1
Nic
‘Bro,’ Ollie says to me down the phone, his words thick with the drowsiness of sleep despite it being just after 3 p.m. ‘I’m so sorry. Don’t have a cob on or nothin’ – I overslept. I’ve only just woken up and seen your messages. Last night got a bit wet and wild, and—’
‘Nah, come off it,’ I tell him, rolling my eyes so hard that it actually kind of hurts. Wet and wild? I don’t even want to ask. I raise my hand as I gesticulate a ‘stop’ sign, like he’s the one in front of me and not half of Ealing Broadway heading home to make a start on their weekend tea. ‘I knew you’d be MIA,’ I mutter frustratedly. ‘Honestly – I ask you for one simple thing, and you get distracted from helping me, your brother of thirty-one years, by a one-night stand—’
‘Two-night stand,’ he corrects me.
‘You get distracted from helping me by a two-night stand,’ I clarify, my eyes rolling even harder. ‘With a very nice woman whose name, as you well know, you should have got right the first time. How you got a second chance I’ll never understand. Truly. And now I don’t even know where Maple Avenue is. This is why I needed you, Ollie. I don’t know what I’m doing! Google Maps has me going around in circles.’ Ollie makes grumbles of protestation at my rant, but it doesn’t slow me down. I’m on one. ‘You’re such a letdown! I never ask you for help. And this is why!’
A woman in a rain mac and rubber boots looks over her shoulder at me in fright. I’m shouting. I’m two days into the alleged adventure of a lifetime and I’m dripping wet, lost, and running fifteen minutes behind. I hate being late. Not to mention now I’ve got no clue on how I’m supposed to get the sofa I’m about to pick up home. I’m going to have to hold out hope for one hell of an obliging Uber driver. Although, I suppose this is London. The drivers have probably seen worse. Last night, after I left Ollie at the pub, I saw a rat the size of a guinea fowl stood on its hind legs, drinking a can of full-fat Coke. Earlier I saw six fully dressed clowns climb out of a Prius being driven by a man in a leotard. Every time I thought the final clown had disembarked, another one came out. It was remarkable, really.
‘The yelling,’ Ollie whimpers, dramatically. ‘Too much yelling. Not enough congratulations for night número dos with the sexy Spanish señorita.’
I shake my head and smile in spite of myself. Ollie is ridiculous, and knows exactly how to play me – he thinks I’ve got absolutely zero game with women myself and assumes that by illuminating his own prowess, I’ll soften in the face of his ‘accomplishments’ … which I’d never admit to, but I kind of do. I’ve got no idea how to play the field – not really. Something tells me not to use Ollie as my reference point, despite his obvious successes, but he’s the only other bachelor I know. Everyone back home in Liverpool is seeing someone and has been for ages. It’s that kind of place.
‘You’re a blert,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he says, plainly. ‘I do. But I’m also a blert who got very, very lucky last night.’
It’s impossible to stay mad at him. He’s a typical younger sibling: his grades weren’t as good as mine were, he never got told off as much I did when we were kids, and somehow his refusal to take responsibility for anything comes off as roguish and charming. He could snog your wife and crash your car, and you’d still end up buying him a pint. It defies the laws of physics and logic, how much he gets away with.
‘I can come and meet you now?’ he offers. ‘She just left. I’ll need a shower though. I’ll tell you what, every inch of these bedsheets is covered in—’
‘I’M HANGING UP NOW!’ I declare, utterly convinced I don’t need to know a single further detail. ‘I’LL-FIGURE-SOMETHING-OUT-PLEASE-STOP-TALKING-BYE!’
I shake off thoughts of his dirty bedsheets, returning to the task in hand. It’s hard, stepping into a new life. But I’m doing it. I’ve never had to search for courage more than I did in deciding to start from scratch, and even though I’ve already wanted to kick something in frustration ten times today I’m still dead proud that I’m actually doing it. I tell you something – actually building this new life isn’t half as scary as the decision to leave my old one. It took me months. Years, even. I try to remember that every time I wonder what I’m doing. Safe doesn’t mean better. Safe can just mean safe. Alive but not living. Miserably comfortable. Well – not anymore for me, thanks.
