I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom at the end of the corridor, splash my face with cold water.
Joe Lawson. I haven’t seen him for over ten years.
It’s hopeless. How am I ever going to get any sleep?
4
Bristol University, Eleven Years Ago
I drop my library books on to my bed and kick off my shoes. I hear music coming from downstairs. Sounds like Oasis. Who’s in the shower? I glance at the alarm clock on my bedside table. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. I bet it’s Jamie, the lazy bastard.
I lie down, tired after last night. Olly and I went out; had something to eat and ended up dancing till three in the morning at the Lizard Lounge.
We’ve been going out now for nearly nine months. I think back to that day when I sat next to him in class. I was in my miniskirt and cowboy boots, hair washed and glossy. It was winter, the beginning of our second term at Bristol.
‘I heard you play last night,’ I’d said, out of breath
from the exertion of flying into the seat beside him. I composed myself as I continued, ‘You remind me of the Rolling Stones, only you’re better.’
‘Rebecca, is there a problem you’d like to share?’ our tutor, Mr Simpson, asked.
‘No, sorry,’ I muttered, wanting the ground to swallow me up.
But then I noticed him glancing at my legs. Clearly I’d made the right choice with my miniskirt, even if I was freezing my arse off. He raised an eyebrow, before scribbling something down on a piece of paper. He slid the message towards me. ‘Aren’t you cold? PS Fancy a drink tonight?’
My heart did a somersault. I was going to put that piece of a paper in a frame and keep it, forever.
During our first date Olly told me he wanted to be a journalist, pop star, jazz or classical pianist or maybe a novelist, or maybe a mixture of the whole lot, he’d laughed. I told him I had no idea what I wanted to do with my degree. I was hoping I’d work it out as I went along.
I rub my blistered feet together, sore from dancing last night, thinking about how Olly had walked me back to my halls after our evening. I felt comfortable with him, as if we’d known one another for years. We talked
about being away from home for the first time. I told him I was happy, that I enjoyed being free and independent. I’d never felt I belonged in my family, explaining that my mother and sister, Pippa, were both sporty, whereas I was the artistic one. I described how Mum had given me a Slazenger racket for my birthday when I was about eight, hoping I was destined for the giddy heights of Wimbledon.
‘She booked me a lesson with the club coach, Kenny. You should have seen me, Olly. I ran
away
from the ball, not towards it.’
He smiled, before saying, ‘My father’s a bug man.’
‘A what?’
‘A bug man. Entomologist. It’s fine, you can laugh.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t know what you meant.’
‘Shame on you! My dad studies bugs for a living. Didn’t you know that there are 1.3 million described species, and that insects account for more than two-thirds of all known organisms …’
‘I didn’t, sorry.’ I slapped my thigh. ‘What have I been
doing
all my life?’
‘And they date back some four hundred million years.’
‘Wow.’
Olly looked at me. ‘He’s an academic, my dad, no good at small talk, lives in his own little bubble. He’s
not interested in my music, what I’m doing at Bristol, nothing excites him except the habitat of weevils. In fact,’ he said, as if he was just realizing this reality, ‘he doesn’t have a fucking clue who I am!’
Olly laughed, but I could see he felt it deeply, and that was the moment when I knew something would happen between us. ‘I’ve had a great time,’ he said towards the end of our date, his face close to mine. ‘Why haven’t we done this before?’
‘What have
you
been doing all your life?’ I said, making him laugh.
We kissed that night, outside halls. It was a kiss that promised more, and before I went to bed I called Kitty, saying I’d met the man of my dreams.
Olly and I decided we wanted to live together in our second year, so together with three other housemates, Sylvie, Jamie and Dan, we found a terraced house in Victoria Square, Clifton, with tall ceilings, cheap chandeliers, threadbare carpets and one very damp bathroom. When it came to bedrooms, the five of us drew names out of a hat. Sylvie bagged the biggest. She’s reading business studies. She’s the punk-rock type: tiedye T-shirts, tight jeans, uses henna on her long hair, wears thick black eyeliner and heavy black boots. Inspired, I dyed my hair black, but washed it out again
when Olly asked me what I’d done to myself. My hair is a rich chestnut, long and thick, with a natural wave. ‘It was the first thing I noticed about you, Becca. Well, that and your legs.’ I chose the bedroom with the view overlooking a leafy park. Jamie is across the corridor; he’s reading history. Dan no longer lives here. He scarpered last week, without giving us any rent, so we’re now looking to find a replacement.
