It starts out on the street, just as I knew it would. A drama of sorts; she can't seem to hear me, her thumb down hard on the buzzer.
"Isobel!" I shout into the panel. "Just push on the door!"
The drone of electronic static again fills the flat, one long buzz, followed by a few insistent short ones. Frustrated now, I press the button again, just in case. The control panel lights up and dims again, and the front door shows as released.
"Lou-Lou, it's me!" I hear her cry hopefully.
"Isobel!" I squawk. "It's open! Just come up the stairs to second floor!"
"Lou-Lou!" She replies, this time louder, in the sort of sing-song voice you use to summon your dog home for supper. "It's Isobel…the door is sort of locked…"
Growling with impatience, I snatch my keys from my bag and stuff them into the pocket of my sweatshirt. The last thing I need is to find myself locked out, and Isobel is the sort of person who can easily distract you into doing something stupid, she has this way of creating chaos out of order that even makes you even doubt yourself. Running down to let her in, each step of the staircase sees me drill myself: I've promised to help and that's what I intend to do, I just need to get this over and done with and then my conscience will be sort of clear. I get to the door, wrench it open and, before me, she stands in profile, peering at the keypad, and waving at the intercom as if it's a camera.
"Isobel!" I say cheerfully, fixing a glassy-eyed smile to my face. "Come in…"
Her face lights up and she leaps toward me, throwing her arms outward as she moves in for a hug.
"Oh my god, Lou Lou, is that really you?"
"Yes, it's definitely me" I assure her, laughing uncomfortably as she squeezes me into a hug, and jumps up and down on the spot.
"You look so grown up!" She exclaims, pulling back after a moment and gaping at me, open-mouthed. "Your hair! It's so long!"
"Well…not really," I reply, putting my hand self-consciously to my head, as if to reassure myself that it barely touches my shoulder blades.
I wonder if I should tell her that she looks exactly as I remember her, as she stands and gazes back at me enthusiastically. Her surprised expression is so familiar, as are her eyebrows plucked to within an inch of their life, and those Medusa-like locks, held tenuously in place by a headband fashioned from a haphazard braid of her hair. A sharp, icy draught assails us and, as she pulls her coat around her tightly, I encourage her inside. We walk up the two flights of stairs and her exclamations echo inside this silent space, bouncing off the foyer's checkerboard tiles and repeating around the mahogany panelled walls, a brittle, grating sound akin to the desperate scraping of a knife in the bottom of an empty marmite jar.
Her observations come as platitudes; of course, she can't believe that little Lou-Lou lives in such a lovely flat, my goodness, this doctor must be a quite a catch and, honestly, she can't wait to meet him, what's he like? I pull out my keys, and unlock the door to the flat, ushering her inside with a wave of my arm. And all the time that I'm smiling and nodding, I'm cringing at the thought of what Martin might say, should he ever have to meet her. She points out, dramatically, that the temperature is so much more comfortable in here, immediately shedding her mac and standing with her mouth open as she glances about the room, wide-eyed in apparent disbelief. To be fair, I sort of understand how she feels because I was a little overwhelmed myself the first time I came in here too. There's something about the high, ornate ceilings and the sparely furnished rooms that give the flat the feel of a gallery, or even a monastery I suppose; so silent and serious and elegant and calm.
For a moment she says nothing but when she regains her voice, it's to demand a guided tour. Woodenly, I wave my arm around the living room and wander off down the hall without waiting for her to follow. Funny though, how she notices all the same things I did on my first visit, and yet, somehow, I find her observations intensely irritating. Although it really hasn't felt like it for a while, perhaps I am very lucky to live in a flat like this, maybe I am so lucky that someone else pays for the heating, in many ways I know she's totally right. But a washing machine, and view of the park, haven't felt much of consolation on the long and lonely weekends, and the endless recent empty nights not that I want to dwell on that right now.
"Look at the size of that bed!" She exclaims as she stops in the doorway to our room, and I feel myself cringe, as I prickle with the heat of a blush.
"Martin's very tall." I mutter as I keep on walking, not listening, not glancing back til I get to the safety of the spare room.
And then I wait. My hands go to my hips and I clear my throat but she seems oblivious, lost in thought as she twirls down the hall in her chintzy frock and madly impractical ballet slippers. The air around her smells of joss sticks and coconut oil, and thin metal bangles jangle on her arms, some of which must be copper if the green tinge to the skin of her wrists can be believed. Eventually, I coax her into joining me at the computer but of course she can't concentrate, her head is too filled with dreamy opinions and disarmingly personal questions.
