Say Hello and Wave Goodbye Page 2

  Stop! Screeches the Beccabird, who always like to spoil everything.

  I look at my watch to see that it’s nearly five o’clock so I jump off the bed and scuttle into the bathroom to brush my teeth and freshen up. I have a good feeling about this and I’m so pleased I never had that drink. I wasn’t going to anyway, I tell myself firmly. I’m not an alcoholic because I don’t drink at all, usually. I go months without drinking.

  Yeah. But when you drink, you drink , the Beccabird pipes up.

  Yeah, whatever , I reply as I mentally swat the bird and send her hurtling to her death.

  I hum as I wash my face and reapply fresh make-up. I want to make a good impression – don’t want her thinking I’m some sort of lazy slob who’s going to mess her flat up. I appraise myself in the mirror trying to view myself through my prospective flatmate’s eyes; average looking, average height, average pretty much everything. Not drop dead gorgeous but sort of attractive.

  I ignore the Beccabird’s snorting.

  Yes, I’ll do; I spray some perfume into the air and walk through it – don’t want to smell like a tart - snap the bathroom light off decisively, pick up my coat and handbag and leave the hotel to meet my new housemate.

  Chapter Two

  I thought I knew where the flat was but it turns out that I didn’t and after driving around the same streets a thousand times I finally find the right street, which isn’t much of a street at all. There are only six, very small, terraced houses with a large detached house at one end of the street, or rather, lane. I pull into an available space and parallel park very badly.

  I can’t help feeling a bit disappointed; I didn’t read the address properly and thought the flats were on a new development called Ducklington Rise and would therefore be pretty much brand spanking new and ultra-modern. After driving around and around in circles I finally pulled the car over into a side street and reread the address properly on my phone to find that it was Duck Pond Lane. I’d never heard of it and had to google it to get an idea where it was.

  Slapdash! mocks the Beccabird. You never read stuff properly .

  True again.

  And why didn’t you put it in the satnav like a normal person? demands the Beccabird.

  Because I’m not normal, obviously. The satnav and I share an equal loathing for each other; I’m sure it sends me the wrong way on purpose. Probably a chum of the Beccabird.

  The houses I’ve pulled up in front of aren’t new, they’re old. Very old. Maybe they’ll be modern inside. Fingers crossed.

  I clamber out of the car and scan the row of houses and recheck the address on my phone and realise with relief that the flat is number seven, which is the large detached house at the end of the street and not one of the poky terraces. It might not be so bad after all.

  I check my watch; three minutes to six, thank God I gave myself plenty of time to get here otherwise I’d be late and that would be a black mark against me straight away.

  I clip clop smartly up to the front door with a pleasant expression fixed on my face; my new housemate might be watching out of the window and I want to look happy and upbeat and just the sort of jolly person that she wants to share her flat with. A hint of a smile but not too much; don’t want to look deranged.

  A big, glossily painted, black front door and two buzzers, one for flat seven and one for flat seven A. Easy! Even I can manage to press the correct one.

  I press the buzzer for number seven and the intercom immediately crackles to life.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi, I’m Becca,’ I say, with my best you’re so going to want me as your new flatmate voice . ‘I’ve come...’

  I’m interrupted by the sound of the front door lock clicking open and the intercom going silent.

  Ah, it appears my new flatmate is a woman of few words, this could definitely work because there’s nothing worse than someone who prattles on and on and doesn’t know when to shut up.

  Someone like you, you mean, says the Beccabird.

  Can’t help it if I get nervous, can I ?

  I open the door and step into the hallway to be confronted by one door with a seven on it and a flight of stairs with seven A underneath an arrow pointing upwards. I rap smartly on door number seven and it’s opened immediately by a tall, thin woman with very short, dark hair. I guess she’s probably around my age. Tick – another positive, no big age gap.

  ‘Hi!’ I say with a smile, as I hold my hand out to shake hers, ‘I’m Becca, lovely to meet you.’

  She gives a tight-lipped smile.

  ‘Hello, I’m Emily. Come in.’

  My hand hovers mid-air.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says eventually, looking at my hand with distaste, ‘I never shake hands.’

  ‘No, no of course not! Such an outdated custom,’ I blather as I drop my hand and step into the flat. I try to ignore the sound of the Beccabird laughing hysterically.

  The door opens into a small alcove that opens out onto a large lounge. The view from the front bay window is of a small field across the street and my first impression is of a light and airy room. Very nice.

  Emily is standing in front of me and I wonder when she’s going to show me around.

  ‘If you don’t mind?’ she looks at me meaningfully.

  ‘Sorry?’ I look at her in bewilderment, I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  ‘If you don’t mind? Your boots?’

  I look at my feet and then it dawns on me; she wants me to take them off. I bend down and unzip them and attempt to pull them off which isn’t easy because I’m standing up and my thick corded jeans are super tight. I only hope I can manage to get them off without falling over.

  After a lot of effort and trying to balance on one foot – all under the unsmiling scrutiny of Emily - I manage to tug them off which is when I realise that I have odd socks on and horror of horrors, one of the socks has a hole in it and my big toe is poking through. I place my boots neatly by the front door whilst simultaneously attempting to pull my sock over my toe. Somehow I’m going to have to try and walk around and keep the sock tucked underneath my foot.

