Can't Live Without (10 page)

I suppose, in retrospect, it’s surprising he turned out as well as he did. But the point I am trying to make is this: with all that gentle, feminine influence so early on, how did he manage to become such a rough and ready, sleeping-under-the-stars type of bloke? Were all those hours spent putting my mum’s old tights on his head and pretending it was long hair for nothing?

Anyway, it’s not just the money he took, although that has rankled occasionally over the last year and a half while I’ve struggled to support my daughter, and bail my mum out constantly. It’s not just that I didn’t know where he was, either. I figured he’d turn up sooner or later.

No, the main reason I am well and truly pissed off with my brother is because he ran away and left us at a really bad time. A really, really bad time. Just after our father had been sentenced to three years in prison. We were all struggling to come to terms with that, not to mention the newly impoverished state the cost of the trial – and the fine – had left my mother in.

But I don’t want to talk about that.

So, anyway, Billy, he just walks away without telling a soul, two hundred pounds of his sister’s hard-earned cash in his back pocket, the rest of his belongings in his backpack. Like some kind of hobo. Mum got a postcard from Cornwall two months later letting her know he was OK. By that time none of us cared very much.

And here he sits now, looking like he’s been living in a tree for the past year, dirty and dishevelled and completely unbothered by my not-so-chuffed reaction.

‘Stel’s a bit grumpy today, isn’t she,’ he says to Paul, who has the decency to look embarrassed. For the second time in ten minutes, bless him.

‘I don’t believe you.’ I shake my head, at a loss for anything more expressive to say. ‘I really don’t believe you.’

I spend the next fifteen minutes furiously clearing tables, assiduously ignoring Billy’s attempts to talk to me. I can hear him telling Paul all about his “adventures”, as he calls them, and I pick up the odd word or place name here and there. I’m not interested. Tony comes out and dangles the keys ready to lock up, and I gesture to Paul that it’s time to go.

‘I’m taking your brother back to mine,’ he says as he passes. ‘He can stay with me for a few days, it’s no bother.’

I lay a hand on his arm. ‘You don’t have to do that, Paul.’

‘I know. But I want to help. Bye, Stella.’

As they leave, Billy a lanky streak of mud beside Paul in his sharp suit, I feel an odd pulling at my heart. But the weird thing is, I have absolutely no idea which of the two is doing it.

Chapter 8

I may have mentioned it before once or twice, but I really hate my mother’s lodger. He’s kind of omnipresent – a leech in our lives – although my mother can’t see this, and even Lipsy, normally full of scorn for anyone over the age of twenty, seems to be warming to him. So I’m on my own here, waging my own battle. And, unfortunately, so far I’m losing quite badly.

You might be wondering about the reasons for my hatred. Maybe you think he seems innocuous enough, pleasant even, eager to offer helpful advice. This is what most people see. But, as the song says, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Is it really a coincidence that the name “Alistair” almost rhymes with “sinister”?

I don’t think so.

There is something not right about him, mark my words, and the fact that he never pays his rent on time, eats my mother’s food instead of buying his own, and has an opinion on just about everything is neither here nor there.

What’s really weird is the way he has of appearing whenever there is trouble to be stirred up. Like now, for example. Mum and I are arguing about the same thing we always argue about: her spending. My patience is wearing so thin it is virtually anorexic, and there she is ordering a new bathroom suite because the existing one is “a bit dated”. Is this woman for real?

‘There is absolutely no way you are having a new bathroom and that’s final,’ I tell her in my sternest, don’t-mess-with-me voice, which used to work wonders on Lipsy until about two years ago.

We are in her living room, accompanied by a seemingly endless rerun of
Top Gear
on the TV. This should have indicated the presence of Alistair but I am too outraged to notice.

‘But I’ve already ordered it, Stella. It’s too late to cancel now.’ This is my mother’s argument. See what I’m up against here?

‘What the hell were you doing ordering it in the first place? You don’t have any money. How are you going to pay for it, Mum?’

She stares at me blankly, playing with a piece of her hair, twirling it round and round her finger. She does this whenever she’s anxious. There’ll be no other outward signs of distress, just this incessant twirling and fiddling until finally her hair becomes tangled up like a bird’s nest. And who will have to help her get the knots out? You guessed it.

