Growing Up Twice (6 page)

I look around the room and see memories of Owen in every corner, smirking at me. Leaving this flat is exactly the kind of life-changing decison I don’t like to make in a hurry. This place has been my refuge for so many years. On the other hand, Rosie has suddenly altered her life beyond recognition, always and for ever in the space of a few minutes and well, maybe moving flat wouldn’t be so bad, in fact maybe it would be another way to distance myself from Owen, to show solidarity with Rosie’s determination to get over Chris, even while she’s carrying his baby. Owen always said I was never impulsive enough. I hesitate a moment more, that sense of vertigo creeping over me once again, and then I decide. I’ll show him.

‘OK, yes. Come on, let’s bloody move!’ I catch on to Rosie’s excitement. ‘But I’m not moving south, you can’t make me move south, OK?’

‘Ha!’ Rosie jumps to her feet. ‘I’ve got it. We’ll move back north, we’ll go home to Stoke Newington and live near Selin! They’ve got cafés there now, an organic supermarket and everything.’

Stoke Newington. No tube, but the number 73 would take me straight to Tottenham Court Road, which is only two minutes’ walk from the office. And we’d be going home really, so it would be much less of a change than it might have been. Rosie is a genius.

‘Of course!’ I agree. ‘Then the three of us will be close and Mrs Selin loves babies, I bet she’d babysit any time you liked.’ I’m talking about Selin’s mum. We have always referred to parents as Mrs Rosie, Mrs Jen, Mr and Mrs Selin. ‘I’ll go and get a copy of
Loot
right now.’ And I already have my coat on when a sudden sinking feeling stops me in the doorway; I turn and look back at Rosie. I can tell she has just had the same thought I have.

‘How
are
we going to tell Selin? She’ll kill us,’ I say, forgetting for a moment that none of this is my fault. ‘And what about your mum?’

‘I’m not worried about telling
her
…’ Rosie says. We look at each other a moment longer and I shut the front door behind me. In times of difficulty, denial is always the safest place.

In the newsagent I buy a token copy of
Loot
– though I know in my heart that it is probably already useless by 11.45 on a Monday morning – and a large bar of Cadbury’s. Before I go back into the building I take out my phone and check the received-calls register. I check the last number to call my phone and compare it to the number he left. They aren’t the same. I dial to pick up my messages and find that it was the bookshop calling to tell me my ordered items are now available.

I stand in the doorway for a moment longer and look at the dark sky. It’s funny to think that only a couple of days ago it was bright blue and warm enough for a vest top. I remember the touch of the sun on my face as he tipped my chin back to kiss me. A small knot forms in my stomach. I close my eyes just for a second and think of his kiss. My lips tingle.

This is insane. I’m twenty-nine, he’s far too young for me, one of my best friends is pregnant and anyway he hasn’t even called yet. I think about switching my phone off. In the end I just put it back in the pocket of my coat and go inside.

‘Rosie, get some biros and get ready,’ I call as I walk through the door.

‘OK. There was phone call for you, while you were out.’

‘Michael?’ I ask before I can stop myself, even though I know he doesn’t have the land-line number.

‘No.’ She sighs and crosses her arms. ‘Owen.’

Rosie has gone into the kitchen to put the kettle on again. Rain has just started to hit the windows and I reach under the three-legged dining table that leans against the wall, bring out the buckets and situate them around the room. Usually the ceilings don’t leak unless the rain gets really heavy, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Owen used to laugh at my
faux
-destitute lifestyle. He used to say it was bohemian and I used to think, ‘Yeah, right. I’m a very bohemian Customer Service Administration Manager (UK) for a hardware-component manufacturer.’ And then, when he was back into writing his literally fictional novel, with so far not one word actually committed to paper, as far as I knew, I’d be Miss Mundane Bureaucracy. I’d be Miss Lower Middle Class Mediocrity. And I’d know that I was shortly to be dumped again for a poet called Alicia or an editorial assistant called Hermione.

Of course, I’d never meant to find my way into customer services. I’d meant, upon leaving university, to be Kate Adie, an intrepid and courageous journalist, but with more make-up and hopefully less chance of getting hit by bullets. If I ever stop to wonder why it has never happened I comfort myself with the thought that only about two or three people get to be like Kate, and only a few hundred, maybe fewer get to work on the really interesting papers or news programmes. Knowing my luck I’d probably have ended up reporting on a mischievous parrot called Reggie who turned out to be the mysterious cause of the neighbourhood knickers disappearing, and so my life wouldn’t have had
that
much more meaning than it does now.