I look around.
Maple Avenue, the street sign says to my surprise.
Excellent. I might have found where I’m supposed to be going by accident, but I’ve found it all the same. Thank God.
2
Ruby
‘I don’t know if you’ve misunderstood the definition of helpful,’ I say to Jackson, who is slouched up against the radiator on the floor, playing with the tape dispenser Candice stole from work to help with the packing. ‘But shredding the tape I need for these boxes? Decidedly counter-productive.’
‘Not if my dastardly plan is to keep you from leaving.’ He pouts, scratching the short afro stubble of his shaved hair. ‘Honestly. If you wanted us to express our unending admiration and love, these are quite the dramatics to establish feeling appreciated.’
The pink of his bottom lip juts out, and I wonder who he is to make accusations of theatrics. He’d give Liza Minnelli a run for her money.
I know it comes from love. He’s been like this all week. I don’t think either of them genuinely thought I’d go. When I first told them I was thinking of getting my master’s, they didn’t take me seriously, but then I secured my second interview. I could have applied to Brighton or even somewhere in London, but Manchester is the best course in the country so when I got in – and with a partial scholarship, I mean come on! – there was no way I could turn it down, even if they not-so-secretly hope that any second now I’m going to declare that I’ve changed my mind and stay.
‘Heads up, bevvies coming through,’ Candice announces, jutting open the bedroom door with her hip, her hands cradling three Aperol Spritz. Her brunette crop is standing up in spikes on her head, a result of her having spent most of the day on the sofa watching Disney movies as a way to ignore the unfolding scenes in my room.
‘Candice, I can’t drink yet – look at everything I’ve still got to do!’ I exclaim, gesturing to the piles of stuff strewn across the room as Jackson greedily paws at the glasses, taking one for himself and one for me. He holds mine out, but I immediately discard it on the mantelpiece. We live in a big old Victorian semi, and, because we’d rather split the rent four ways than three, we make do with the tiny box of a dining room beside the kitchen as a living room and use the front room – working fireplace and all – as a bedroom, in addition to the two doubles upstairs, and a single room at the back. For the past two years we’ve rented the small one out mostly as short-term lets to students studying English, who happily pay over the odds to be near the Central Line, which in turn means that me, Jackson and Candice get rent below the odds. It’s naughty, but this is London: it’s eat or be eaten when it comes to finding a place to live that you can actually afford – and the landlady doesn’t care as long as the money lands in her account on time.
‘Bottoms up, gang,’ Jackson cheers, waving his glass in the air. The pair of them look at me with such expectation that I join them in spite of myself for what we call ‘first blood’ – the first few sips of the first drink of the night (or afternoon, it seems) when it whets your appetite for more. I do feel bad, leaving them. We’ve been the three musketeers for so long. But if I don’t act the tough guy, I’ll sob and sob and that won’t help anyone.
‘To the traitor,’ Candice says, a coy smirk offsetting her harsh words.
‘To the traitor,’ Jackson echoes, and shaking my head I take a sip too. I haven’t said as much to them, but I’m actually excited to leave London behind. This city has exhausted me. It’s too dirty, too expensive – just too hard. I’ve never been able to escape the feeling that this isn’t the place for me. I don’t know if Manchester is, but at least it’s closer to my parents and sister over in the Peaks. Candice and Jackson would rather die than return to the area where they were born.
My attention is caught by the screen of my phone lighting up. Ah. Of course. Behind every woman trying to move on is an ex who can sense she’s almost over him. It’s a message from Abe.
Surely you’re not leaving without saying goodbye?
I swipe left on it, so it deletes without even opening.
‘What time is it?’ I ask, determinedly pushing him from my mind and piling more books into a box for Jackson to tape up. ‘The sofa guy is late. He should have been here by now.’
