Can't Live Without (4 page)

When the phone rang, Paul half expected it to be Stella, her date gone wrong, wanting to be picked up from somewhere or just needing a shoulder to cry on.

‘Hi, Paul, it’s Loretta.’

Paul sighed. It was great that Loretta was such a conscientious employee, and he knew he shouldn’t complain, but he wished she wouldn’t call him at home so often. He knew he should bring it up with her, but somehow he could never find the right words. Why couldn’t she just take the hint?

‘What’s up?’ he asked, aiming for disinterested, coming out flat.

‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you. I was just a bit worried about the sales figures for this month and I needed to talk to you. Perhaps if you’re not busy I could come over …’

Paul looked at the phone in horror. ‘I’m, erm, I’m just about to go out. Sorry. If it really can’t wait until tomorrow I suppose you could just tell me now.’

Good one, he thought, as Loretta launched into a detailed, and pointless, explanation of how everyone else in the office wasn’t giving her all the information she needed. Why couldn’t he be more assertive and just tell the woman it would have to wait until tomorrow? If it was Joe he would say exactly that. But women were so unpredictable. He had thought when he promoted her to sales supervisor that it might stop this constant worrying, but if anything it had made her worse. There always seemed to be some crisis – and once again Stella was at the centre of it.

‘I’ve asked her over and over again for the month-end figures but she just ignores me,’ Loretta whined. ‘Today she actually said that I should be worrying about a different kind of figure! Can you believe that?’

Paul stifled a laugh, turned it into a cough, and made sympathetic noises into the receiver. Stella was incorrigible. He knew there was no love lost between these two but Loretta could give as good as she got.

He placated Loretta as best he could, then pretended there was someone at the door and ended the call. It was no wonder he was still single, he thought, Loretta’s shrill voice still ringing in his ears. The one and only time he had tried dating seriously – a sweet, unchallenging beautician from Bletchley – well, look how badly that had turned out.

No. Friends were so much easier. Friends like Nick and Steve and Jimmy, who he’d known since university and who could sit with him in the pub for hours and talk about absolutely nothing; or Andy, Ethan and Tommo, his Wednesday Poker night buddies, who would roll in the door with a complete lack of expectations and nothing but a bit of innocent gambling on their minds.

And Stella, of course. She was the only woman he had ever been truly comfortable with, but that was only because there was absolutely no romantic involvement at all. His mates were openly jealous of his friendship with her. None of them could quite believe that he didn’t secretly fancy her.

‘But she’s gorgeous,’ Steve had said the first time he met her. Paul had shrugged off his friend’s teasing; he knew it was a common belief that a man couldn’t be friends with a woman without wanting to go to bed with her.

He also knew he was living proof that this was a load of bollocks.

But it had made him more protective of her, fielding Steve’s ‘I’ll have a crack at her then, if you’re not going to’ with a forced smile and a resolve to keep her far away from his other mates. In a way she was like the younger sister he didn’t have, and he guessed she thought of him as a brother. She didn’t seem to have much luck with the opposite sex either. Paul certainly didn’t think her latest beau was a likely candidate. He pictured her getting into the red sports car earlier. She didn’t even know this neighbour properly. She was vulnerable just now, might be prone to making snap decisions, judgement impaired. Who
was
this guy? Talk about taking advantage ...

Give it up, Paul, he said to himself. Stella could look after herself and besides, it’s not as if she really
was
his sister.

He picked up the phone again and dialled Nick’s number. Sod the paperwork – a lads’ night out was what he needed. No stress, no worries, no hassle.

***

As dates go it isn’t the worst I’ve ever had. I can tell that Joshua is trying his best to put me at ease, like when he says he doesn’t mind that my blouse clashes horribly with his car. He is joking, I think. And he tries hard to take my mind off my own problems, telling me about a friend of his who also lost everything in a house fire. I listen intently. I myself have never met anybody this has happened to, and I’d dearly like to know how it might play out ...

His friend killed himself.

OK.

The fact that Joshua is very good looking cannot be denied. He is also incredibly knowledgeable and seems to enjoy telling me what food to order and which wine to drink with it. This is fine by me as I’m having trouble deciding when to go to the toilet at the moment. I
need
a bit of guidance.

