Can't Live Without (8 page)

She slips the photograph into the pocket of her dressing gown and leaves the kitchen without another word. I stare at the space she leaves behind for a long time after she’s gone.

***

The next shock of the day comes at eleven o’clock. I’ve just ended a particularly irksome phone call from a disgruntled tenant, when my mobile rings in my bag under the desk. Thinking it might be Lipsy, I grab it and race out to the back of the building – personal calls are frowned upon even by ultra-lenient Paul. I’m still panting as I answer the phone.

‘Can I speak to Miss Stella Hill, please?’ Not Lipsy, then.

‘Speaking.’

‘This is Graham Canter from the Fire Investigations Office. We have a result in the investigation into your house fire. That is, we know what caused it.’

The voice is official and nasal. I fight to get my breath back and try to focus on what he is saying. The only words that register are “fire” and “caused”.

‘Was it arson?’ I gasp.

‘Was it… no, it wasn’t arson, Miss Hill. Why would you think that?’ He sounds worried all of a sudden. ‘The police gave us no indication of suspicious circumstances …’

‘No reason, just wondered,’ I say quickly.

Of course it wasn’t arson, I just have this uneasy feeling in my belly, and a strong conviction that someone must be to blame. A bad thing happens and it’s somebody’s fault. That’s how it works, right?

‘So? What was it then?’ I force myself to ask.

‘Your washing machine!’ he announces triumphantly.

There is a long pause.

‘My washing machine set fire to my house?’ I say, incredulously. Visions invade my mind of the machine coming to life and dousing the kitchen in petrol, water hoses waving around menacingly, the round glass door a sinister moon-face.

‘Indirectly, yes. It took us a while to figure it out, this fault is very rare. But we persevered, took apart every appliance, analysed every possible source of ignition. You wouldn’t believe what you can deduce, even when something is terrifically damaged.’

He pauses as if waiting for praise or recognition. None is forthcoming so he carries on.

‘A rare fault, as I said, seen in machines which are old and haven’t been regularly serviced.’

‘But …’ I stammer, ‘but, I – I didn’t even have the washing machine on. I’d just got up, for God’s sake!’

‘The machine doesn’t need to be actually going at the time. It was plugged in and left switched on. Something malfunctions, sparks fly, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

His voice recedes as the world starts to darken. I lean all my weight against the skip behind me and slide down it until I am sitting awkwardly on the ground. A cat, skinny and mangy, sleeks past me and picks at the remains of a kebab still in its wrapper. I watch it through flat eyes. The words echo and crash around my head.

Old machines. Not regularly serviced. Plugged in and left on. But I did this all the time, no one had ever told me not to, told me to unplug every appliance the minute I’d finished using it. And who knew they had to get their washing machine serviced? It breaks down you get it fixed. That was how we did it when I was growing up.

This is clearly no excuse, however. Reading between the lines, I know exactly what the jobsworth fire investigator is trying to tell me.

‘Hello. Hello? Are you still there, Miss Hill?’

I drop the phone amidst the rubbish and put my head into my hands. He is trying to tell me that all of this is my fault and my fault alone. And the worst of it? I know it’s true. I have burned down my own house through ignorance and neglect.

***

I stay late at the office again, waiting for my second date with Joshua. He called a little while ago to tell me that we’re going to an upmarket restaurant recently opened by some friends of his.

I ponder his use of the word “upmarket”. Does it mean he thinks my usual eateries are downmarket? Has he observed me bringing in my shopping bags (Happy Shopper? Netto?) and compared them unfavourably to his own Waitrose habit? Am I properly dressed for a meeting with high-flying restaurant-owning friends? Or should I race up to the shops again and buy another outfit, something more
upmarket
? Maybe just another pair of shoes?

After much agonising I decide against it. There isn’t much left of the sub Paul gave me and it’s two more weeks until payday. Although I start my new job at Café Crème this Thursday – which I am actually really excited about – I’m planning to use my wages from there to buy something nice for Lipsy. Besides, I really can’t summon up the energy to go shopping again. All those lovely things I can’t afford – it’s just too depressing.

