The beginning of everyth.., p.23
The Beginning of Everything, page 23
I lean to pick up the controller and un-pause the game, saving it in case he doesn’t want to play anymore.
“Yeah, I doubt that will help. Seriously.” He laughs again. “No. Well…maybe. Could do, I suppose. Just for a couple, like. Yeah? Okay. Yeah, I’ll ask her. All right, then, see you in a bit.”
He finishes the call and looks across at me. “Want to go for a drink? I’m going to meet Mike.”
“Oh, no,” I say, “no, thank you.”
I’ve seen Mike a couple of times since the party—he came round and watched a film once, and another time he and a couple of other people came for drinks. The second time he asked me for my phone number, which I thought must be evidence of some kind of drought in his sex life. I didn’t give it to him, anyway.
“Sure?”
I shake my head. “I’d rather stay in. Thank you.”
* * *
At half past nine, I go to bed. I’m tired, even though I haven’t done anything today. I read my book for a bit, but I feel strangely restless. I think about a conversation Gethin and I had recently, about happiness and contentment, and how it’s nice to be happy—properly, noticeably happy—but being content is just as good, or I think it is, anyway.
I know things will change—things always change; there’s nothing you can do about that, and you shouldn’t want to, not really—so I’m trying hard to enjoy every day, to pay attention. To be grateful, like they say. I am grateful. Actually, in some ways, that might be a problem. As we progress further and further from my old life, I wonder if it’s this gratefulness that is preventing something else, something we could be doing.
Although Gethin is very careful never to do or say anything about what happened before, I’m pretty sure he thinks about it. As I do myself. I wonder how things would change if we did it again. If we did, it would be harder to pretend none of this matters. I still think I did the right thing, though—I don’t think I’m quite where I’d need to be, to live here and have a convenient and enjoyable…whatever it would be. I mean, we are both adults, and we could talk about it, and make agreements, about levels of closeness, about…romance. But it would get complicated, wouldn’t it.
* * *
I’m awake, suddenly, heart thudding. I’m confused about where I am for a moment, and what time it is—half twelve, apparently—and by what woke me. Then I hear the second door close and realize it must have been the front door. Gethin’s back, then—his “couple of drinks” turning, like they do, into several, or even loads.
I relax, and then I hear laughter, and I’m tense again, because that wasn’t him laughing. He must have brought someone with him, and it certainly wasn’t Mike. That was a woman’s laugh. I can hear voices, muffled, more laughter. Who can it be? He’s never brought anyone home after the pub, ever.
I listen, hearing footsteps, the tap in the kitchen, voices.
The stairs creak, and someone makes a hushing sound. I lie there, rigid. He’s brought someone home and now they’re going to bed.
I don’t know why it’s never occurred to me that this might happen.
Voices on the landing, and then his bedroom door closes. I try very hard not to imagine him and this unknown other person fumbling with each other’s clothes. I stare at the ceiling, fists clenched, trying not to listen. Will I hear them? The bed, at least, surely. I think of other times I’ve had to listen to people having sex. I think of the people next door, when I was first at university (luckily none of my housemates ever got laid), and then my flatmate in third year. I had to play tapes (tapes! Good Lord) quite loudly to drown her out.
A faint rhythmic squeaking penetrates (poor choice of words) my bedroom door.
I can’t believe how upset I am. I’m horrified, sick with jealousy, furious with myself. This is entirely self-induced. It’s my own fault I never thought of it; it’s my own fault I’m so completely stupid.
I can hear her, now. Did I make noises like that? I used to be quite loud, in bed. I can’t remember if I was noisy when Gethin and I slept together. Perhaps? I remember him saying things, but I don’t think he was loud. I wonder what he’s saying to her, now.
What if he likes her, properly likes her, and then she’s here all the time? I put my hands over my ears so I can’t hear her. What if she’s nice? She might be. I don’t have any objection to people having sex the night they meet. And it might not be the first time they’ve met. It might not even be the first time they’ve had sex. I don’t know everything he does, after all.
If he had a girlfriend, could I live here? More important, would he want me to? I think the answer to both questions is no, to be honest.
Why has it never occurred to me that this might happen?
* * *
In the morning, I wake up feeling rubbish—hungover, almost. That’s down to not getting enough sleep, and fretting. It’s half eight. I open my bedroom door and listen carefully. I can’t hear anything. I go downstairs to make coffee and find the kettle’s hot, the back door open. I can smell something sweet, like cotton candy. I peer out cautiously and see her, wearing a shirt of Gethin’s (she must be freezing) and no shoes, standing on the edge of the patio, blowing scented smoke upward at the gray sky. She hears me and turns round. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that she looks a bit like Vanessa, same glossy dark shoulder-length hair and careful eyebrows. She’s a lot younger, though. Late twenties? Early thirties? Huh. Her eyeliner must be industrial strength as it’s not even vaguely come adrift, although she’s taken her eyelashes off—I can see the white line from where they were applied before the eyeliner went on. Glamorous, is how I’d describe her, even when standing in a suburban garden wearing nothing but a shirt.
