During the daytime, he shopped for clothes with Sinead’s rent money. He needed new suits and shirts if he were to re-enter the job market successfully. He found a charcoal-grey jacket and trousers in Marks & Spencer, reduced from £249 to £209. The inside leg was a tad on the long side, but the jacket fitted squarely across his shoulders, the sleeves just covering his wrists when he stood with his arms by his sides. Looking at his reflection in the changing-room mirror, he saw a respectable and vital young businessman ready to take on the world.
For lunch each day he visited McDonald’s and ordered either a Filet-O-Fish or Quarter Pounder with Cheese, large fries and apple pie, but no drink; he didn’t care for the syrupy carbonated beverages, and milkshakes didn’t mix well with the food. Sitting alone in a booth at the back, he reminisced about his very first visits to Ipswich McDonald’s with Alice, the nanny who had looked after him as a small boy. Her employment hadn’t lasted long; once his parents had been killed in the airplane crash, he had been sent to live with his uncle during the school holidays, a vile and pig-ignorant man who saw no use for a nanny and strongly disapproved of American junk food. But he never forgot those weekly treats when Alice would buy him a Happy Meal and whisper conspiratorially, ‘Don’t tell your parents, okay? It’s our little secret.’
The local Odeon proved handy for catching more shut-eye in the afternoon, although the second day he bought a ticket for a soporific romcom and found he had walked into a room full of chattering housewives and screaming children. He’d not been to a cinema for some time and he wondered when and why they had become daytime crèches. Making a swift exit, he went up a flight of stairs and found a screen with no attendant to check his ticket. The film was a cheapo horror that kept him amused for half an hour before its hackneyed jump scares caused him to nod off.
On the last night he had finished with the burials by eleven thirty. He pulled into a motorway services, bought a packaged sandwich, and got back in his car. He opened up the cardboard container, tucked into one half – chicken, lettuce and tomato on malted bread – and pondered his next move. He couldn’t face another night in the damp and squalid lock-up, and there was always a chance some busybody would report his living arrangements to the council. Now he had a bit of cash in his wallet it made sense to start again somewhere new. He liked Edinburgh; there was plenty going on in that beautiful city. The festival certainly appealed, but it was the wrong time of year. Or Cambridge might be worth a punt. A wry smile formed on his lips. Staring through the windscreen at the sign for the M1, he pondered his options as he ate.
But who was he kidding? He’d burn through the remainder of that £1,800, staying in some shabby bed and breakfast before he’d even landed an interview, let alone a job. And then what? He would end up dossing down in his car, urinating into a plastic bottle, and defecating into a McDonald’s paper bag. No thank you. He was getting too old for that kind of caper.
He started on the second sandwich, scooped up his BlackBerry from the dashboard, and looked at Sinead’s text message. Luv my new home! See you soon – Sinead x. He didn’t know anyone in Edinburgh or Cambridge, and having to join another book group and evening classes was too bloody tedious to contemplate. Why bother going out, attempting to meet new people when he had the opportunity to come home to a friendly face? Sinead had said that fate had brought her to the bungalow. He recognised a good line, but also possibly there was some truth to it. He stuffed the last of the sandwich in his mouth, turned the key in the ignition and dismissed all thoughts of moving on. Only one place to go now: home.
Home is where the heart is.
8
Tuesday evening at Catford Constitutional Club was a regular night out for Sinead and her former housemates. Just ten minutes’ walk from the house, the pub had been a local haunt for years, but on this occasion Sinead had to get the train over. About twenty drinkers, mainly young professionals and hipster artists, were having a quiet pint after work. Sinead and Heidi were sitting at a corner table, drinking Californian Merlot and picking at olives from a bowl.
‘I wanted to see you off, you know I did. Tim forgot to set the alarm, and when I woke up it was gone eleven…’ Heidi’s phone beeped and cut her off. She picked it up from the table.
‘Honestly, it’s cool,’ said Sinead. ‘Anyway, I hate saying goodbye so it’s probably just as well you weren’t there.’ She took a large gulp of wine. ‘I’m glad things are going well with Tim. Can’t wait to meet him.’
‘Ah… thanks… yeah, we should get together soon.’ Heidi checked the text as she spoke. ‘Magz says she can’t make it. She’s blown all her cash again.’
Sinead checked her own phone for the girls’ WhatsApp group. ‘What is she like? Total flake.’ She knew Imogen wouldn’t come down, but Magz was always up for a drink.
‘She got an official warning at work yesterday. Turned up two hours late, coming down from ketamine. She was off her tits.’
‘Seriously? Wow…’ Sinead frowned. ‘Did she pass on my address? I wrote it down so you could forward my post.’
‘Yeah… I think so. She said she had it.’
‘God, she’s useless.’ Sinead typed her message, telling Magz to come down and she’d buy her a pint. She spoke to Heidi as she typed. ‘Beckenham’s lovely. I know it’s out in the sticks, you wouldn’t believe how clean the air is, though. Catford’s so polluted – you really notice it when you come back.’ She sent her message and drank some more Merlot, smiling at Heidi. ‘Come and visit me soon, yeah? You’ll love it. It’s got a dishwasher and a tumble dryer; it’s a proper grown-up’s pad.’ Sinead said this ironically, although that’s exactly why she liked it.
‘Oh well, in that case – I mean who can resist a dishwasher and a tumble dryer? No, definitely, yeah, I’m really looking forward to seeing it.’ Heidi raised her eyebrows and nodded, then sipped some wine. ‘What’s this guy like, the one who owns it?’
‘He’s all right. A bit posh, fairly quiet. He seems friendly enough.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Elliot.’ It occurred to Sinead that she didn’t know his surname.
‘What’s he do?’
‘He’s self-employed. Some kind of business. Don’t know what exactly.’
‘You wouldn’t catch me moving into a strange man’s house. Are you sure he’s not some kind of nutter?’
Sinead laughed. ‘No, he’s harmless, I can tell.’ She pointed a thumb at herself. ‘Good judge of character. That’s why I’m so awesome at my job.’
‘Well the ad for your room’s going live tomorrow, so you’ve still got time to move back if you change your mind.’
‘Thanks. But, yeah, I won’t… I’ve done the right thing.’
Heidi glanced down at her phone. ‘More importantly, how’s your love life? Any fit guys on the Beckenham scene?’
‘Oh yeah, hundreds. Fit guys everywhere I turn. Can’t get away from them – it’s like some kind of zombie film.’ Sinead smirked. She and Heidi used to talk about boys all the time back in the day. Mostly they’d get drunk and bemoan their lack of flirting skills. Sinead realised it felt weird discussing her non-existent love life with her BFF. Now she was dating someone serious, Heidi had adopted a slightly condescending tone.