The Debt & the Doormat (3 page)

‘We...’ I swallow hard.  ‘We made you watch us dance...to the Spice Girls?’

I don't know why I’m asking.  I don't want to know the answer.

‘And sing,’ he nods. 

‘Oh.  My.  God.’

‘Oh chill out Pops,’ Jazz says, lighting up a fag.  ‘It's funny.  We always revert back to Spice Girls when we’re really pissed.’  She turns to Raj.  ‘We did a talent show in Uni as the Spice Girls for a laugh and for some insane reason when we get really trashed we want to relive it.’

‘I understand,’ he nods.  ‘Anyway, we all ended up getting pretty drunk.  I don't remember leaving or getting home, but all I know that is my wife told me she found me outside our flat in the rain with blood everywhere and she had to put me to bed.’

‘Blood?’ I recoil. 

Oh my God.  How the hell did he get blood on him?  Did we sacrifice someone last night?  I knew we’d watched The Craft one too many times.

‘Did you kill somebody?’ Jazz whispers, her eyes wide.  ‘Don't worry, if anyone asks we were with you all night.’

‘Of course he didn’t kill someone!’ I shout in irritation.  Jazz can be so ridiculous.  ‘You didn’t...Did you?’

‘Of course I didn’t!  That's what I was trying to figure out.  Look.’  He pulls back his bushy black hair to reveal a massive cut on his forehead and some grazes on his forearms. 

‘Oh my God Raj,’ Jazz says, considering touching it and then deciding not to. 

‘Do you know anything more than that?  Did your wife see anything?’

‘No.  She just found me covered in blood, apparently totally incoherent.  She cleaned me up and put me to bed.  I’m really freaking out.  I’ve never been so drunk that I completely black out.  Anything could have happened.’

‘Raj, I’m so sorry.’

‘It's ok,’ he smiles.  ‘But damn, you white girls can drink!’

‘Oh thanks.’  I roll my eyes, but then realise it's too difficult at the moment.  ‘That's the British binge drinking culture for you.’ 

‘Well, we Indian boys clearly aren’t used to it.  I’ve already had two call in sick.  Jazz, how on earth do you look ok?’

‘Thank you!  I’ve been saying the same thing to her.  She says it's just because I’m a hermit.’

‘Look, I’m sorry if you’re a bunch of wooses, but some of us know how to drink.’  She flicks her hair back smugly.

‘I thought you said you didn’t remember anything either?’ Raj challenges, winking at me.

‘Look, we got trashed.  It's no big deal,’ she shrugs, looking peeved.

‘No big deal!’ I practically scream.  ‘Jazz, we started a fire, kissed a fireman and nearly killed Raj.’

‘
You
kissed a fireman and he may have nearly killed
himself.
’ She looks accusingly at Raj.

‘Either way.  I wouldn’t say it was one of the best evenings.’

‘Look, thanks Raj for popping in, but Poppy was just leaving.’ Jazz gets to her feet and folds her arms crossly.

‘Yeah, Jazz is throwing me out,’ I grunt looking at her resentfully. 

‘I’m gonna be your new neighbour,’ Jazz smiles wildly at Raj.

‘Ah yes!  The life swap thing.  You told us about that last night.  Good luck,’ he says unconvincingly. 

*                            *                            *

Before I know it she’s pushed us both out of the door and I’m on the train to her house, in the same clothes as yesterday.  I would have taken the car but I don't think I’m sober enough yet.  I keep laughing at squirrels, which I think is evidence of this.  I sit down, careful to avoid everyone’s eye contact.  Everyone knows London is full of nutters and I do not intend on being murdered by one. 

I catch my reflection in the window and recoil in horror.  My hair is lank, my eyes blood shot and puffy, and my chin is red and angry looking.  Beautiful.  I pull some sunglasses out of my bag and put them on over my naked face.  A few teenage boys giggle at me but I quickly look away.  They’re either laughing at what a twat I am, fancying myself a celebrity, or planning my rape and murder.  Either way, I’m not taking the chance.  I slink lower in my seat, wishing I could hide away from everyone.  And get a giant McDonald’s Chicken sandwich.   