“Oh, hey,” she says, “all right?”
“Uh, yes. Hi.” I gesture vaguely. “You’ve got a coffee, then?”
“Yeah, cheers. He said I could help myself, like. Came down for a smoke.”
I nod, helplessly.
“I’m Charlotte,” she says. “I’m sorry, he did tell me your name, but I’ve forgotten.”
“Jess,” I manage. “I’m Jess.”
She rubs her arms. “Chilly out here.” I back into the kitchen to make room for her. “Brr,” she says, “proper autumn now, isn’t it.”
“It is.” I turn back to the kettle, which has boiled again, and make my own coffee in the smallest French press. “Did you want some toast or anything?” I ask her, although I can’t really see that it’s my job to get her breakfasted.
“God, no.” She pulls a face. “Too early for me.” She sips her coffee, watching me. I don’t really understand why she’s still here and hasn’t buggered off back upstairs. I can’t think of anything to say to her, and it seems very odd that there’s an almost naked woman in my kitchen.
Not that it’s my kitchen.
“Right,” she says, “I’ll make him one, shall I? How does he take it?”
“Milk, no sugar,” I tell her, putting the lid on the butter dish and picking up my plate and mug. I’d usually eat my breakfast at the table, or on the sofa, but I think today I’ll hide in my room. Unless it looks like they’re going to spend the day in bed, in which case I might cycle down to the footbridge and throw myself into the river.
I don’t mean that, obviously.
I think I’d better find somewhere else to live.
I turn on the laptop—yeah, I guess I need to buy a laptop; this is going to be expensive, isn’t it—and eat toast with one hand while I scroll through SpareRoom and Gumtree with the other. There are lots of big Victorian houses here, with five or six bedrooms, but I’m not sure I can handle that. I’m pretty old to be house-sharing. I’d be better off somewhere smaller, or maybe I can find someone else who needs a lodger. Next time I’ll keep to myself. Which will be easier, because I do have some friends now, and won’t accidentally find myself hanging out with my landlord. Or stupidly sleeping with them.
I find a couple of places that don’t look too awful and send messages. Then I text Maura and ask if she knows of anyone who might want to rent me a room.
Are you okay? What’s happened? she texts me back.
Oh, nothing, I’m fine. I just think I should think about finding somewhere else.
I thought you liked living there?
I do.
So?
So yeah, but Gethin won’t always want me here, and I’ve been thinking about how I should get ahead of that.
Have you fallen out?
No, of course not.
Really?
I try to imagine what we might actually fall out about.
Really. But if you could ask around?
Okay, I will. But phone me if you want to, yeah?
Okay.
And we’ll have to go out soon.
Okay.
* * *
Later, I call Noosha. I mean to tell her about all this, but instead she has stuff to tell me about her kids and her dad, who’s not well, and what’s going on with her new bathroom, which Nathan’s brother is putting in with a certain lack of efficiency.
Then it’s time for lunch and she’s off to eat roast potatoes. I hang up and wonder if I should call Lizzie. Then I wonder what I should have for my own lunch. Gethin went out about an hour ago, giving Charlotte a lift home, I suppose. I’m not sure what to do with myself at all, and then I remember that there’s a bag of daffodil bulbs in the garage, along with some alliums. They need to be planted, even if I won’t get to see them come up.
Shit.
It doesn’t matter, though. It’s like when I stripped the wallpaper even though I wasn’t sure I was going to stay. It’s a task that needs doing, so I’ll do it.
It’s not so cold now, although it’s still pretty gray. I arrange my bulbs and then dig holes for them. I feel better. I hack holes in the lawn around the fruit trees, then peel back some turf at the end of the garden and scatter the exposed earth with snowdrop bulbs. I climb back up the steps and arrange a wide swathe of fritillaries, and then cut spaces for them in the grass. It’s quite tiring, and the trowel gives me a blister on my palm. It’s satisfying, though, and I think it will look wonderful. I wonder if I’ll be able to come and look at it, in the spring. I sit back on my haunches and stare up at the sky.
* * *
It’s half past one. Gethin’s not home, and I wonder if he’s at Charlotte’s house, and what they’re doing if he is. I scrub my hands clean and then go and change my muddy leggings. I get a message from him.
Hey. I’m in town. Do you want to come and have lunch? I thought we could go to Cenhinen Bedr.
I regard this for some time. Does “we” mean him and me, or what?
Who’s “we”?
Us. You and me.
This is something I’m supposed to be avoiding, now, isn’t it? I can’t though.
Okay. What time?
Well, if you leave now—twenty minutes? Or are you busy?
Ha. No. All right. See you in twenty minutes.
I comb my hair and put on some mascara, frowning at myself in the bathroom mirror. I get changed again, this time into a long skirt and a linen shirt. It’s still just about sandal weather—or possibly it isn’t, but I like to hang on as long as possible—but it’s really not very warm, so I find a jacket, and then pick up my bag and leave the house to hurry down the hill and into town.
Maura’s working, and I wish I’d thought to tell her not to mention to Gethin that I’m looking for somewhere else to live. She probably wouldn’t have though, would she? She hugs me hello and points over to the corner, where he’s reading the paper. He looks up as I walk over, and, as always, his smile of recognition warms me.
