‘Yes, I’m here,’ I whispered, my voice fractured.
‘The cheque, Miss Thompson. Have you received it?’ Craig pressed. ‘The address it was issued to is Flat 6, 4 Kings Gardens, BN3 4NP?’
‘That’s my old address.’
‘It’s the address we’ve got on file for you, Miss Thompson.’ Craig sighed impatiently, as though I was the one somehow inconveniencing him.
‘Well, I can just give you my new address now.’
‘Any change in residential address must be verified, a process that can take up to 28 working days, Miss Thompson. Do you have a bill or bank statement with your new address on that we can use for verification purposes?’
‘Err, no, not exactly. You see I’m staying with my mother right now. Temporarily, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Something about Craig’s tone made my cheeks flush with heat.
‘Well, Miss Thompson, without proof of residence I cannot very well send another cheque to an unauthorised address, I’msure you understand.’
‘No, Craig, I don’t bloody understand,’ I barked down the phone, rage bubbling up inside of me. I didn’t even want the bloody cheque. All the letters they’d sent me over the past few months still sat unopened at the bottom of one of my moving boxes, and those are just the ones my neighbours left outside my door when the contents of my woefully ignored pigeonhole downstairs repeatedly spilled out onto the floor below. The very thought that I’d benefit financially from Joe’s death made me want to throw up, but the fact that asshole Craig was now refusing to send me said cheque that I had no intention of cashing, for the sole reason that I was living with my mother, pushed me over the edge.
‘You know what, Craig,’ I snapped, cutting him off midway through what sounded like him reading the company handbook to me, ‘I’ll just get the sodding cheque myself!’
The communal front door was unlocked, as it always was, and I let myself in, ignoring the PLEASE LOCK THE FRONT DOOR BEHIND YOU sign courtesy of Mr Higgins from Flat 1 that no one ever adhered to. I wandered over to the wooden pigeonholes, my jaw clenching when I saw that mine and Joe’s nametag on the top row had been replaced by one that read LUCA PATEL in capital letters. A quick inspection revealed there were no letters addressed to me, just the latest issue ofRolling Stonemagazine and an envelope from British Gas. Of course it wasn’t down here. Of course not. The universe was not that kind to me.
I was out of breath by the time I reached the top floor, my thighs – which had not been the same since that spin class – burning from the climb. I rapped sharply on the door, standing as tall as my quivering legs would allow. As soon as I heard the lock snap back, I launched right in, not wanting to give him anopportunity to no doubt say something incredibly annoying.
‘Look, believe it or not, you’re quite possibly thelastperson in the world I want to see right now, but I’ve come for a letter and I’m not leaving until – oh!’
My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, stunned into silence by the person staring back at me. It wasn’t Luca. It was a woman, wearing a black t-shirt. His, judging by the way it fell halfway down her bare legs. Her jet-black hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun, several long tendrils escaping down her back as she blinked wide-eyed at me.
‘Canihelpyouuu?’ A mouthful of foamy toothpaste and the toothbrush wedged between her teeth made it impossible to understand what she was saying.
‘Umm, I’m looking for .?.?. Luca?’
The woman held up a finger, disappearing momentarily from view as she dashed in the direction of the kitchen. My eyes fell on a pair of red-soled high heels just inside the door, one on its side, as though their owner had been in a rush to take them off. The sound of running water and someone gargling echoed through the flat before the t-shirt-clad, barefoot woman reappeared.
‘Sorry about that,’ she grinned, wiping a stray smear of toothpaste residue from her bottom lip. ‘You said you’re a friend of Luca’s?’
‘Err, no. I wouldn’t say we’re friends,’ I said firmly, my trainers crunching against the door mat as I shifted from foot to foot. ‘I used to live here.’
‘Ah,you’rethe old tenant!’ she said in a way that confirmed Luca had already mentioned me. The unwavering smile on her face told me she was either incredibly polite, or Luca miraculously hadn’t used words like stalker, criminal or unhinged when describing our previous run-in. My money was on the former.
‘That’s me.’
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Jasmine.’ She flashed me her pearly whites again, her dark-brown eyes shimmering with a genuine warmth.
‘Jenny,’ I smiled back, immediately taking to her. With her long, slim legs and enviably symmetrical eyebrows, she was undeniably beautiful. And nice. Too nice to be with someone like Luca, that was for sure.
‘Well, Jenny, Luca’s just in the shower, but you’re welcome to come inside and wait? I would say he won’t be long, but in my experience that would probably be a lie. What men get up to for so long in the bathroom is beyond me.’ She pushed the front door open a little wider, enough that I could see through to the lounge and the worn sofa that spoke of a million evenings together snuggled up on the lumpy cushions. The empty bottle of wine in the middle of the paper-strewn coffee table, two glasses on the floor, right next to a pair of black, lacy .?.?.oh!
‘It’s OK, I’ll just come back another time,’ I said quickly, having no desire to see evidence that would confirm Luca and his way-too-good-for-him girlfriend had had sex in my former flat. Ergh, I hope they hadn’t done it on the sofa. Maybe they hadn’t made it that far? There’d been many a night when Joe and I had stumbled through the front door, Joe’s hips pinning my body against the wall as our hands were everywhere all at once, shirt buttons scattering across the floor in our haste to have nothing between us. I eyed the hastily discarded high heels again with a suspicious eye. ‘I was just looking for a letter that might have been sent here by mistake, but it can wait .?.?.’
‘Wait a second, I think there was something – yes, here it is!’ Jasmine reached over, producing a sizeable, elastic-band-clad bundle of letters from the hallway table. ‘There’s some for you, and then one for a Mr Joe Carter?’ She squinted uncertainly at the typeface on the front of the envelope, the pain of my nails digging into the soft skin of my palm a welcome distraction fromthe ache already sweeping through me.
I took the bundle of white and brown manila envelopes from her without saying anything. But I wasn’t prepared to see him, dimples and all, smiling up at me from the bottom-right corner of the flyer for his photography exhibition. The one he’d worked so hard on, and that I’d agreed with the gallery should go ahead posthumously. The one I’d yet to attend. My thumb brushed gently over his face, each typed letter of Joe’s name on the glossy flyer like a dagger to the heart. I turned abruptly, hurrying down the stairs without so much as athank youorgoodbyeso that she wouldn’t see the tears that had already started to fall.
I’d been sat staring at the envelope for over an hour, turning it over and over in my hands. At some point, the sun had set. It was now pitch-black outside, the lights from the pub car park illuminating the white rectangle in my lap. I ran my fingers over the raised lettering of the Rogers, Pinkman & White company stamp in the top right-hand corner. The envelope was thick, expensive, not the cheap £1 job lot from the corner shop. Everything about it already screamed money.
‘Not getting any younger over here.’