Someone’s having a long shower, I think, getting up to investigate. Just as I’m about to knock to tell whoever it is to get a move on, the door opens and a tall man with dark wet hair appears, naked chest and a pink fluffy towel wrapped round his lean waist. ‘Hello,’ he says, a hint of a smile behind his grey eyes. ‘I’m Joe. Joe Lawson. How do you do? Olly gave me keys.’
How do you do? Who are you? ‘You’re wearing my towel,’ I point out, trying not to gawp at his naked chest.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ He takes it off and hands it to me. ‘I haven’t unpacked yet.’
Open-mouthed and holding my towel in one hand, I watch him walk away. Great body, I think to myself, before getting a grip and calling out, ‘Sorry, who the hell
are
you?’
*
‘Olly, you could have warned us,’ I say, when we’re having a house meeting in the local pub that night.
He crosses his arms. ‘Oh, come on, Becca, what’s the big deal?’
‘The big deal is
we
–’ I gesture to Sylvie and Jamie – ‘don’t know him! Maybe you should have stopped to ask us first?’
‘We needed to find someone urgently,’ Olly defends himself.
‘I know that, but I think we should all have a say.’ I wait for Sylvie to support me, but uncharacteristically she doesn’t utter a word.
‘Joe wasn’t happy in his digs,’ Olly continues, ‘so I thought I was doing us
all
a favour by asking him.’
‘Listen,’ Jamie steps in, ‘I was talking to Joe earlier, Becca, and he seems OK.’
‘Did you know, he took my towel?’
‘No! Shocking! He seems fine to me too,’ Sylvie adds, before heading to the bar saying we could all do with another drink. ‘Besides, he’s
hot
,’ she calls over her shoulder.
‘Exactly. Sylvie’s not complaining,’ Olly reasons. ‘Are you happy, Jamie?’
‘It’s too late to ask him now!’ This argument has
nothing to do with Joe any more. It’s more that Olly can’t see why I get angry sometimes.
‘He’ll be a great babe magnet,’ Jamie reflects, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Jamie wears spectacles and has a face as round as a snooker ball and a belly like a bouncy castle. Thin would not suit him. He has hundreds of friends, but the girls see him as a cuddly toy, not a Joe Lawson.
Olly agrees. ‘He used to play rugby, played for his county or something.’
‘You can tell he works out.’ Sylvie smiles, returning with the drinks. I grab my beer, ruffled that the others are so easily taken in. ‘Come on, Becca, we do need the rent, and I’m sure it won’t be that difficult to get to know him,’ Sylvie argues, reaching into the back of her jeans pocket to find a crumpled pack of Marlboro lights.
‘All you want to do is jump into bed with him, so that’ll be fun. Lots of atmosphere in the house.’
‘You and Olly are together –’ she shrugs – ‘and I don’t complain.’
Damn it! She has a point. I sit back, can see I’m getting nowhere. Besides, he’s already moved in, so short of hurling his suitcase out of the window and changing
the locks, there’s nothing I can do. Besides, maybe I should give him a chance.
Alone, Olly and I walk home through the square.
‘He was starkers, Ol.’
‘Just drop the towel, Becca.’
I laugh. ‘Joe did that. You should have seen his muscles.’
Olly flexes his arms. ‘I have muscles.’
I squint. ‘You hide them well.’ I walk on ahead of him. ‘You’d better watch out, Olly, you’ve got competition!’
He catches me up, grabs my arm and swings me round to face him. ‘Becca, you’re right. I should have asked first.’
‘Oh, listen, I overreacted too,’ I concede. ‘I know I get het up about stuff.’
‘Do you?’ He laughs, pulling me towards him. ‘How can I make it up to you?’
‘Ah,’ I ponder, ‘let me think. I’d like a foot massage, crème brûlée in bed …’
‘How about you and me get an early night.’
We kiss. ‘That sounds good. I need to catch up on some sleep.’
Olly raises an eyebrow. ‘Who said anything about sleep?’
‘What’s Joe reading again?’ I ask, as Olly unlocks the front door.
‘Medicine,’ Joe answers for him, dressed in jeans and a white shirt. ‘Sorry, overheard.’ He clears his throat. ‘The room’s great. Thanks for letting me stay here, Olly.’
‘Not a problem. It’s cool.’
‘Rebecca?’ Joe leans one hand against the front door. There’s something so arrogant about this man I want to slap him.
I take off my jacket. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re happy I’m here?’
I give him one of my best smiles. ‘Sure.’
‘Great.’
‘Off somewhere nice?’ Olly asks, as if he’s a concerned dad.
‘Just out,’ comes the elusive reply. ‘Meeting a couple of friends. I’ll see you tomorrow … unless both of you want to come?’