“Hello,” he says, as I pull out my chair and sit down. “I thought I’d left it too late to cook or anything. You hadn’t eaten?”
I shake my head and look at the menu. Alys comes over to take my drink order, and we have a chat about how she is and how the kitten—a recent arrival with its own social media presence—is doing. I wonder if I should mention Charlotte, and what I should say. But really, there’s no reason to be shy about it.
“Where’ve you been, then?” I ask. “Did you take that girl home? Woman, rather?”
“Yeah, I gave her a lift,” he says, eyes on his menu. “Then I went to see my mum.”
“Oh, right. She okay?”
“Yeah, she’s good, says hello.”
I try to decide whether I should have hummus or avocado.
“Are you going to see her again?”
His eyes flick up from the menu for a moment. “What, my mum? Should think so, yeah.”
“Ha ha. You’re funny.”
His mouth twitches. “Ah, d’you think? Nice of you to say so.”
“And?”
“And?”
Alys brings my lemonade and asks if we’re ready to order. I ask for the flatbread and hummus with pomegranate, and he orders a Reuben sandwich.
“Gethin.”
“What?”
“Charlotte. Are you going to see her again?”
“I should think that’s very unlikely.” He pours water into his glass. “Why?”
“I just wondered.”
“Yeah, it’s not really my style, picking people up.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t see someone again.”
“I don’t think we had much in common, to be honest.”
“And again…”
“Someone put Nirvana on the jukebox,” he says. “I told her my Kurt Cobain story. She said, ‘Oh yeah, my dad loves Nirvana!’ ”
“Pfft. He probably does.” I grin at him.
“Yeah, I’m sure he does, but it made me feel pretty old.”
“It’s not you being old, is it. It’s her being young,” I say, amused.
“Yes. So, that’s not better. She’s like fifteen years younger than me.”
“Congratulations.”
He looks at me. “It’s not…yeah, okay, so…I’m not sure what was in it for her, but she was definitely up for it.”
“I’m not suggesting she wasn’t.”
“I mean, it is weird, isn’t it.”
I shrug.
“I’m not really…”
“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” I say, although that is slightly mendacious.
“Hm.”
Our food arrives, and for a while we’re busy eating.
Something else occurs to me. “Did Mike pull as well, then?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s kind of his thing, isn’t it. In fact, I’m pretty sure if I’d gone out with anyone else it wouldn’t have happened. He got talking to her mate.”
“Ah, right.”
“It was probably some awful joke for them.”
“What, like, ‘I bet we could shag those old guys’?” I try to keep a straight face.
He nods, chewing.
“Well,” I say, tired of the subject, “she seemed perfectly nice.”
“Oh, I’m sure she is. Just…you know. I don’t…” He frowns at me. “I don’t usually…one-night stands are not my thing.” He sighs. “Although clearly that’s what I get, at the moment.”
Chapter Twenty-one
After work on Monday, I go to look at the rooms. The first one is much smaller than it looked on the website, and the kitchen is…grotty. The second one is in a house where all the other inhabitants are men in their twenties, and—although they seem nice enough, or reasonably okay, anyway, the two I met—I can see they no more want to live with a forty-six-year-old woman than she wants to live with them. I walk home and look at the websites again. I can’t see anything that looks any better, and I try not to worry. There isn’t actually any rush, after all. And if there is, it’s only that, having decided, I know I should go as soon as I can, before I sink back into the easy comfort of my life here.
On Tuesday evening I get a message from Maura.
Friend of my aunt’s is looking for a lodger. She lives in one of those big houses up Springwell Road.
Really?
Yeah, do you want her number?
Yes please.
She texts the number, and her aunt’s friend’s name, Bea, and I ring immediately.
The woman who answers the phone sounds efficient and friendly, and I arrange to go round at once. Gethin’s not home yet, so I don’t have to tell him where I’m going. Not that I have to tell him anyway. I get my bike out of the garage and cycle off through a thin drizzle. Springwell Road starts in town, but it soon gives way to almost country, with fields on one side of the road and some large double-fronted Victorian houses on the other, hiding behind discreet hedges, some of them with their backs turned to the road, looking out over the town. The one I’m looking for is called Pen y Bryn, and I peer at gateposts as I cycle up the hill. After a bit it’s too steep for me, and I have to get off and push my bike. And here we are: a big oak tree, a sweep of drive, beautiful borders, even now, at the end of the season, and a large—very large—double-fronted detached house with a central porch ornamented with pierced wood and a pointy finial. The name of the house adorns the glass above the front door in curly gold writing. The house is not as well presented as the garden—as I lean my bike against the wall behind the bins, I see peeling paint and a broken downspout.
The doorbell is a ceramic button that says PRESS, so I press it. I wonder if it works. It’s a big house; I wonder how long it would take to get to the front door if you were upstairs, at the back. Or even in the kitchen. Built for a doctor, perhaps, or some other moderately important Victorian, big enough for a servant or two as well as a large family.