When we’ve finished eating, he tells me about his job, something to do with pharmaceuticals. He is very, very passionate about his work. Which is also fine by me, I like a man with a bit of passion. All in all, an effortless night. Joshua doesn’t ask me any questions about myself or my work or my family, and as my life feels like it’s in shreds at the moment, I enjoy having a night off from myself.

My heart’s not in it, though. I try to hide this from Joshua. I’m sure there are many women who’d give their right arm, and possibly a leg, to be out with him, but I’ve lived next door to the man for six months now and never had him down as dating material. At least, not for me. For Bonnie, maybe. Which is why I wasn’t surprised when I saw them talking on the afternoon of the fire. It crossed my mind
briefly
that it was a bit mercenary of Bonnie to be using my personal tragedy to get off with Mr Smooth, but I wouldn’t have held it against her. I
was
surprised when she informed me later that she’d actually been setting him up for a date with me.

Of all the nerve. But bless her for trying.

He insists on having me home by ten o’clock. (Not home, of course, just back to my mum’s.) I can tell he’s impressed by the house but I decide not to invite him in. I wait for that awkward end-of-date moment, half hoping he won’t try to kiss me, half hoping he will – if only to prove I’m not desperately unattractive.

It is a very long time since I’ve been out on a date.

Joshua thanks me for a nice evening (nice?) and tells me that I need as much sleep as possible at the moment to be able to cope with what lies ahead. This is touching but also a little unsettling. Is he thinking of his suicide friend again? Before I can analyse this further he leans over and reaches out his arm. Here it comes, I think. But no, he is only reaching across me to fling open the passenger door.

‘Night, Stella.’

I get out with as much dignity as the low-to-the-ground sports car will allow and turn to wave at the back of the car as he speeds away.

‘Night, Joshua,’ I say to the empty street.

Inside the house I creep up to my room and close the door softly. I am under strict instructions to call Bonnie the minute I get in. But first I fight with the urge to check on Lipsy. She hates it when I do what she calls “smothering” and I call “mothering”. I didn’t really
want
to go out tonight – I felt I should be here for my daughter. But, as Bonnie said, what was the point? Lipsy can’t stand the sight of me at the moment. The best thing I can do for her is stay out of her way.

I comfort myself by pressing my ear firmly to her bedroom door. The familiar irregular thump and grind of her favourite hip-hop music reassures me and I tiptoe back to my own room.

Bonnie answers on the first ring.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but there’s nothing to report,’ I tell her.

‘He didn’t try to kiss you even?’

‘Nope.’

‘Oh. What a shame.’ She sounds as disappointed as if it had been her own date.

‘He hardly looked at me in that way, to be honest. I must be losing my touch, along with everything else.’

‘Come on Stella, don’t get down about it. He’s just being a gentleman. He’s bound to treat you with kid gloves after what’s happened.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’ I bet Bonnie wouldn’t have this problem. She’d have to fight him off with a stick. ‘I shouldn’t have gone, Bonnie. It was a total waste of time. And Lipsy probably thinks I’ve deserted her, and my mother will give me the third degree in the morning.’ I think about the expression on Paul’s face earlier when I said where I was going. ‘How do you think it looks to people, going out on dates when your house has just burnt down?’ I just catch my voice before it turns into a wail.

Bonnie sighs heavily, like I’m a small, annoying child. ‘The Stella Hill
I
know doesn’t care what other people think. You went out for dinner with a neighbour, so what? It’s not even as if you can cook your own, now you haven’t got a kitchen anymore.’ She has a point there. ‘And besides,’ she says bracingly, ‘your house didn’t burn down, Stella. It’s damaged, it’s a lot the worse for wear, and it’s pretty soggy, but it is still there. It’s still standing.’

I roll my eyes. Still standing, but only just. OK on the outside but blackened and gutted on the inside, needing a hell of a lot of love and attention to put it even halfway right.

Now who does that remind me of?

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Bonnie says. ‘What you need is a plan. A “Get Your House In Order” plan. And I want you to start by making a list of what you need to do to get back on track. You know, things you need to sort out, stuff to buy.’ She pauses for a second. ‘I mean important things, Stella, not just the stuff you’d like to have, not a bigger telly or a bigger and better sound system.’