‘Don’t be angry, Stella,’ she pleads. ‘I thought it would be nice, for Lipsy and you, as you’re both staying here now. I thought you’d be pleased.’

I look at her in astonishment. Is the woman completely demented?

‘You thought I would be pleased? You thought that even though my own house is a burnt-out wreck, even though I have virtually no belongings and I’m working two jobs to get the money to do up aforementioned wreck, you thought I would be happy to see my mother run up even more debt on her credit cards? Because that’s how you’re planning to pay for it, isn’t it? On your maxed-out credit cards?’

It is at that precise moment that a pointed cough at my back tells me Alistair is in the room and about to have his say.

‘You really oughtn’t to talk to your mother that way, Stella.’

Just the sound of his voice sets my teeth on edge. I don’t turn around, instead I carry on speaking to my mother as though he’s not there. She looks like a rabbit caught in headlights. It is tearing at my heart having to do this to her but I have to make her see sense.

‘This has to stop, Mum,’ I say, very quietly. ‘You and I both know you can’t go on like this. I can’t afford to bail you out again and I’m worried about you. We need to talk about this properly. And privately,’ I add, with a tilt of my head towards Alistair.

My mother nods slowly, dropping her hand from her hair to rest on her stomach. I relax, believing we are on the brink of a breakthrough, and I start to imagine a proper, grown-up conversation where we finally come up with a coping strategy.

Then Alistair speaks again.

‘Why don’t you just give it a rest, eh, Stella? Some of us are trying to relax here and that’s a bit difficult when you’re shrieking like a banshee. You need to chill out a bit, yeah?’ He grabs the TV remote and turns the volume up to a deafening level, all the time looking at me with a challenging smirk.

Frozen in place, I can’t believe my ears. Has this free-loading little git just told me to shut up? In my own mother’s house?

Yes, he has. And it looks like he’s also going to get away with it. At least, as far as my mother’s concerned. I know she hates confrontation – don’t we all? – but surely she can’t stand back and let that go unchallenged?

‘Are you going to let your
lodger
speak to your own
daughter
like that?’ I glare at my mother who won’t meet my eyes.

Alistair carries on watching TV, laughing uproariously at some sycophantic joke. I hate
Top Gear
almost as much as I hate him.

I walk to the door and turn back to face them both, close to tears but definitely not going to let either of them see that. Shaking my hair back from my face I say to my mother, ‘I refuse to live under the same roof as that man. You have one week. Either he goes or I go. And as for your new bathroom – do whatever you like.’

***

‘Where do you want this to go, Stella?’

I look from Paul to the box and back again. The fact is, I’ve got no idea where I want anything to go – but then, as I have so little I don’t suppose I’ll have to make too many of these decisions just yet. The box Paul is holding contains some of the basic kitchen equipment I’ve begged and borrowed over the past week (I’m drawing the line at stealing for now), so I ask him to stick it in the kitchen.

‘Hey,’ he calls, ‘it’s looking so much better in here.’

He is lying, but I appreciate the gesture. The old kitchen cupboards have been stripped out and dumped, and I’ve washed down the walls and bashed off the old tiles and ripped up the floor. So basically it looks like an empty room after a fire, but I guess that’s a few steps up from a bomb site.

It is exactly a week since I delivered my ultimatum to my mother, and if there’s one thing every parent knows it’s always to carry out what you threaten to do. I’m sure Lipsy would be even further off the rails if I hadn’t been firm with her, and now my own mother is suffering the same treatment. Oh, she’d cried a little, and begged me not to go, but I stood firm. Even when my daughter announced she wasn’t coming with me. That was a tough moment, I can tell you. But then I figured that Lipsy might be better off staying behind for a while, at least until her own home had a functioning kitchen and bathroom. I can rough it. I have no choice. I know I shouldn’t expect Lipsy to rough it with me. Although, it would have been nice.

Anyway, as soon as she sees what a great job I’m doing here she’ll be dying to come back. That’s the plan. Paul is being a rock as usual, and having the use of Smart Homes’ handyman, Ray, is a real bonus. He’s coming tomorrow to sort out the bathroom, which is a bit of a priority. Being able to wash always helps, I find.