‘No thanks,’ I say, before noticing the hesitation in Olly’s eyes.
*
‘Where’s Olly?’ asks Sylvie when she enters the kitchen and finds me alone, wondering what happened to our early night and my foot massage.
‘Out. With our new housemate.’
She seems surprised. ‘You’re OK now, about Joe moving in?’
‘Yes, it’s fine.’ I stretch out my arms. ‘Right, bedtime.’
‘Becca? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Becca?’
‘It’s Olly.’
‘What about him?’
‘Have you noticed he does exactly what he wants, pretty much all the time?’
‘Yes!’ She laughs. ‘Haven’t you? I reckon it’s because he’s cute and funny and in a band, so he thinks he has some divine right or something, which he does.’ She opens one of the cupboards above the sink, takes out a loaf of sliced white bread. ‘Toast?’
I shake my head.
‘Olly does things without thinking sometimes, that’s all. Most blokes are like that – well, at least all the ones I’ve been out with. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier, you know, about Joe. If he’d been some spotty science geek or maths nerd with soup-bowl glasses—’
‘You’d have backed me. He does have a great body,’ I confide, smiling.
Sylvie pulls up chair. ‘Exactly. It’s not everyday an Adonis graces our lives. Dan was no oil painting, and he used to nick my crisps.’
I laugh, saying he used to pinch my Snicker bars too.
‘Olly loves you, you know.’
‘Maybe.’
‘No maybes about it.’
‘Thanks, Sylvie.’ I kiss her goodnight and head upstairs, walking past Dan’s old bedroom, the door shut. For a moment I am tempted to open it, just to see what his room’s like. Why do I have a sneaking suspicion that Joe’s arrival is about to change everything in this house?
5
The sun is shining. It’s a lovely warm summer’s day, but I miss Kitty already.
‘The thing about London, Becca, is nothing changes,’ she had promised, as we’d said our tearful goodbyes this morning. ‘When you come back, I’ll still be living in Earls Court and talking to dysfunctional teenagers about what they should do with their lives, when I have no idea myself what to do with mine. Jamie will still be going out with the awful Amanda and Sylvie will
still
be sleeping with her boss, or maybe not … In fact she’s the only one who is slightly unpredictable, but you can be sure I’ll
still
be going on bad dates.’ Kitty had told me how her last date, Richard, Dickie for short, was severely lacking in the hair department, but the final straw was when he said his top film of
all
time was
Sister Act
.
‘You’ll be fine, just fine,’ Kitty had said, hugging me.
‘Thank you,’ I held her close, ‘a million times.’
Mum has booked my scan at the maternity unit of our local hospital at midday. I can’t even begin to unpack yet. I stare at all my suitcases and boxes. It’s so odd being back in my old bedroom. Opposite me, hanging on the wall, is a framed painting of St Catherine’s Hill that I painted when I was eight. I picture my easel by the old dressing-up box, see myself in my red smocked top mixing acrylic paints. I touch my wardrobe and imagine my lime-green and red Flamenco dress still hanging in one corner. I kissed my first boyfriend, Javier, in that dress, at Kitty’s tenth birthday party. Javier was Spanish and could only see out of one eye because he’d cycled into a thorn bush when he was little. Pippa said he didn’t count as a boyfriend because he couldn’t see me properly.
The room used to be papered in Laura Ashley. I chose pale-pink rosebuds with a matching border, but the walls are now painted a soft green and the single bed is decorated with an embroidered quilt. A few glossy country and garden magazines and a bottle of mineral water are on my bedside table. It feels like a guest room.
I find myself going next door, to Pippa’s old room,
where Kitty slept last night. When Olly and I visited my parents for the odd weekend, we’d sleep in here because Pippa’s room is big enough for a double bed. Pippa also had a sink, because her room was originally a kitchen. I was rather jealous of her sink. I could hear her brushing her teeth and hopping into bed. I, on the other hand, had to pad to the cold bathroom at the end of the corridor, where long-legged spiders congregated for a knees-up in the bath. I’d walk back along the corridor and catch a glimpse of Pippa’s shiny tennis medals and trophies mounted on her bookshelf next to her bed, and posters of Andre Agassi adorning the wall. She did need more space, I reasoned. When I had once dared to complain that my room was smaller than hers and I was the eldest, Mum had argued that I had the view looking out into the garden (Pippa’s was the busy main road), and I also had the magnificent view of St Catherine’s Hill in the distance. I looked out at the view and decided it was special. Looking back, I believe this is what inspired me to paint landscapes. I didn’t really mind about the space, just the sink.