"What's he like then, this Martin. Do you think he could be the one?" She asks.
"Oh, I don't know…you know…possibly…hopefully…"
"You don't sound very sure…"
"Well, no…yeah…I mean, it's just that I don't think it's anyone's business except mine and Martin's actually….Isobel…now, can I have that copy your C.V please?"
She fumbles in the pocket of her cardigan. I notice how threadbare it is at the elbows and suddenly I feel guilty again; for being impatient and judgemental and, I suppose, for not being desperately poor any more, either. It just reminds me that she needs my help and, even if I'm not that efficient at using the word processor, I am improving and I am determined to at least do this for her. I point out that she needs to amend her contact details as she doesn't live in Bristol any more, and though she nods at me, I still have to prompt her for her new address. It's as if I'm explaining fractions to a five year old, I tell her painstakingly that we need to have her most recent jobs listed first but, still, getting the details out of her is still like pulling teeth. I glance at her green wrists again; is this how it feels to be Martin? Always noticing, always diagnosing; I give the tiniest of shivers and an almost imperceptible shake of my head.
My typing becomes less enthusiastic, but I manage to itemise her dreary employment history more positively than the previous, rather basic and depressing document. But, I'm probably being unfair again, aren't I? I mean, I had more years at college than she did, and I took classes where we covered this sort of thing, honing applications and creating an eye-catching personal C.V. Thinking about it, I doubt if Isobel ever had anyone sit down with her like this before, no one in her family would have set much store by this sort of thing, perhaps they wouldn't even understand the necessity. As I recall, there wasn't a book in their house and I'll never forget asking to borrow a biro once when I was there, only to be met by a sea of blank faces.
"So, what did you do after Hightrees?" I ask, more kindly now, feeling a little ashamed of myself again. "There are quite a few gaps to fill in…"
"Umm, well…actually…I've been thinking…I mean, Martin works in a hospital, doesn't he? So, I was wondering if we could just skip all this boring paperwork and he could just help me get me a job in the laundry there? What do you think? He could easily sort that, couldn't he?"
I turn slowly in my seat and stare at her, aghast.
"What?" I ask, and a mirthless, slightly hysterical laugh escapes my throat. "Oh, no…sorry but there is no way…no… I would never ask Martin to do something like that!"
She looks back at me, surprised, and shrugs. "Oh. I just thought…"
"Sorry but no…absolutely not…" I tell her firmly, and I realise I'm scowling now, as every muscle in my body now feels tense with indignation. "Now, can we just get a move in with this thing, please? I mean, I don't have all day."
My fingers on the keyboard now seem shaky but, regardless, I force myself to persevere. Six jobs in three years is not only an unencouraging statistic but also quite time-consuming to add to what is now becoming a fairly lengthy resume. She has references, too, on tatty bits of paper stuffed into an envelope, but she confuses herself with which referee aligns to which job, and I feel myself growing more impatient and more irritated with each minute that passes. My lack of sleep last night is probably catching up on me, I feel aggravated and worn out from trying not to think about everything. Rubbing my temples, I have yet another word with myself, clamping my jaw tightly shut as she regales me with a convoluted account of her most recent unfair and out-of-the-blue redundancy. And all the time, I feel it growing, a dull sort of resentment in the pit of my stomach, and the truth is, I'm feeling pretty disappointed in her and more than just a little bit used.
"I think I'll go home for Christmas…" she blurts out suddenly. "I could really do with a break"
I take a deep breath and grit my teeth again, staring at the screen as I give another twitchy and disbelieving shake of my head.
"Well, yeah…but isn't the whole object of this exercise to find you a job? I mean, if you get one now, I doubt you'll have any time off over Christmas, not enough to get to Cornwall and back anyway. Hospitals don't close for the festive season as I'm sure you well know…I know Martin is doubtful of more than a day off here and there…"
She looks pensive for a moment.
"I suppose, if he has to work, then you won't be going home either then. Oooh, your dad will be disappointed…first Christmas as a free man and he'll be on his own…"
I pull a face at her. "What do you mean? My dad's not in Portwenn…"
She laughs,and wobbles her head at me, like one of those nodding dogs you see in the back window of people's cars. "Umm, I think he is actually…my mum saw him in the Crab on Sunday night…full of beans she said he was…buying rounds…"
As I stare at her, the shock hits me like a plunge headfirst into icy water and I grasp the edge of the desk as the room begins to spin. I heard what she said, as clear as day, but it's as if my brain can't make any sense of it at all. My dad. Back in Portwenn, a place he always said he detested, a village where he said he'd never, ever felt at home.