‘Paul.’ I grab his arm as he walks past with the last of the boxes.

‘Huh?’

‘Just wanted to say thanks.’

‘Go on then.’

‘What?’

‘Say thanks.’

I laugh and nudge him in the ribs, knowing he can’t defend himself. ‘Thank you very much, O great one,’ I say, bowing a little and letting go of his arm. He grins and carries on by me. ‘Seriously, Paul, I really am grateful. I couldn’t have got through this week without you. And letting me use Ray to do some of the work, well, I don’t know what to say. You’ve saved my life.’

‘You don’t have to say anything, Stella.’ Paul comes back out of the kitchen and sits on one of the garden chairs I “borrowed” from my mother’s garage. ‘And I haven’t saved your life. Yet,’ he adds, fixing my eyes with his. ‘Although I may do, one day.’

I don’t know quite what’s been happening between us lately. Actually, when I say ‘between us’ I really mean ‘to me’, because Paul is just being Paul, joking around and play-flirting, same as he always has. I know it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that lately – lately, I’ve started to wish it did.

He’s my oldest friend, and it’s no secret that I had a crippling crush on him as a kid. I thought I was over all that long ago. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it’s the way he’s so attentive and caring, the way that whenever I talk he makes me feel as though I’m the only person in the room. He does that with everyone, of course, not just me. He’s that kind of guy. Which makes it even harder to ignore the feelings that are pushing themselves up mercilessly from a place I thought I’d buried them years ago.

I look at him now, leaning back into the deckchair, flexing his shoulders a little but looking perfectly relaxed and at home. He’s wearing jogging pants and an old washed-out T-shirt but still looks like he’s just walked off the pages of a catalogue. We’ve spent a lot of time together this week, sorting out stuff for the house, sharing a pizza after work a few times, and I don’t think I’d be exaggerating to say we’re getting closer. Closer than just-good-friends.

No, I don’t think I’d be exaggerating at all.

A few nights ago, Joshua called to ask me out again and I agreed to meet him for a drink, just for something to do, really. But the strangest thing happened. All I could think about all evening was Paul. Paul, my boss. Paul, my best friend. He filled my head so much that I called Joshua “Paul” twice.

Now, I think I know what is going on here, and it isn’t necessarily that I’ve lost my marbles. Since the fire I’ve been feeling rootless and cast adrift in a possession-free world. I go on a couple of dates with Joshua and, even though he
so
isn’t the one for me, I begin to imagine what it would be like to be with a man again. Really
with
a man. What it would be like to be
in love
. Maybe deep down I feel that I kind of need a little bit of rescuing …

Impressed by my amateur psychology? Well, don’t be. It’s Bonnie’s theory, not mine. But it struck a chord with me, and I was intrigued to think that all this could be going on without my knowledge. I have hidden depths. I’ve always suspected as much.

Anyway, once these secret desires were reawakened (Bonnie again), they were free to attach themselves to their
true
target.

And that target is by my side right now, unaware and unknowing.

I lower myself into a matching deckchair, aware for the first time today that I’m not wearing any make-up and haven’t washed my hair for two days. Surreptitiously, I undo the top button on my shirt as though this will make me suddenly irresistible. Ha!

Paul moves his chair nearer to mine and all my nerves tingle. There is a look on his face that I have seen somewhere before, in another lifetime.

Might Paul feel the same way about me as I think I’ve started to feel about him?

The house is silent except for the beating of my heart. I watch his face as he considers me for a moment and then begins to speak.

‘Stella. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

This is it. Declarations of undying love surely to follow. I hope so, I really, really hope so. If only because it will spare me the ordeal of having to be the one to bring it up. (Very romantic, Stella!)

‘Yes?’ I say breathily. ‘What is it?’

‘I want to talk to you about Billy.’

‘Billy?’

‘Yes, Billy. You know – your brother.’

‘I know who he is.’ Inwardly I seethe. Bloody Billy getting in the way again: perfect timing as usual. ‘What about him?’ I ask casually.

Paul leans forward and takes my hand. Oh-ho, maybe it’s not so bad after all.