Until It's Over (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

I arrived the following Saturday morning. Miles took me up to show me my room, which had been rejected by six other people. It was right at the top of the house, overlooking the street.

‘It’s a bit bare,’ said Miles. ‘We haven’t really got round to doing it up. Dario promised but… you know…’

It was extremely bare and, because the radiator hadn’t been turned on for weeks or months, cold. There was a threadbare carpet, a bed with just a mattress, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, a curtain rail with no curtains.

‘It’s perfect,’ I said, because it was. Previously I’d been staying in different places. Squatting with workmates. Sometimes even on site in a sleeping-bag.

‘Have you got much stuff?’ Miles asked.

‘A few things.’

I had a laundry bag full of clothes and that was about it. So I went to the high street and found a funny old housing-supply shop where I bought a duvet and a cover to wrap round it, a pillow and a pillow-case to wrap round it, a sheet, a towel. Then I walked along the street and went into a little bookshop. I browsed through a section devoted to psychology, religion, self-help and gardening and found a book called
Success in Friendship
:
A User’s Manual
. When I handed it to the girl at the counter she looked at me curiously.

‘It’s for a friend,’ I said.

‘Really?’ she said.

‘That was a joke.’

‘It’s seven ninety-nine,’ she said, not laughing.

I didn’t really care whether or not she thought I was the sort of person who needed a book to tell him how to find friends. That wasn’t what I wanted it for or, at least, not exactly. I wanted to leave my old life behind and to do that I didn’t have to create a fake birth certificate and steal someone’s name. It was very simple. All I needed was never to go home again, never to phone home again. What was the problem with that? In the end my old life would catch up with me, the way it generally does, like something stuck to your shoe, but in the meantime Maitland Road was going to be my experiment. I was going to impersonate a normal housemate who got on with everybody. I was going to treat it like a technical exercise. That was why I needed a book. It would give me a part to play.

I made up my bed, hung my towel on a hook on the back of the door and lay on the bed with my book. I read the chapter on conversation. Each paragraph was headed by a maxim and I read them aloud to myself: ‘The art of conversation is the art of being a good listener’; ‘If you want to meet a person, first you must meet their gaze’; ‘Respect their space’; ‘Reinforce, don’t compete’; ‘When in doubt, talk shop’; ‘Yes, not yes but…’

My mate Ben’s uncle had put me in touch with a major refurbishment going on across the river in Camberwell. Two days after I moved in, I went down there and wandered round it with the guy who had been hired to do it. It was a fairly basic job, it was cash in hand and it was going to take at least three months. It was all so easy. It was early evening when I got back to Maitland Road. I wasn’t exactly sure what being a good housemate was like but I could avoid being a bad one. Don’t use up the hot water. I had a shower that lasted about a minute. I came downstairs and found Pippa alone, reading a magazine. Don’t be an obvious free-loader, especially at first.

‘I bought some wine,’ I said. ‘Would you like a glass?’

‘Sure,’ said Pippa. ‘Red or white?’

‘Whichever you like,’ I said. ‘I got both.’

‘Well, you can stay,’ she said cheerfully. ‘White, then.’

I poured two glasses and sat along the sofa from her, respecting her space. Be a good listener.

‘I’m sure this is going to come out sounding wrong,’ I said, ‘but you don’t look like a solicitor.’

‘That’s a relief,’ she said, sipping her drink.

‘So what kind of stuff do you do?’

She was really quite funny as she talked about the characters in her office and her strange, demanding clients. I was such a good listener. The book had said that in conversation men compete and women support. So I was really a woman. A really terrific woman. Yeah, yeah, that’s right, I said. I see what you mean. Yeah, right, absolutely. Oh, that’s fantastic. I can’t believe it, you really did it? So what did he say? Bloody hell, what an idiot. I kept topping up the wine. I looked her in the eyes. I didn’t invade her personal space. I reached for the bottle to fill her glass again but it was empty.

‘Shall we move on to the red?’ I said.

She slid along the sofa and invaded my personal space. She put her hand on my forearm.

‘You know what one of the big problems with sharing a house is?’ she said.

‘No.’

‘No, you don’t, but I’m going to tell you. It’s the sexual tension. It ruins the friendships and it causes problems.’

‘I see what you mean.’

‘You can’t, because I haven’t said it yet. When we’re together, there’s all this ridiculous flirtation and will-they-or-won’t-they?, and then there’s probably some terrible break-up. It’s dreadful for the couple and almost as bad for everybody else. You probably know about Astrid and poor Miles.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Basically they got together and it was hopeless and she dumped him and he’s been mooning around ever since.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It was so boring. It
is
so boring. Now he’s got some new girlfriend. She’s like a weapon for him to brandish at Astrid. There. Look what you made me do.’