I undo the top two buttons of my blouse instead and twist my hair up into a pleat, securing it with a purple butterfly clip I find in Susan’s drawer. Lipstick and lashes follow. My reflection in the mirrored panels behind the displays isn’t all that reassuring but it will have to do. What do I care, anyway? It’s not as if I’m really that interested in Joshua. But while I’m waiting for Mr Right I might as well let Mr Probably-Isn’t buy me dinner occasionally.

Needing a distraction, I take out my list. Over the past week it has become something of an obsession. The act of writing down on paper that which I most want has a magical feel, as though I can conjure items into existence with the power of my desire alone. I desperately need to believe that one day I will own stuff again.

Sometimes lately I feel weightless. It’s as if I need possessions to give me substance. When I think about the few scant belongings I have left (capsule wardrobe, some teenage memorabilia, a seven-year-old Peugeot slightly the worse for wear), it makes me want to weep. I feel like a vagrant, homeless and possessionless in a world where everyone is judged by the amount of stuff they own.

Often it will be something small I’ll miss, something triggered by a memory and followed by an achingly empty feeling in my stomach. Like the statue of the Eiffel Tower I brought home from a school trip when I was eleven: six inches tall and made of plastic; worthless and irreplaceable. Or the note on the fridge that had been there for over a year: Lipsy’s careless scrawl, “Broke glass, sorry mum, love you.” Those rare words – real written evidence that once my daughter felt that way about me. Thank God the photos did survive. No matter what Paul says, I
would
have rescued those from the fire ahead of my kitchenalia if I’d had the choice. I’m sure I would.

Unable to concentrate on the mountain of filing in front of me, I sit and stare out of the window, one hand on the stack of papers, the other on my list. Outside people are heading back to their cars, jackets flung over shoulders, arms full of shopping. I picture them arriving back at their homes, shrugging off shoes and flopping onto sofas with cups of tea or bottles of beer, and I have to fight back a fierce stab of envy.

***

At seven o’clock on the dot Joshua pulls up outside Smart Homes in his super-sparkling Mazda. I leave the filing in a heap and lock the door behind me. It is a glorious evening, the kind Milton Keynes does really well. A low sun glints off the mirrored buildings and the long road down to the railway station is lined with trees and dotted with smiley people.

And what better way to enjoy it than from inside a sports car with the top down, speeding along dual carriageways, past lakes and parks. I’m glad I put my hair up (it would soon be a bird’s nest otherwise), but I clocked Joshua’s disappointment when he saw that I was wearing the same outfit as last week. Well, tough luck, Buster. I’m not a specimen for you to show off to your high-and-mighty friends.

This turns out to be an unfair assessment. His friends are warm and welcoming and completely unpretentious, a couple so obviously meant to be together it makes my heart hurt. Bob explains that he is doubling up as head chef for the night and leaves us with Charlotte, who carefully takes us through the menu. I watch her eyes as she talks, and wonder when was the last time I felt so enthusiastic about food.

While we wait for the wine to arrive I tell Joshua about the call from the fire investigator. He listens carefully and sympathetically, and then makes me wish I hadn’t told him at all.

‘Stella, darling, you mustn’t be so hard on yourself,’ he says. ‘Anyone could have made that mistake.’ This may sound reassuring, but all it does is confirm that it was my fault, my mistake.

‘Don’t you leave your washing machine switched on when you’re not using it?’ I ask him.

‘Of course not,’ he laughs.

Why is it funny?

He sees my face and adds quickly, ‘But that’s because I do all my washing on a Sunday when I happen to be at home all day.’

‘You clean your car then as well, don’t you? And on a Wednesday, if I’m not mistaken.’ I am trying for a dig but he takes it as a compliment.

‘You watch me a lot, huh?’ He smiles, showing me lots of perfect teeth.

I shake my head indignantly but his attention has already wavered. Actually, I did watch him a lot, which is why his comment annoys me. I always made fun of his little obsessions, to Bonnie and to Lipsy and to anyone else who was interested, but in a way I found them strangely reassuring. Like the way he always parks his car just so, never at an angle or haphazardly abandoned in the street (like me). And the way he closes his front door and then goes back three times to check it. I’ve seen him do this and it makes me smile – not always kindly, which seems a bit mean with hindsight.

