks went forward this weekend, the debate Joe and I always had over whether we gained or lost an hour due its annual rematch. But the light he’d normally leave on for me when I got home from work was off. I flicked the switch, blinking as my eyes fell on the pile of unopened post that had begun as a neat-ish stack on the bench by the door and, at some point, had spilledover onto the floor. A few red-stamped envelopes peeked out from amongst the sea of white letters.
LATE PAYMENT
FINAL NOTICE
LATE PAYMENT
My heart began to race, the eviction notice burning in the palm of my hand as though intent on reminding me of its existence, forcing me to connect the dots. But the picture that emerged made me feel sick to my stomach. No, this couldn’t be happening.
I dropped the ball of paper to the floor, watching it roll under the bench and out of sight. If only the panicked thoughts that had taken root in my brain – demanding answers to questions I didn’t even want to think about – could disappear so easily. I marched into the kitchen, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I spotted the overflowing recycling bin. The game of Tetris I’d been playing for the past few weeks was clearly over, the empty milk cartons and cereal packets I’d been carefully balancing atop the bin now littering the floor. My eyes fell wearily on the bin collection timetable stuck to the fridge door, trying to make sense of the complicated colour-coded system. Joe always did the bins. Giving up, I scraped my hair up into a messy bun, opening all the kitchen cabinets with a clatter and transferring their contents onto the countertop.
‘Everything all right?’
Joe had appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, leaning casually against the doorframe as he assessed the scene before him with a modicum of amusement.
‘Mhmm,’ I mumbled with a brisk nod of the head, focused on organising the ten different types of flour we had into military-like formation.
‘Yeah, I’m not buying it. You’re doing that thing you do.’
‘What thing?’
‘You know, the thing where you organise pointless stuff when you’re stressed.’
‘That’s not what I’m doing,’ I huffed, blowing a stray hair out of my face.
‘Really? So, Wednesday night is the perfect time to be alphabetising the canned goods?’
I thought my resulting silence and the way I slammed the cupboard door shut would be answer enough, but apparently not.