Pippa stroked my arm reflectively and then continued: ‘Now you’re here, there’ll be all this new tension.’

‘You reckon?’

‘It’s unavoidable. We’ll be brushing up against each other. We’ll bump into each other wrapped in towels on our way from the shower.’

‘I don’t want to complicate things,’ I said.

She ignored me and moved even closer. ‘The only way to deal with it is to get it out of the way at the beginning.’

‘How do you mean?’

She stroked my face and gave a slow, lazy smile. ‘You know,’ she said.

‘What? Now?’ I felt her nuzzling against me.

‘It’s not compulsory,’ she said, ‘but it’d be fun. And then we can go on to being friends.’

‘But where?’

She pulled a face. ‘Well, not here. Someone might come home. Let’s go to my room.’

‘Shall I bring the wine?’

‘No, we’ll have it later.’

She took my hand and led me upstairs, talking as she did so. It was something about household routines or someone’s bad habits. But I couldn’t concentrate on the details. The blood was rushing in my ears. I could hear it. I felt hot. The situation had moved beyond my control and I wasn’t sure how it was going to end up. She led me into the room at the front of the house by the front door. Suddenly it all seemed to be happening to somebody else, or at least to somebody else as well as me. I could imagine that somebody else might find her room charming in its disorder, the clothes tossed everywhere, the bed unmade, the curtains closed. There was a clash of smells: perfume and deodorant and soap. I was repelled by it. I wanted to sweep it off the floor and throw open the windows, let in light and fresh air.

Pippa took hold of her T-shirt and pulled it over her head, revealing a black bra covering her small breasts. She kicked off her shoes and unfastened the buttons on the front of her jeans. She sat on the bed and leaned back.

‘Pull them off,’ she said.

She was as matter-of-fact as if we were going to play squash. I took the bottom of each leg of the jeans and pulled. She lifted herself off the bed and I eased them off. With expert speed she unclipped her bra, pulled down her panties, got into the bed and pulled the duvet over her. I glimpsed her dark nipples and her neatly trimmed pubic hair. Someone else would find this beautiful. They wouldn’t believe their luck.

‘Now it’s your turn,’ she said.

I took my clothes off with the grim feeling I had been tricked into going somewhere I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t think of a way to make it work. I got into the bed next to her and she pushed her face against me. I kissed her. I could taste the wine on her tongue. I had the uncomfortable sensation of being on the wrong side of her, like a left-handed person trying to do something right-handed.

She put a hand on my arm and ran down it, across on to my chest and down, down my stomach. ‘Oh,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not… I don’t…’

‘No, it’s all right.’

‘No, I mean I…’

‘It’s all right,’ she said, grinning. ‘There’s no hurry.’

She kissed my chest and then began to move downwards, kissing me as she went. I grabbed her shoulders. ‘No,’ I said.

‘Relax.’

‘No.’

I pushed her away and got out of the bed. I had to look around for my clothes. For a desperate moment I thought they might have disappeared irretrievably into the chaos of her room. But I found them and pulled on my underpants, standing stupidly on one leg, then the other. As I pulled my jeans on, I saw her staring at me, amused. ‘It’s all right,’ she said.

‘Of course it’s all right,’ I said.

‘I mean, it’s not a big deal.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. I suppose you do this with loads of guys.’

Now she looked puzzled, though still amused. ‘What’s
that
about?’

She was sitting up in the bed. She hadn’t pulled her duvet up, the way actresses do in PG films to cover their breasts. It was probably the last time I’d ever see them. I walked over to her, shrivelled, humiliated, the blood burning in my face. ‘If you tell anyone…’ I said.

‘You’ll what?’ said Pippa.

‘Just don’t,’ I said.

‘Oh, don’t be silly, Davy. Why would I?’

I stamped my feet and walked out of her room and straight out of the house on to the street, where an icy drizzle soon soaked through my clothes. My eyes were aching. I felt furious with her for forcing herself on me like that, for not giving me a proper chance. And furious with myself for my failure. It wasn’t just that there’d been a battle between us and she had won, dominated me and humiliated me. Humiliated me in front of myself. But here in this house, where I was going to start again, become a new person. Already I’d dragged myself down. She’d tell the others. I’d heard the way she gossiped. She wouldn’t be able to resist it. Or maybe she would, because it would make her look like a slut, jumping into the pants of a guy who had just walked in off the street.

I was so lost in all of this that I collided with someone and had to reach out to stop her falling. But she dropped her shopping bags, and cans rolled out and a bag of rice split on the pavement. I looked at her in shock, as if I’d been unconscious and suddenly brought round and didn’t know where I was.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘That was completely my fault. Let me help you.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said, flustered. ‘Look at the mess.’ The rice had scattered around us, and several green apples were rolling across the pavement towards the road. ‘But it was probably me. I’m terribly clumsy. My husband’s always scolding me.’