But I didn’t watch him because I fancied him, as he seems to be implying now. I guess I just didn’t have a lot else to do – and yes, I know how sad that sounds.

I watch him again as he studies the wine list; we have ordered wine already but he clearly isn’t entirely satisfied with his choice. I notice the way his hair grows straight back from his forehead and how it shows off his hairline, which is receding slightly. I like that in a man; I think it gives the face more definition. I went out with a guy once who had the lowest hairline you’ve ever seen; only an inch above his eyebrows, I swear. That relationship didn’t last very long.

‘I think we’ll have a bottle of the Turning Leaf instead,’ Joshua tells me. ‘It will go better with the chicken.’

‘Wouldn’t it be a bit rude to change our order now?’

‘No, don’t be silly. Bob and Charlotte won’t mind.’

He’s probably right; they are possibly the most accommodating people I’ve ever met. But still, it seems a shame to abuse that. I keep my mouth shut; they are his friends not mine.

Joshua tells a passing waiter about his change of mind then turns his attention back to me. He studies my face for five, ten, twenty seconds without even blinking. (Am I as interesting as the wine list?) His almond-shaped eyes make tiny little movements under immaculate eyebrows. I start to feel self-conscious, raise my hand to my face and say, ‘What?’

He flashes me a smile and reaches across the table to take hold of my other hand. I look at it lying limply in his and notice that I’ve neglected my nails horribly recently. They are uneven and chipped, a nasty sight. Joshua’s perfectly manicured hand makes me want to curl my own up into a fist.

‘Stella.’ He squeezes to get my attention. I look up. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this but after what you told me I think I should speak out. Actually, I feel somewhat anxious. I don’t want you to get upset.’

I’m surprised. I can’t imagine what he thinks he could say to upset me. Plus, he neither looks nor sounds anxious. On the contrary, he is glowing, giving off a shiny heat like a panther I’d seen once at Whipsnade Zoo.

I smile at the image and have a feeling that Joshua would like being compared to a panther: sleek hair and muscular body, ready to pounce. Not that he’s shown any signs of pouncing. He does seem more attentive than on our last date, though. Almost affectionate. I try to imagine us locked together, naked, in a passionate twist.

It makes me wish I still had my gym membership.

Joshua, taking my silent smile as consent, carries on.

‘You probably don’t know this, but I had thought about asking you out on a date before. I’d noticed you didn’t have a boyfriend,’ (I wince at this) ‘and thought you were quite attractive. But the thing that stopped me, Stella, was, well, you do seem very disorganised.’

He practically spells the word out in syllables to emphasize it. I stare at him, open-mouthed. This is news to me.

‘But now that this has happened, now that such an awful thing has happened to you, you’re probably desperate to change. To get back some control in your life.’ He squeezes my hand again, which has become rigid in his. ‘And I would really like to help you, Stella. With a bit of planning and organisation most problems can be avoided. If you’re on top of things.

‘Now, I,’ he says, stretching his spine and flexing his well-developed neck, ‘I have a system for almost everything: shopping, ironing, cleaning, maintenance, washing.’

These last two are thrown pointedly in my direction and they hit their target well.

I have two conflicting reactions to Joshua’s damning assessment of my housekeeping abilities. Part of me is stung. Part of me, however, is strangely touched.

He wants to help me, to take me under his wing – his muscular, designer-clad wing – and nurse me back to being a fully functioning adult. An organised adult. Which is quite sweet in a way. I sit back and weigh him up. He’s listing more of his personal systems now. He really is terrifyingly organised. I watch his mouth move around the words without actually listening to them, noticing how pink and well-defined his lips are.

Suddenly I realise that I don’t find him remotely attractive. And the realisation makes me sad. It would be so easy if I did – so convenient, what with him living next door and all. But it doesn’t matter how hard I try to convince myself, he just isn’t my type. Still, there’s nothing wrong with letting him have a stab at sorting my life out for me – he may well succeed where others have failed. He asks me a question. I don’t really hear it. Something about a shopping budget I think. I nod sagely and smile in affirmation.