And then, of course, coupled with the enormous odds against me ever making it, is my relationship with personal commitment. My mum had always encouraged me, all through my childhood and early adult years. ‘You can do it, but it’s very competitive; it’s competitive and it requires commitment and even after all that hard work, you might not make it. But if you believe you can, you
just
might,’ she’d say when I told her I wanted to be an actor, ballet dancer, singer, fighter pilot, writer, and then finally journalist after one night when Kate’s new report left me emotionally aghast for the first time ever about the state of the world. I went to bed that night fired up with determination, but woke up the next day thinking, ‘Mmm, hard work, commitment, might very well fail …’ I managed to carry the flickering ambition as far as two weeks post graduation, but when faced with the nitty-gritty of making it really happen I’d got a temping job as receptionist on a science park instead.

‘Are you going to call him?’ Rosie says, bringing more tea in from the kitchen. She is probably the only person in the world who would understand if I did.

‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s weird. This time last year, or this time six months ago, I would have done like a shot. But I’m not calling him. No. I just don’t want to.’

‘You know he’ll call you again. And again. You know what it’s going to be like. It’ll be flowers and tears and letters and poems and books again, just like it always is when he wants you back.’ This is unusual for Rosie. Over the years when I’ve asked her what to do about Owen she has always said, ‘If you want to go through it again you have to go through it again. I can’t stop you.’ So I always used to ask her and not Selin, because Selin used to say what I didn’t want to hear.

‘Yeah. I know,’ I say. ‘But we’re moving soon, so sod him.’

Rosie sits down and shuffles in her seat. ‘You’re going to kill me,’ she says, chewing her bottom lip.

‘What, even more?’ I ask her, thinking she is changing the subject.

‘There’s … there is something that we haven’t told you. Selin and I.’

‘What? A Mars Bar kind of thing?’ I say in a small voice. I’ve got that quiet feeling of dread in my chest.

‘Well, yes, strictly speaking, but I haven’t had a chance to get another one in. I’ll put it on the slate.’ She smiles nervously. ‘It’s about Owen. Selin heard something about him through Josh.’ Josh, Coşgun, Selin’s older artist brother, whose name sounds like Joshgun and whom we all call Josh.

‘What about him?’ I am beginning to feel panicky and cross.

‘The last time he split with you, it was for this girl Josh has met a couple of times through his collective, a sculptor or something. Well, after a while she wised up to him and didn’t want to see him any more. I guess that was a bit of a shock for Owen, he didn’t like it. I mean, he usually does all the hiring and firing, doesn’t he.’

Instinctively I walk away and turn my back on her to try and collect my thoughts. A small part of me still hurts when I hear about the other women. A small part of me feels afraid of what Rosie might say next.

‘Why are you telling me this now?’ I ask her. I feel hurt. I feel hurt, frightened and fucking angry.

‘He refused to leave her alone, mate. He started following her around. Calling her all hours. Sending her nasty e-mails. Josh says he heard that he broke into her house and trashed it. She wasn’t in, luckily. She got an injunction against him and he’s on bail for breaking and entering.’ She looks at her feet. ‘We didn’t tell you because it was over between you two. We didn’t want you to worry about him any more. We didn’t think you needed to know.’

‘Well, why are you telling me now? I
don’t
want to know.’ Strangely I am not surprised by this information, but the uneasy sense of dread has spread to my stomach. Owen was always going to do something like that to someone one day. I’d always known it really.

‘Because he’s called you, called again. Maybe he wants you again. It sounds mean but I hoped he would stay fixated with this girl. Jen, he’s a nasty piece of work. He treated you like shit for years and he thinks he owns you. I’m just afraid of how he might react when he realises he doesn’t.’

I turn and march up to Rosie, furious. I stop inches from her face. ‘He’s an arsehole, but he’s not a stalker, for fuck’s sake,’ I shout, well aware how much the evidence suggests otherwise. I rationalise: ‘He was probably drunk. He was always doing fucking stupid things when he was drunk. Like that time he punched out the ticket bloke at Tottenham Court Road tube station because he didn’t have the right ticket!’ My words ring hollow, bouncing off the bare walls.