"In the Crab?" I repeat dazedly. "Are you sure?"
"Well, yeah, I'm pretty sure she wasn't having a laugh. I mean they were neighbours for quite a few years Lou Lou…I think she'd pick him out of a line-up, if it came to that…"
I wince inside, glancing up at her sharply as it dawns on her what she has actually said.
"Oh, Lou, sorry…I didn't mean…"
I shrug, and shake my head, not caring that she writhes in discomfort, just pretending that it doesn't really matter to me at all, a deception that seems to come pretty naturally to me now, whenever my parents are mentioned. Biting my lip so hard I taste blood, the truth is, there's not a thoughtless remark in the world that could hurt more than knowing my dad has moved back to my village without even thinking I should know. And here I was thinking that nothing could feel worse than knowing he had been released from prison without bothering to contact me but, as usual, it seems Terry Glasson has really outdone himself this time. All the years I was virtually alone, all the shame I've felt, all the fear, yet once again, I'm reminded that I will never matter enough to either of my absent parents. I feel my eyes prick with tears, my mouth is soapy, and my shoulders slump, but I can't cry, especially not in front of Isobel because, right now, I might cry so hard, I'd never stop.
Nervously, she starts to babble on about her mother's new job, manning a stall selling healing crystals to gullible tourists, and I stop listening. I check the document formatting grimly, the screen swimming in front of my eyes, before I push a floppy disc into the slot, and save the document carefully, just as Martin showed me how to do. As the machine grinds and wheezes and whines, I glance across at Isobel, observing how she seems distracted, tugging thoughtlessly at a loose thread on her hem until she is unwittingly in danger of unwinding the entire cardigan. Randomly, I wonder if she has any proper interview clothes or if she is wearing her best outfit today. Either way, she seems woefully ill-equipped for winter, with her thin little shoes, fraying garments, and lightweight nylon mac. I've tried my entire life to remain cheerful and optimistic but, right now, everything about her feels so negative that I feel like I might suffocate. I glance at the time and notice that it's already after one.
"I think I might just open that bottle of wine." I announce, as I leap to my feet. "Wanna join me?"
She nods enthusiastically and for once I'm grateful for her short attention span because it's not hard to change the subject. And, honestly, I don't really care what we talk about, I just don't want to think about my dad right now, or the boyfriend I never see except to quarrel with, or miserable things like poverty and shame and once again feeling abandoned. You know, just for a few sodding bloody hours, I want to be a normal girl, from a traditional family, having a laugh and a bit of a reminisce with an old friend over a glass of Chardonnay. So I ask her if she's seen Caroline and she sighs and shakes her head. Her eyes are wide and unblinking as she tells me; apparently the radio station her parents set up for her is still struggling, and Caroline is now Deejaying on the side to pay some of the bills. The idea sounds ludicrous and I laugh out loud but, as I listen, it feels as if I have been away longer than just a few years, it feels more like a lifetime in many more ways than one.
It strikes me, too, that a new era has actually arrived, the kids I knew from parties, and college, and underage discos in the damp church hall, are now adults, the younger generation are having families and starting up businesses in the village. She asks me if I remember that quiet boy John because he's just bought the lease of the Crab from his dad, and did I recall those skinny young blokes with the wild mops of hair, Chippy and Eddie, because they have their own crab boats now it seems. I grimace because I remember them vividly; Chippy, always trying to bunk off P.E with a horrible fake limp, and Eddie, offering to slam his own fingers in his desk if you'd pay him 5p to watch.
Listening to her, all distance evaporates, and time just disappears. The smell, the wind, the seagulls; it's as if I can taste and feel and see it all so clearly. And you forget, too, don't you, living in an enormous impersonal city like London, how involved and opinionated every villager is about every issue. There's growing disquiet, she tells me, that there is still no village policeman, but there is a lot of talk about a new teacher at Portwenn Primary, someone called Roger, who apparently almost made it big once in a famous Cornish folk band. Not only has his appointment made Isobel's mother rather excited but he's already causing a stir by wearing a 'kerchief knotted around his neck to school, instead of a collar and tie.
"I mean, everyone's excited about him now but I'm sure he's just the same as every other school teacher really…" Isobel says dolefully. "Bossy and boring and always talking down to you…"
"Well, thanks for that…" I tell her, pointing at myself and pulling a face.