I bent down and started to replace the shopping. ‘I’ll buy you another bag of rice. Let’s see. Basmati.’

‘You really don’t need to. It was a mistake. Most people wouldn’t even have stopped. They’d have shouted something and rushed on.’

‘I’m glad I’m not most people, then. These apples are bruised, I’m afraid. I’ll buy some more of them as well.’

‘Please don’t.’

‘At least let me carry them for you. Do you live near here?’

‘Just a few yards away. Number fifty-four.’

‘I live at seventy-two. We’re neighbours!’ I moved the bags to my left hand and held out the right.

The woman blushed and shook it. ‘Hello,’ she said shyly. ‘I wish more people on this road were like you.’

‘I’ve just moved in. My name’s David.’

‘I’m Margaret,’ she said, ‘but friends call me Peggy.’

Chapter Twenty-eight

We walked down the road together, and I noticed how she patted her hair surreptitiously and straightened her thick jacket as we did so. She was nervous of me. I’d been bad after Pippa. A feeling had been starting in my head. Now it was lifting.

Her house was smaller than the one I’d moved into, and in a much better state of repair. The window-frames were newly painted, the front door a smooth dark green. When she unlocked it and pushed it open, I could see that inside it was also tidy. Too tidy. Madly tidy. Even from here, I could smell the detergent and polish and loneliness.

‘Thank you so much.’

‘It was my pleasure, Peggy,’ I said. ‘I’ll look out for you on the street.’

‘Would you like a cup of coffee? Or we could have some wine, I suppose. It’s after six o’clock.’

‘I’d love a cup of coffee.’ I stepped over the threshold with the bags.

‘You would?’

‘I don’t know anyone round here,’ I said. ‘You’re the first friendly face I’ve met.’

She nodded.

There wasn’t a speck of dirt in the kitchen. Even the dozens of porcelain figurines on the dresser were clean. Peggy put on an apron – as if you really needed to put on an apron to make coffee – and filled the kettle. I sat at the small round table and looked at her. She was quite short, and not slim but not plump either. Compact. Her hair was cut in a bob and a glossy dark brown that looked natural to me. She had pink cheeks and her skin was still quite smooth, although I saw that there were tiny lines above her mouth and under her eyes, but when I examined her neck I estimated that she must be in her mid-fifties, about the same as my mother. Under her jacket she wore a powder-blue turtleneck, and a calf-length blue skirt that she ran her hands down anxiously, making sure it wasn’t wrinkled or rising up. She wore sensible shoes and through her tights I saw the first traces of varicose veins.

‘So, Peggy,’ I said, ‘how long have you lived in Maitland Road, then?’

She arranged biscuits on a plate. ‘Nearly twenty-seven years.’

‘You were here as a child, then?’

‘No!’ Her pink cheeks became pinker. ‘You’re teasing me. No, we bought this house just after we got married. It was different then. My husband says we should move. He doesn’t like the way it’s going.’

‘What way is that?’

‘The kind of people who live round here.’

‘Do you want to move?’

‘I don’t know. I like the house.’

‘It’s lovely.’

‘But I don’t really feel I belong here. We’re not like the other people on the road. Here, do you take milk?’

‘Just a bit. No sugar. What do you mean, the other people?’

‘Well, your house, for instance. Everyone in it is so…’ She hesitated.

‘Go on.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘They’re the sort of people who come for a bit,’ she said, ‘and then go. Move on. Not like real neighbours. That what the road’s like.’

‘I think I know how you feel,’ I said.

‘Do you?’

‘The thing is, Peggy, I’ve only been in London a short while. I grew up in a small village, where everyone knew everyone else and looked out for each other. It was a real community. If someone was in trouble, they would be helped. If someone did wrong, they would be discovered. That’s just the way it was there. And since Mum died –’ I stopped abruptly.

‘Yes?’ she probed softly.

‘I don’t usually talk about it. My father died when I was little, I can hardly remember him now, and a few months ago my mother died of cancer. She’d been ill for a very long time and I stayed there so I could look after her and be with her. I was her only child. She didn’t have anyone else.’ I looked into Peggy’s eyes. ‘Neither did I.’

‘You poor thing.’

‘I’m all right, really. Just a bit sad still. These things take time. Maybe I’m telling you all of this because you remind me of her.’

‘Do I?’

‘In a way. Do you have children, Peggy?’

‘No. It didn’t happen,’ she said simply.

‘I’m sorry. That must have been hard.’

‘It’s a long time ago now.’

‘Of course.’

We sat drinking our coffee. I ate two biscuits, at her insistence, and she told me which shops to use and which to avoid. There were five cards standing on the window-sill and in a pause I asked her when her birthday was.

‘Two days ago. I don’t really make any fuss about it nowadays. It’s not something you want to remember.’