  ‘Okay,’ I say brightly, ‘Let’s roll!’ Oh God, did I really say that? Cue more hysterical laughter from the Beccabird.

  Emily swivels smartly around on her sensible slippered heel and I follow her as she walks into the lounge and stands in front of the window. The floorboards are buffed to a deep shine and cool on my feet and a large cream sofa with pale green cushions soldiered neatly along the length of it sits facing an open fireplace. I look at the dried flowers neatly arranged in a wicker basket inside the fireplace and think how much cosier it would be if it were a roaring fire. The sofa cushions look pristine and as if they’ve never been sat on, although Emily is so thin she probably wouldn’t make a dent in them. A large desk sits in one corner and the opposite corner holds a high backed, winged chair.

  It’s a beautiful room although a bit spartan for me, if I’m honest, it could definitely do with a few furry throws and maybe a colourful rug because it’s a bit beige and cold. I’m about to ask her where the telly is when she starts to speak.

  ‘You’ll have noticed there’s no television.’

  ‘Isn’t there? I hadn’t noticed,’ I lie. Maybe it’s one of those fancy ones and it’s hidden behind the large, rather dull watercolour of a seascape hanging over the fireplace. Or maybe there are two lounges and the other one’s a sort of snug. Wow, this just gets better and better.

  ‘No.’ She frowns at me. ‘I don’t believe in television; it rots the mind. But if you did take the room you could of course have a television in there as long as you kept the sound low.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And you’d need to get an aerial fitted.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ I nod.

  ‘And a television licence.’

  I nod again, I can’t seem to stop. No cosy popcorn nights watching Love Island or X Factor then.

  ‘Now, the kitchen.’

 
I shuffle after her, trying to keep the hole in my sock hidden as she steps briskly across the lounge, through a small hallway and into the kitchen.

  It’s gorgeous; gleaming white cupboards, stainless steel worktops and not a thing out of place. Well, actually when I look properly there’s not a thing anywhere, the worktops are completely barren and I assume that everything is tucked tidily away in one of the many cupboards.

  Emily steps to a tall white cupboard and pulls open the door to reveal a fridge.

  ‘The middle shelf would be yours and also the middle shelf in the door.’ She closes the door and steps smartly to the next cupboard and opens it to reveal empty shelves.

  ‘This would be your food cupboard.’ She closes it again.

  ‘Brilliant.’ I nod. Again. I wish I could stop nodding.

  ‘And this…’ She pulls open a large drawer and removes a clipboard. ‘…Is the kitchen rota.’

  Rota? Must be a cleaning rota, I’ve seen these in a lot of shared houses though not so much in recent years because no one takes any notice of them. Most rented rooms now include a weekly cleaner for the communal areas although I’ve never seen any cleaning done, it’s just an excuse to charge a bit more.

  ‘Now,’ she says as she lays the clipboard carefully on the worktop, ‘You’ll see that I have the kitchen from 11.30am until 1pm and 4.30 until 6pm. You can use the kitchen whenever you like outside of these times and of course, I expect you to leave it exactly as you find it. I never eat breakfast so you’re free to use it anytime in the morning.’

  I stare at her, thinking that of course she never eats breakfast because she probably doesn’t eat at all because she’s so thin.

  ‘Is that acceptable?’ She’s staring at me, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Of course,’ I mumble. ‘Super.’ Super , the Beccabird repeats sarcastically.

  ‘Now, I’ll show you your room if you’ll follow me.’

  We go back out into the hallway and she opens a door that’s right next to the lounge door and goes inside and I pad behind her.

  It’s a decent sized room with white painted walls, a single bed, dressing table and a large wardrobe. It has the same polished floorboards as the lounge and with a few cosy bits and pieces could be lovely. Although I’d have to change the bed for a double; I’d feel as if I were sleeping in my childhood bedroom in a tiny bed like that.

  ‘And this is the en-suite.’ She crosses the room and opens a door tucked in the corner to reveal a small bathroom with a shower, toilet and basin. Perfect.

  ‘Just a few small house rules to be aware of; I’m not an unreasonable person but I feel it’s best to be upfront about these things. Number one, no gentlemen friends in your room, at all, ever. Number two, if you decide that you must have a television ,’ she says the word with disgust, ‘I would request that it’s turned off by ten o’clock each night.’

  ‘Of course.’ Yet more nodding from me.

  ‘And thirdly, I do reserve the right to inspect your room once a week to make sure it’s being kept in an appropriate condition.’

  She smiles a tight-lipped smile.

  I smile a tight-lipped response and wonder if I’ve stepped through a wormhole into the eighteenth century. Gentlemen friends? Room inspections?

  ‘So. Would you like to take the room?’

  Not in a million years. I’d rather house share with twenty-five unwashed teenagers than this awful cold fish of a woman.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say. ‘When can I move in?’

  ✽✽✽

  I get back into my car and turn to wave to Emily but she’s already shut the door. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so cold in all my life and I wonder why the hell I’ve said I’ll take the room.