‘I’m not saying he is a stalker,’ Rosie lies for my sake. ‘I just thought you’d like to know that stuff before you call him back, if you decided that you wanted to call him back, I mean.’

‘I’m not fucking calling him back!’ I shout and I’ve slammed the door shut on my bedroom before I realise I’ve left the room.

Lying on my bed I can feel the heat in my face and the sting of tears in my eyes. I blink hard. I am determined not to cry.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask myself. I try to work out why I’m feeling so sick and angry. It isn’t because Selin and Rosie have kept something from me; any two of the three of us would have made the same choice. And it isn’t because of this other girl, not really. I knew when he left me the Post-it note that there would be someone else along the way.

It’s because I know – and I think I always have known – that there is something else to Owen, something a bit darker and more threatening than his self-obsessed narcissism. Because somewhere just behind his sweet romantic moments, the passion-filled afternoons and repetitive tearful reunions, I’ve always been a little bit afraid of what he might do next. Up until now I’ve always complied with what he wanted. Always gone back to him when he wanted me and always left him when he didn’t; in a sense he has owned me. Now things are different. I don’t need to go back any more. I don’t even want to speak to him. I don’t want to hear the sound of his voice, let alone see his face. Whatever he did to this girl is no surprise. Something like this was always coming, I am just glad I got out soon enough before it came my way.

There is a quiet knock on my door.

‘I’m sorry.’ Rosie comes in and sits on my bed. ‘We should have told you. Josh was getting ready to tell you himself, but we stopped him. He was a bit pissed off with us, I can tell you.’ Sweet Josh has always been big brother to all three of us and looked out for us since we were kids. My head hurts and my stomach is in knots but I know I shouldn’t take it out on Rosie.

‘No. It’s not you. It’s him. I’m just fucked off that he’s still fucking me off nearly a year after we’ve finished, and just when I thought I’d got him out of my head.’

Rosie pulls the hair back from my face and tucks it behind my ear. ‘Yeah, I know. But we’re going to move and then he won’t know where you are or anything about you any more.’ She flops down on the bed next to me, clutching
Loot
. ‘Look, I’ve phoned this place here, not far from Selin’s. It costs quite a bit more than here but at least it’s got a roof and central heating and they’re viewing this afternoon. Apparently there will be two couples and two other girls there at the same time. Do you want to go?’

I take the pink paper from her hand and look at the ad as if it will give me a clear picture of the flat she has in mind. Two double b/room, fitted kitchen, f/freezer, balcony, gas c/h, close to b/stop and shops. ‘Yeah. Let’s get there early, and take your cheque-book.’

She smiles and nods, leaves again and closes my door behind her.

I should be out there talking about her baby, not in here moping about a long-gone ex. A train rumbles past. It’s all finally gone, I think. Every moment that I spent with Owen in this room. Every book he gave me, with a message scrawled in the front. Every shell he picked up for me and every poster he bought me. None of it means anything any more. Not even the seven years I have spent in this flat. I just want to be as far away from every association I have with him as possible. I want to go. I want to go now. Before he calls again.

I got up this morning with Rosie just after six and held her forehead until the queasiness subsided. Between bouts she told me this had been going on for days before she’d plucked up the courage to tell me. Looking back, I can see that it all fits in with the way she’s been acting recently, early-morning bathroom bouts and all. Feeling guilty that I hadn’t picked up on the clues earlier, I didn’t leave for work until the doctor’s surgery opened and I could call and make her an appointment. I had to say it was an emergency, even though Rosie doesn’t seem to think there is one, as the only other appointment they had on offer meant she would have been taking the baby to primary school by the time her pregnancy was confirmed.

Unsurprisingly, we had had no luck with the flat we went to see. The two bedrooms turned out to be one bedroom and a large cupboard, the central heating a dodgy gas fire and the balcony a decidedly unstable-looking railing that was apparently designed to prevent you from falling out of an entirely arbitrary third-floor french window. Anyway, both of us had forgotten that the advent of a child would require a third bedroom, one day at least, so the next thing I did after booking Rosie in at the doctor’s was to pick up another copy of
Loot
on the way to work.