Veronica
My stomach flips as I number punch the code into the entrance lock of the apartment block. My heels click-clack on the ceramic tiles, Italian hand crafted, may I add. I take the flight of stairs to the third floor apartment as swiftly as I can, my hand tracing along the deep wooden banister.
It’s hard to believe that I once lived here. Back then, I was so eager. I arranged a late night viewing the same day that it came onto the market.
‘Joel, the decoration is to die for and the bathroom – I can’t begin to explain how amazing the design is.’
Joel hadn’t time to change from his uniform but arrived straight from work – he’d looked strange wandering from room to room as if seeking clues to a crime that hadn’t yet been committed. Looking back, the true crime was the price we had paid for this pokey two-bed property – financially and emotionally.
The apartment door key is clutched between my forefinger and thumb as I stand before the front door of apartment seven.
Wasn’t number seven supposed to be lucky?
‘Morning,’ comes a spritely voice from behind me.
I freeze, slowly turn around and view a young man dressed to impress leaving number six, the apartment opposite.
Breitling wrist watch and polished shoes. Obviously, a new resident at Acorn Ridge.
‘Morning,’ I reply as casually as my frantic heart rate will allow, hoping he’s too busy or too late to chat. He smiles, strides to the top of the stairs and then darts down them two at a time, briefcase in hand, his blonde hair disappearing in no time.
I enter the apartment quickly and close the door firmly behind me.
That was a close call.
If the folks from number five had appeared they’d have definitely queried my actions – though given my rapid departure, I’ve questioned myself numerous times in recent months. Why shouldn’t I visit? I still own this place.
The faint smell of Issey Miyake aftershave lingers in the cream-carpeted hallway.
I inhale deeply, as I kick my shoes off; old habits die hard.
Was it really four months since those hairy-arsed removal men had bumped my belongings down the stairs? I’d felt awful that I’d left whilst he was on shift, but what was I supposed to do? Wait another two weeks for their next available slot? I explained that quite clearly in the ‘Dear Joel’ letter I left on the mantelpiece.
I enter the spacious lounge, with its deep wooden skirting boards and neutral tone decor. No Christmas decorations, not even a card from his parents. Obviously not celebrating here.
‘It looks bare in here,’ I mutter, viewing the expanse of cream carpet that was once filled with expensive furniture. It was tidy, much tidier than when I’d lived here. In fact, it looks like a show home ready for inspection.
‘He’s bought a bookcase!’ I exclaim, zipping over to the new piece which dominates the far wall.
I finger the book spines neatly lined in size order – typical Joel-style.
Are these brand new or unpacked from his boxes of belongings stashed in the spare room? He always said he liked literature. And poetry. He did show a flare for art whenever we visited museums.
I suppose he has time to kill now.
I instantly feel sorry for him.
Beneath the window sit his two acoustic guitars, both on black metal stands, their plectrums tucked beneath the strings.
These dust collectors weren’t part of our lounge décor, instead he’d take himself off to the spare room for a guitar practise session.
Typical Joel, singular in nature and hobby.
I stare at the wide-screen TV. I bet he’s watching every football match that’s on now I’ve gone. Lounging on the sofa, remote control in hand and shouting orders at the referee.
Stupid bleeding game, grown men kicking a bag of air around – where’s the talent in that?
I can feel my irritation growing.
He’s reverted straight back to his old ways: the single bloke with his music, his books and his Monday night football. Didn’t he learn anything from me?
We did interesting things: dinner parties with other couples, weekend city breaks and learned culture. Although all he ever complained about was shopping for fabric swatches with pinking-shear edges and solid oak furnishings. The quality of which would last a lifetime, unlike our relationship.
I head for the kitchen, my choice of course, an array of chrome and dark marble surfaces – again it is spotless not a cup ring or stray teaspoon in sight.
‘Why couldn’t he be this tidy when I lived here?’
He had driven me mental by leaving his belongings scattered on every surface: keys on the kitchen side, shoes in the lounge, wet towels slung over the toilet lid. Younger men had their uses, especially in the bedroom, but on more than one occasion I suspected I was becoming a substitute mother: to cook, clean and bottle wash – but this, this is spotless. Just how I like it.
I nosey in the Smeg fridge, the light illuminates a world of high cholesterol, fatty foods and a stash of beer cans.
‘Living on crap, I see.’
I nip out of the second kitchen door which leads back onto the hallway and towards the master bedroom, the aroma of his aftershave becomes stronger as I enter. I inhale deeply sending a tingle along my spine.
So, you’re definitely still wearing the Issey Miyake which I chose.
The bedroom is as I decorated; a combo of grey steel and feminine pink. The room is almost perfect, except for a dip to the duvet where I know he sat to pull on his socks before heading from the room.
How many times had I lay on the far side of this bed watching the muscles in his bare back ripple as he pulled on his trousers before standing to select a shirt? Not enough…
Was I too hasty in leaving? Was he on the verge of becoming the man I wanted and needed him to be? Or is he still the younger version of my ideal? I could say the opposite about Gordon Matthews. Is he really the older version of the mature man I desire or just a grumpy git that likes a younger woman on his arm?