  Yes, the flat is lovely and I’d have my own bathroom and the rent is very reasonable.

  But.

  I’d have to watch telly with headphones on, I’m not allowed to change any of the furniture. (A double bed? Why would you want a double bed, a single is perfectly adequate ) I can see it’ll be like living with a not very nice maiden aunt.

  She’s given me her bank details and informed me that if I transfer the deposit of a month’s rent plus one month’s rent in advance tonight, then I can move in tomorrow. No more paying costly hotel bills and I’d still have enough left over to keep saving for a deposit for my own place. And if I did move in it would only be for six months or so, by which time I’d have enough for a deposit - so it wouldn’t be forever. She very graciously said that she would take me on trust and follow up on the references after I’d moved in.

  I don’t know why I’m so despondent; it’s just a place to live, we’d probably hardly ever see each other. Honestly, there’s no pleasing me. Emily definitely won’t be sinking her teeth into my cheese or drinking my milk straight from the bottle. But I can’t see us ever becoming friends; or even being friendly . I can’t even see myself sitting in the lounge with her because I’d just feel too uncomfortable.

  So much for my new best friend and ridiculous daydreams.

  Ping!

  I pull my mobile out to see that my second-choice house has replied.

  Hi! The room is still available if you want to view it.

  Thank you , I type, but I’ve already found somewhere else . I’m about to hit send but as my finger hovers over the button I change my mind and quickly delete the message and retype:

  Hi, when can I come and view it?

  Whenever, he replies in an instant. Come now if you like.

  It couldn’t hurt, could it? Just to make sure? I can view this one, discount it completely because it’ll be some weird bloke who wants sex instead of rent and then I’ll have no choice but to take the room at Emily’s.

  Yes, I decide as I message him back to say I’m on my way, give me no choice and then I don’t really have to make a decision, it’s made for me. At least if I do this, I can say I sort of tried. Ish.

  Coward! screeches the Beccabird.

  I ignore her and put the car into gear and head off into town .

  This time I do know where I’m going.

  I pull up outside the house and parallel park very, very badly in front of it. As I get out and lock the car I can hear the sounds of a band tuning up from the pub opposite. It’s nearly seven o’clock and I wonder if it’s a rowdy pub – will having The George right across the street from where I’m living be too disruptive?

  You’re not going to live here! shouts the Beccabird. You’re just here to discount it.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I mutter as I walk around the car and dodge a Lycra-ed cyclist who does a double take as he zooms past me. First sign of madness, isn’t it? Talking to yourself.

  I walk up the path to number five taking care to step around the rusting iron gate that’s hanging off its hinges and halfway across the path. I can’t find a bell to ring or a knocker to knock so I rattle the letterbox on the front door. The red paint is peeling off and a rusting number five is hanging on by one screw. Emily would probably have a fit if she saw the state of this house. Or maybe an attack of the vapours seeing as she’s stuck in the eighteenth century.

  See? I already dislike her. Is this the only choice I have? A room in a dilapidated slum or living with someone that I’m going to end up hating? The only other option is to forget my dream of ever getting back on the property ladder and blow my budget and rent a flat on my own.

  The door rattles and I wait as someone inside battles to get it open. It’s eventually yanked open to reveal a man wearing a black boiler suit and a green bobble hat.

  I knew it. A complete nutjob.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hi there, you must be Beckie.’

  ‘Becca,’ I say ‘And you must be Flynn. ’

  He wipes his hands on his overalls and puts a hand out. ‘Nice to meet you, Becca.’

  Now I know what Emily means. Trying not to think about what he’s wiped off his hand I offer my own and shake his. He grasps my hand in a firm handshake that is warm
and dry and I feel suddenly bad, as if Emily has somehow passed her snootiness and germaphobia onto me.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ Flynn lets go of my hand and stands aside and ushers me in. ‘Sorry about the state of the place, I’m in the middle of tarting it up. Working from the inside out. Just been sanding down the back-bedroom ceiling.

  I nod as if I know what he’s talking about and stand awkwardly in the narrow hallway while he closes the front door. I don’t quite know why I’ve started this nodding nonsense; I never used to do it. Maybe it was the shock of seeing Jonathan. I need to stop doing it now because people are going to think I’m some sort of lunatic if it carries on. Imagine if I do it when I start at Atkinsons – people notice everything when you’re the new person and I’ll be noted down as a nodding idiot and it’ll stay with me forever.

  ‘Do you want me to take my shoes off?’ I ask, mentally crossing my fingers that he says no. I don’t think I could bear to go through all that hopping again, not to mention the sock spud.

  ‘Why, have you got dog-shit on them?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Well, keep ‘em on then.’

  I’m about to nod and stop myself.

  ‘Okay. So. Shall we go straight upstairs or do you want to see the rest of the house first?’

  ‘Rest of the house,’ I say, stifling a nervous snigger.

  ‘Right. Hang on a minute.’ Flynn moves until he’s standing in front of me and I stiffen and hold my handbag a bit tighter so I can swing it at him and give him a good wallop around the head. He’s extremely tall and he towers over me and I’m sure there’s a lot of muscle hiding underneath that boiler suit.