I wonder what the house will be like.  I’ve never actually been inside it before.  Jazz has always been too embarrassed to bring me in, saying I’m a total snob and would never recover.  She assures me it's worse than the studio in Balham she rented a couple of years ago and that had rats.  Although her Mum’s always given her a gigantic monthly budget, she’s always preferred to ‘keep it real’ and ‘live with the real people’ as she says.  That, and I think it allowed her to spend more money on shoes and getting trashed.  We tend to hang out at my flat, especially as she has three housemates.  I don’t even know their names.  I really should listen more.  

I get off the train and struggle along the platform, wondering if I could just go and move into my Mum’s house instead.  Would Jazz even notice?  Someone’s embarrassing ring tone stops my thoughts as my head starts to quake in misery.  I think it’s
Oops up Side Your Head
.  What kind of mental case has that as their ring tone?  Poor bastard.  Like I said, London is full of head cases. 

I wonder what her housemate’s names are – I think maybe Tilly?  I know it’s one guy and two girls.  He’s probably gay.  I’ve always wanted a gay best friend.’

God, I really can't concentrate with that ringtone making my head rattle.  And it seems to be following me.  It must be someone around me.  I survey the crowds carefully but they all seem a bit too grown up for such a ridiculous ring tone.  Maybe it's one of those people that wear dull grey during the week and swing at weekends. 

‘Excuse me,’ a man with red hair and piercing green eyes says to me.

‘Yes?’  I smile, suddenly aware that I haven’t even brushed my teeth today.

Surely he’s too good looking to be distracting me while his friend robs my bag?  Maybe I should watch a little less Hustle.  Maybe I’m one of those people you hear about that meets their husband randomly on a train platform.  I mean, I never thought I’d marry a ginger, but you can't choose these things can you.  Sometimes fate is just mapped out for you.

‘Err, I think your phone is ringing.’  He gestures at my bag.

The ringtone is still going and he’s looking at me strangely, amusement on his face. 

‘No, no.  It's not mine,’ I protest, digging my phone from my bag to prove it to him.  But it is mine.  The phone is lit up, flashing urgently ‘Home’.

‘Oh.’

‘Have a good day,’ he says, rushing off chuckling to himself.

‘Hello,’ I almost shout down the phone in frustration.

‘Darling!  What took you so long?’ my mother screeches in her usual high pitched tones.

‘I was just being whisked off my feet by a gorgeous man.’

‘Really?’ she says, excitement showing in her voice.

‘Of course not.  This is me, remember.’

‘Oh.  Well, that's what I’m ringing about.  Have you got a date for the wedding yet?’

‘Oh, I’m just on the final round of selection.  I just need to see the final five’s party tricks before I make a final decision.’  I can’t help but be sarcastic around my mother.

‘Is that a joke darling?’

‘Of course it's a joke.’  God, I worry about her sometimes. 

‘Oh.  Ha ha.  Anyway, you really must work on it darling.  The girls at pottery class are starting to talk about you.  They keep asking me when you’re going to get married.’

‘Yes, well unless you have a crystal ball, I don't know.’

‘Oh please stop being so sarcastic darling.  It's this sarcasm which makes me wonder if you’ll ever meet someone.’

‘Oh thanks for the confidence,’ I snort.

‘I’m your mother darling.  It's only right that I worry about you.’

‘Yeah.  Well I have to go mum.  Bye.’

I hang up before she can make me feel any worse about myself and stare at the phone.  My screensaver has been changed to the picture of Jazz holding up two shot glasses for her eyes.  I should have known she’d be behind this.

I have five weeks to get a date before the wedding.  Totally achievable. 
Totally.
 

‘Taxi!’

*                            *                            *

I get out of the taxi and stare up at the slim terrace house.  I’d never realised before how run down it looks compared to the other houses.  It’s the only one on the street that doesn’t have double glazing, and the red paint on the door and window frames is chipped.  All of the other houses have been painted pastel colours and have hanging baskets full of busy lizzies.  This one has cracked pebble dashing and over flowing rubbish bins.  It hardly looks welcoming, barely habitable to be honest, but I have to think of Jazz.  This is what’s best for her and if that means I have to live in a crumby house for a while then fine.  Maybe it’ll be an adventure.