‘Two days ago. You mean last Thursday?’

‘Yes.’

‘But that’s my birthday too.’

‘No! What an extraordinary coincidence.’

‘Amazing,’ I said. ‘We must have been fated to meet.’

I told myself to make a note of the date of last Thursday before I forgot it and slipped up. Peggy excused herself and left the kitchen. I waited a few seconds, and when I heard her going up the stairs, I leaned forward and pulled her bag towards me. There were several notes folded in her wallet. I took out a ten, then pushed the bag back where it had been. After all, I was out of pocket with all the wine I’d been buying for the house, and I could spend a small part of the money on the Basmati rice I’d promised her. That would please her.

That Saturday night, the house was almost empty. Pippa wasn’t there when I returned, and I met Astrid coming down the stairs as I went up, obviously on her way somewhere. It was the first time I had seen her wearing a dress: a short, simple red silk shift. With her long golden legs and slim tanned arms, her dark hair brushed back and her lips painted scarlet, she looked astonishing. I tried not to stare at her, but my chest felt uncomfortably tight.

‘Hi, Davy, how’s it going?’ she asked.

‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘I’m glad to be here.’

‘We’re glad to have you. I’ll see you later, then.’

‘Maybe we can have coffee together tomorrow?’

‘Sure,’ she said lightly.

And so, with a backward wave, she was gone. I was beginning to get the hang of the people in this house. You couldn’t be too earnest or oppressive. People here were free in a way I hadn’t come across before.

Miles was out as well, and Owen – though not with Astrid, I was glad to know. That left only Dario – who was lying in a stoned stupor in the basement kitchen – and Mick, who was in his room with the door shut and probably locked. I decided to risk it.

I started with Miles’s room. It was the best in the house by far and it annoyed me that he had done so little to make the most of it. The large bay windows looked out on to the street, and one side of the room was entirely lined with a large cupboard. I pulled open one of the doors and peered inside. As well as towels and sheets, there were several cardboard boxes, filled with old music magazines, academic quarterlies, Ordnance Survey maps and files, which, on further scrutiny, turned out to be full of bills and letters. I didn’t have time to read any now, but I promised myself I would later. I closed the cupboards and turned my attention to the rest of the room. There were no real surprises. The wardrobe contained suits and shirts, all of which looked quite expensive. I pulled open the drawers of the chest and found nothing interesting except a pack of condoms among the underwear. Time to move on.

I went quietly into Pippa’s room, stepping over the mess and trying not to disturb it. You’d think it would be impossible for her to notice any changes, but even chaos like this had its own order. I saw a bottle of nail varnish standing on the floor, and then I remembered her, sitting in the bed, breasts half uncovered and an amused smile on her face. I unscrewed the top and tipped it over with my foot so it spread over a delicate shirt. I found several pairs of tights and dragged my fingernails down them to create ladders. I spat into a little pot of lip balm. There.

I went up the stairs as quietly as I could, so that Mick didn’t hear me, and opened the door to Astrid’s room. For a few seconds I just stood in the centre, relishing the quiet of her space. It occurred to me that her room was the twin of mine, which was on the floor above and also looked over the street. But this one was freshly painted, and it smelled of coconut, citrus fruit and lavender. I took the few steps to where her toiletries stood on a shelf and sniffed them in turn, learning them. It was clean, tidy and peaceful, just as I like rooms to be. I flicked through the clothes hanging in her wardrobe. There weren’t many – Pippa probably owned ten times more – but I liked what there was. Nothing frilly or fussy, nothing shoddily made. I put my face among the hanging folds and breathed in her scent. Then I turned to the chest, opening each drawer in turn and rummaging through the contents. I put a pair of black knickers in my pocket. She had very little makeup. I took one lip-gloss.

I thought I heard a sound coming from Mick’s room above, so I went out and stood in the hallway, listening. Nothing. I pushed open the door to Owen’s room and stood at its threshold. Photographs were stacked against every wall, some with their backs turned to me but others in plain view. Women’s faces in four-colour black stared sightlessly at me and suddenly my limbs were heavy and my skin prickled. It was starting in my head. I was under water, with things wavering around me, not holding their proper shape.

I heard the front door open. I backed out and pulled the door shut quietly, then turned, went into my own room and lay on my bed, waiting for the ticking in my left eye to go away. I heard voices. Miles, I thought, and someone else: a woman, but not Astrid or Pippa. I don’t know how long I lay there, whether or not I slept, but when I went downstairs Dario was awake, sitting on the sofa smoking a cigarette, and Mick was frying eggs at the stove. The smell made me feel sick again. Miles was there, and so, too, was the woman whose voice I had heard. She was tall and striking and had flawless skin, but her face was discontented and her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She reminded me of a bird of prey, a hawk perhaps. I told myself I had to be careful.