‘Bet he’s stopped for some essentials after my text,’ Candice sing-songs, joining Jackson on the floor. There’s nowhere else to park themselves: as far as furniture goes there’s only my bedframe and mattress left, which is strewn with a mixture of half-packed boxes and charity bags, and the love seat, which, though empty, has already been cleaned for collection – if the guy ever shows up.
‘Deodorant, breath mints, condoms …’ continues Candice, still teasing me about the man buying my couch.
I scowl. Jackson catches it and laughs.
‘Is the sweepstake up to twenty quid that she’ll shag him, or twenty-five?’ he goads.
I give him a dirty look. ‘Why is it so hard to believe that I can last all year without a man between my thighs?’ I sigh. ‘As my best friends, aren’t you supposed to be more supportive than this? It’s like you want me to fail.’ I’m trying to guilt them into shutting up so add for emphasis, ‘After everything I’ve been through as well …’
Jackson fishes the orange slice from his drink to squeeze out the juice into his glass. ‘Au contraire,’ he says, licking his fingers and not one bit bothered by remorse. ‘We want you to succeed, my darling.’
‘New city,’ Candice says. ‘New outlook, new life. All of that is a wonderful plan …’
‘But …’ Jackson adds. ‘It’s like we continue to remind you: you cannot leave London with Abraham Lawson as the last man to have been inside you. We’d be worse friends if we didn’t get you a better parting memory than that.’
‘I asked Jackson if he’d take one for the team, but he refused.’ Candice giggles.
‘I couldn’t think of anything worse.’ Jackson shrugs.
‘Charming!’ I say. ‘I love you too.’
‘Be like snogging my sister,’ he explains. ‘Improper. My services can only lie in teasing you into compliance. It’s for your own good. You won’t be making very good art if you don’t satiate Little Ruby.’ He says art like it’s in air quotes, but I’m more put out by him calling my lady parts Little Ruby.
‘Well,’ I say, waving him over with a wag of a finger to signal which boxes can be taped shut now. ‘You didn’t really send that text, and there’s only us three celebrating tonight, so if you aren’t going to cleanse my palate yourself, we’re rather in a tough spot, aren’t we?’
Jackson laughs. The whole ‘joke’ started last week when Candice had seen me arranging the pick-up with him as I typed on Facebook Marketplace at the breakfast bar, said he was hot in his photo, and before I knew it pulled up his every social media profile on her phone, just from a name and the fact that he used the same photo for all of them. By the time Jackson had added his own Inspector Clouseau skills to the mix, they’d established that he was new to London, originally from Liverpool, and was crisp off a break-up. He’d won an award for outstanding achievement from his university – University of Liverpool, joint degree in Economics and Politics – and was headhunted for some sort of graduate scheme at a financial consultancy. He played a bit of football, and did this thing called LARPing, which we’d had to google. It’s Live Action Role-Playing, where people dress up as characters and act out pretend settings in the real world.
There was a particularly disorientating photo of him dressed in chain mail with a sword belt slung low on his hips, geotagged in Scotland. It was easy to tell by how everything fell that he was ripped, and he was even fitter without his glasses on. By the time our deep dive into who the stranger buying my sofa was had finished, we’d polished off two bottles of champagne Candice had ‘been gifted’ (aka stolen, or ‘reclaimed as payment in kind’, as she sometimes frames it) from work, and were each as randy for him as the other. I liked his abs, Candice liked his shoulders, and Jackson said he couldn’t help but notice the size of his hands.
‘I really did let him know that it’s his public duty to help you out,’ Candice teases.
‘You wouldn’t bloody dare,’ I growl, eyes playfully narrowed.
And yet when the doorbell goes, my tummy does a double dip. With Candice, you really can never be totally sure.
‘I’ll get it!’ she cries, leaping up enthusiastically. She’s revelling in the success of winding me up.
‘Poor bloke.’ Jackson laughs, as I finish labelling a box of books. ‘I wouldn’t...