But she simply laughs and I wonder if she's always been so tactless, or am i just feeling particularly sensitive today. Standing up, I pretend to busy myself in the kitchen while she seems happy to sit at the table, banging on about nothing while I try and prepare us a meal; smoked oysters out of a tin while we wait for the sausage rolls to heat, a bowl of salt and vinegar crisps, some carrot sticks and a some crumbly slices of tasty cheese. I tip some of the biscuits onto one of Martin's serving dishes and put it down beside her before lowering myself down into the opposite chair. Gradually, we are old friends again, talking about movies we've seen, gossiping about the royal family, and Coronation St, and chatting about fashion. One bottle is emptied so we start on another. I tell her about my summer job selling vintage fashion and she asks to see my wardrobe. The laughter gets louder as she talks about her landlady, a woman who wears nothing else but double denim and has glamour shots of herself up all over her walls. I pick up the glasses and she carries the bottle and we giggle and hoot our way down to the bedroom.
I want to show her some of my vintage pieces, some of the brilliant stuff I found when I worked on the stall, but her attention is immediately elsewhere. She seems transfixed when she first sees Martin's side of the wardrobe, gaping at racks of shirts so precisely graded by shade that they look like a colour swatches on the most neutral of paint charts. His suits are arranged by season, secured on solid, heavy hangers so that they sit perfectly; on the floor, a row of highly polished shoes run horizontally along the floor, ties hanging, silky and flat, from the numerous vertical tie racks.
"Gosh." She whispers and she turns to look at me, blinking in disbelief.
"Well, yeah." I say. "That's just Martin. He likes things to be neat and tidy…"
"But still…" she says, and her voice is almost a whisper. "It's like the menswear department of Harvey Nichs…"
I flash her a quick, non-committal smile and burrow into the side that I've been allotted, carefully pulling out my beautiful frock, my prized possession, gently sliding the dry cleaning bag upwards so I can show her the exquisite beading. She gasps of course, running her fingers over the shimmering fabric as I grin and tell her I wore it with borrowed shoes and a complicated up-do. I'd forgotten how much I love it as I lay it carefully on the bed, removing the cover completely so that we can both admire it in all its haute couture gorgeousness. Without asking, she scoops it up, discarding the hanger and dashing to the mirror, holding it under her chin as she writhes dreamily under the light. And that's when I have a fleeting feeling of familiarity, vaguely recalling us skylarking about, trying on Caroline's new clothes as she sat bored and unimpressed on her bed. I smile at the recollection, how we always liked to pretend we were rich and famous, in our plastic sunglasses and Caroline's mother's oversized stiletto heels.
As Isobel wiggles about, I notice that she is continually pushing her bra straps back into place and, when I tease her, she slides her clothing off her shoulder sheepishly, to show me that the elastic's completely perished. I feel suddenly so sad for her, and I'm not really sure what comes over me but I tell her an enormous white lie, blurting out that I've put on weight, and need to have a clear out, and is there anything in particular in my wardrobe she would like? Before she has a chance to answer, I pull out my heavy black duffel coat, and thrust it in her direction. Her eyes open wide as she clutches it to her, and I almost feel guilty acknowledging to myself that I can just buy another. While she tries it on, I rifle through my underwear drawer to see what I can find. Nestled in beside the lovely new florals, and the black push up I picked out last week, is the bra formerly known as my good one; lacy and satiny, with all elastic most definitely in tact.
"Are we still about the same size, do you think?" I ask her, glancing briefly at her chest before deciding that we might still be.
She thrusts her hands deep into the pockets and twirls around childishly. "I'd try it on but I don't want to take this coat off…it's so snuggly…"
I add an unworn half slip and a pair of thick winter tights to the pile and pass them to her with a nervous smile.
"Well, they're yours if you want them." I tell her. "Now, let's finish that bottle of wine…"
She snatches them from me and skips out of the room, bubbly and frothy and twirling her hair. I push the drawer closed and I find that I'm feeling a lot more light-hearted too. But my good mood only lasts until I see my frock in a ball on the chair, and I growl her name under my breath, hesitating as I look around unsuccessfully for it's special hanger before I'm distracted by the sound of her calling my name.
"What is it?" I call back over my shoulder, scrambling on my hands and knees, retrieving the plastic cover from under the bed.
"The oven's on fire!" She shrieks and, as I drop everything onto the floor, the last thing I remember thinking is that, just when I thought my week couldn't get any worse, just when thought he couldn't be more upset with me, I was about to burn Martin's flat to the ground.