I go to the door and put the key in nervously, unsure as to whether I should knock first.  But then everyone else might be asleep still and their first impression of me would be that I’m the bitch that woke them up.  Maybe they’re all in bed together and Jazz forgot to mention that they’re a sex colony.  No Poppy, you’re getting ahead of yourself.

I take a deep breath and walk in, the smell of damp hitting me hard in the face.  The swirly flower wallpaper in the hallway looks a hundred years old; making my head spin and the carpet is covered in brown and red stains.  Someone must have died in this house.  I look around, hoping it's not haunted.   

I walk straight ahead into what smells like the kitchen, not from fresh bread being cooked or sausages and bacon, but from coffee and cigarettes.  I dump my bag on top of the aged brown worktop and let out a big sigh.  This is my new home I suppose. 

‘Err, hello?’ a voice says from behind me, making me jump out of my skin.

I turn around, my heart racing, to find a man with brown messy hair sat at the kitchen table in a grey dressing gown.  His dirty bare feet are resting on the other chair.  God I hate other peoples feet.  Don't get me wrong, mine are nothing to write home about either.  In fact I could probably read a newspaper with my gangly toes.  But still.  I shudder at the sight of them in a kitchen.  Milk from his porridge drips sloppily down his chin into his heavy dark stubble. 

‘Hi!’ I say feeling instantly uncomfortable.

‘So...who are you then?’ he asks narrowing his eyes at me, as if he’s considering calling the police.

‘Oh...of course.  You must be wondering who I am, of course!’ I laugh awkwardly.  ‘I’m Poppy.  I...’

But then I remember that Jazz said I have to lie.  Have to make my life sound more exciting.  I look around the house for inspiration, but all I can see is a toaster and a kettle.  Then I spot a sombrero hanging up against the door.  Perfect.

‘I’m Poppy, Jazz’s cousin from Spain.  I’m staying here for a while and she’s gone to stay with a friend.’

‘Really?  You don’t look Spanish?’  He eyes me suspiciously, whilst still managing to wolf down his porridge. 

I try and stop my face retracting in disgust.  I still feel a bit woozy and the smell of milk isn’t helping to settle my stomach.

‘Well, obviously I’m not actually Spanish.  I’ve lived there for a few years and now I’m back.’  Yes that sounds viable, doesn’t it?

‘How long have you lived in Spain?  You don’t look very tanned,’ he questions, his face unfriendly and his voice deeply sceptical.  His eyes look over my pale face and body.  I should have put some fake tan on; really committed to it.

‘Did I say years?  I meant months!’ I say in unnaturally high tones.  ‘I was only over there to...’  I search desperately round the room and spot some handbags.  ‘To design handbags…for Jessica Simpson,’ I add, looking at the Simpsons advent calendar.  Hang on, advent?  Christmas was six months ago.

I stare at him a little discomfited.  He stares back, seeming to study me.  Maybe I went a bit too far with the Jessica Simpson thing.

‘Oh, well that's random.’ he finally says, seeming no friendlier.  He tips the bowl up to slurp the last remains of the milk.

Hold onto your stomach Poppy.  Do not vomit.   

‘Morning!’ a girl sings, skipping into the room. 

She’s shorter than me, probably only about 5 foot 2, but her limbs are long and tanned.  Her brown wavy hair has honey highlights through it.  It hangs down to her bum, swishing as she moves.  She’s wearing pink tracksuit bottoms with a white vest top that shows off her tan.  Now,
she
looks like she could have lived in Spain and designed handbags for Jessica Simpson. 

‘Oh, I didn’t know we had company,’ she says, seeming taken aback.  She looks back accusingly at the guy.  ‘I can’t keep up with all of Ryan’s lady friends.’  She smiles and winks.

‘Oh – I’m not....I mean, I’m not here for...’

‘She’s not here visiting me.’ he grunts.  ‘But if she were you’d have been totally rude.  Thanks for that.’ he says, with another flash of irritation.  He turns to face me, still not smiling.  ‘This is Poppy.  She’s Jazz’s cousin from Spain.  She was there designing handbags for Jessica Simpson.’ he explains.