What a mess! I’m neither here nor there.
I slump into the grey wicker chair beside the window and stare at the room. Memories of passionate nights flood my mind. The tenderness with which he held me tight, the frantic passion that enveloped us both, the dirty laughter and the silent intense moments replay in full technicolour as I stare around the room. We’d been good together, I hadn’t been happier than when we were in that bed. And yet, I wasn’t happy about that much: he wasn’t financially secure, his shift patterns meant I had to go to invites alone, or defend his career choice amongst polite company. Who wants to constantly defend your other half’s career choice? Not me.
I launch from the chair unwilling to revisit more memories and inspect the en-suite bathroom which I’d taken sole possession of. Joel had always used the main bathroom along the hallway. My mouth drops open at the tiny room filled with his toiletries. I expected empty shelves.
‘Definitely moved on then, Joel?’ I mutter, sitting down on top of the closed toilet seat.
I feel like crying.
I thought he’d still be hankering after me, unable to change his routines in case I came back and yet, all I can gather is that he’s slipped comfortably into the role of a single man.
I wonder if he’s back on the scene yet, looking for a suitable younger woman? It wouldn’t surprise me if Scott wasn’t dragging him out every weekend to various drinking haunts, strip joints and single-men stomping grounds.
The idea rattles me.
He wasn’t supposed to get over me that quickly.
My mobile rings making my heart jump; Joel’s name illuminates the tiny screen.
I answer the call whilst perched on his closed toilet seat.
‘Veronica,’ comes Joel’s tinny voice.
‘Yes.’ I can hardly hear for the sound of my own heartbeat.
‘Signatures Veronica, I’m chasing yours regarding the flat.’
If only he knew.
‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘My sister’s, why?’
And breathe. And calm. And answer.
‘I’m not trying to be difficult, Joel… but you need to understand that I invested in the property too.’
‘Surely you’d like your half of the investment back then?’
Would I hesitate?
Do I want my half back? Or am I stalling with the intention of getting him back?
‘Joel… can we talk some other time?’
‘It’s been four months. I’d like this completed as soon as possible.’
‘Couldn’t we see how the market fares for the next few months. I’m certain there’s going to be an upturn in property prices – it’s a highly desirable location.’
‘There’s no point. You wanted to be bought out – that’s what we agreed, now please, just sign!’
‘Are you free tonight? We could talk properly.’
‘How much more talking can we do?’
‘Please, I can meet you at The Ivy House, any night at eight,’ I say, knowing I’m pushing my luck.
His voice is gone in an instant.
I depress the red button and cradle the phone to my chest.
His annoyance is all I receive now, that and his bloody solicitor’s letters.
The call may have ended but I can feel his warmth radiating from his sister’s house a few miles away. If he caught me here, would he blow a fuse? Would he ask me to leave? Or drag me back to the bedroom?
I stand and nosey in the bathroom cabinet, sliding the mirrored doors aside, careful not to leave finger marks, as I reveal its contents. I give a satisfied nod: no cotton wool, tampons or pink razors.
So, why’s he so eager to sign and complete the deal?
I return to the bedroom and resume my search. There has to be something that suggests his plans?
Opening Joel’s wardrobe doors wide, I finger the right arms of his shirts neatly hung in a row like a monochrome rainbow. Joel never buys coloured shirts, just white or very dark navy or black. Whereas Gordon’s tweeds are fusty with age, he calls it tradition – threadbare is my preferred term.
‘That’s new,’ I mutter, pulling a navy jacket from the rail to inspect as if purchasing. ‘And that… and that!’ Other items jump from the rail for my inspection.
‘Flashing your cash about, Joel?’ I mock, whilst putting together his outfit in my mind. He’s definitely smartening up his image.
I slam the wardrobe door shut.
That’s when I spy it on his bedside cabinet. Between the lampstand and his cufflinks, a beer mat – curled at the edges like a Christmas cracker fortune-telling fish. On snatching it up I read aloud the string of eleven numbers. There’s no name.
A possible date?
A list of females comes to mind. I bet its Kylie’s number – I always said she had a soft spot for him.
‘Kylie? She’s only got eyes for Scotty,’ he’d always say, if I challenged him. ‘Though poor Kylie… he couldn’t care less.’
‘Sir doth protest too much, methinks,’ I used to retort, certain I was right to be wary of the younger woman. She’s probably happy she’d bade her time – New Year, new romp!
How many arguments had we had about her? You see it in the films all the time, patrol buddies cruising the quiet areas… what had they talked about for entire shifts? I was always happier when he was partnered with Scott. Less temptation than that strawberry blonde leggy piece.
I cringe.
Though why anyone would choose to wear their hair scraped back like that is beyond me – get a stylist, have it cut and make a statement.
I stare at the mobile number. Joel’s handwriting smiles back at me, his digits have a cute slant due to his cack handedness.
I miss him.
I stare round the bedroom, inhale his aftershave and sigh.
Do I replace the beer mat with the number or remove it?