Insulted, I glare into the phone. How dare she?

As Bonnie drones on I look at my watch. Maybe Joshua was right and I should get an early night. Tomorrow I plan to be very brave and make a visit to Chaplin Grove to check out the damage, now the initial shock has worn off.

‘Bonnie, I’d better go. I need to get some sleep. You know, big day tomorrow and all that.’

‘Write the list,’ she screeches in my ear as I hang up.

Lists! Bonnie is obsessed with lists. She makes lists of the lists she has to write every week. I, on the other hand, prefer to wing it. Usually. Although, I have to admit, this is an unusual circumstance.

My mother has put one of her nightdresses on my pillow – brushed cotton with long sleeves and big blue flowers. With a sigh I undress and pull it over my head, sitting down heavily on the bed. My childhood bed, with its saggy centre and spindly legs.

There is no way I can sleep. This will be my third night of staring at the walls, going over and over all the mistakes I’ve made until I want to take my mum’s nightdress and hang myself with it. My eyes feel too big for their sockets and every time I try to close them my eyelids snap open like they’re on elastic.

I sit against the pillows and pick up a book, a teenage favourite of mine, Nancy Drew. The words blur together. After a few minutes I throw it to the floor in disgust.

Bonnie’s suggestion comes back to me and I consider it. A list of all the things I can’t live without, she said. It’s a daunting prospect but why not? I have to start somewhere, listing what I’ve lost and what needs replacing. In a drawer I find sheets of paper – pale pink with balloons up the side – and a chewed blue biro. Perfect.

Sitting at my childhood desk, far too tall for it now, knees knocking against it every time I move, I stare at the paper for a long time. I don’t know where to start. Easier to write a list of what I
do
have left than what I don’t. That list would be a lot shorter.

I resolve to be positive. If Lipsy can handle it OK – and she seems to be coping much better than I am – then I can make the effort too. The house will be fixed up and redecorated and I will replace everything we’ve lost with stuff that is bigger and better (or smaller and better), and I’ll be happier than ever before. Maybe Lipsy could help me do up the house, kind of like a bonding exercise for us. That could work. I will pay off all my debts, sort out my mum once and for all, and find a really great man who idolizes me. (I think I’m on to a loser with Joshua but I can’t afford to be too fussy right now.) I tuck my legs under the desk, wincing as I scrape my knees again, and grip the pen resolutely in my hand. I touch it to the top of the page and begin to write:
CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT ...

Chapter 4

It looks like the latest Damien Hurst installation dropped into suburbia. Luckily for them, the houses on either side of mine are completely untouched; though they’re detached, the spaces in between are only just about wide enough to walk through sideways.

I pick my way along the path, pull aside the makeshift boarded door and enter a world of darkness. This can’t be the same house, I think to myself, shaking my head in wonder. It can’t be the house I’ve lived in with my beautiful daughter for thirteen years. The house I decorated lovingly in apple green and duck egg blue, came home to every night, good days, bad days, always there to welcome me with a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio. I have a vision that
my
house has been beamed up by aliens and replaced by this impostor as some kind of cruel cosmic joke. Somewhere, in a galaxy far away, little grey men are sitting around my kitchen table laughing their oversized grey heads off and drinking my wine.

The smell that hits me as I cross the threshold is stale and musty like a house that’s been abandoned for months, not days. Three steps take me into the lounge, and I wait for my eyes to adjust after the morning sunlight. Only a little of that light creeps through the filthy windows. Every visible surface is a sooty, dirty brown, and there is nothing familiar to be seen.

The floating sensation I had on Saturday envelops me again. When I last came in here, only a few hours after the fire had finally been put out, a fireman had tried to warn me what to expect. He’d said that the heat and smoke damage was extensive. And then there was the water. The damage from the water was almost as bad as the damage from the fire itself. He even gave me a booklet,
Recovering From Your Fire or Flood
, which Bonnie read from cover to cover. Twice. She also went out and bought a disposable camera and told me to take photographs of the damage. I didn’t know where to start.