31 Dream Street (9 page)

‘You mean you want me to settle down with a nice boy?’

‘Well, yes. Isn’t that what you want?’

‘No. Not even slightly.’

‘But what’s going to happen to you?’

‘Happen?’

‘Yes. Where will you go? What will you do?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I just mean…’ He was about to say, you’re thirty-one, you’re single, you’ve got no career and I’m about to kick you out of the only home you’ve known since you were sixteen. He was about to say, you’re free-falling and you’ve got no one to catch you. He was about to say,
I don’t want you to end up like me
. But he didn’t. Instead he smiled. ‘I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’

‘Well, don’t be,’ she said. ‘I’m absolutely fine. I can look after myself.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’

15

According to Toby’s observations, Joanne’s current daily routine went something like this:

7.45 a.m.: Blow-dry hair in bedroom. Emerge with unusual hairstyle.

8.00 a.m.: Make weird coffee substitute chicory drink thing in kitchen. Take it into dining room. Drink it while reading the
Mail
and listening to Virgin FM.

8.30 a.m.: Leave house, wearing extraordinary combinations of clothing, sometimes wearing glasses, sometimes not.

6–11 p.m.: Return home, sometimes sober, sometimes drunk, always alone. Go straight to room (occasionally stopping to collect cutlery from kitchen if carrying a takeaway or a wine glass if carrying a bag from off-licence).

12–2 a.m.: Turn off TV set in room. Go to sleep (presumably).

Yesterday, she had left for work wearing a black-and-white chequerboard miniskirt with a red polo neck and a pair of thick-soled leather boots with buckles. Her hair had been gelled back off her face and she was wearing a strange lipstick the colour of sediment. Today as she bustled round the kitchen, making her pretend coffee, she was
wearing a massive denim dungaree-style dress which looked like maternity wear, a white cotton shirt, thick navy tights and red pumps. Her hair was parted in the middle and had taken on a peculiar kinky wave. She wasn’t wearing any make-up at all and had on her red glasses (her other pair were frameless). She looked like a pregnant French schoolteacher on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Toby poured himself a bowl of muesli from a new packet and felt somewhat surprised to see red lumps in it. He stared at them quizzically, trying to find a rational explanation for the existence of red lumps in his muesli. He picked one up and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. It was squidgy. He put it to his lips and licked it. It was sweet. He turned and looked at Joanne.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘what do you reckon these are, in my muesli?’

Joanne jumped slightly, but didn’t turn round.

‘Erm… hello?’

Toby heard her sigh. ‘Sorry – what?’ she turned round slowly to appraise him.

‘These red things in my muesli. What do you think they are?’ He held the bowl out.

Joanne stared at him, then at the bowl, over the top of her red glasses. ‘Sorry,’ she said eventually, ‘I’m not sure I understand what it is you’re asking me?’

Now it was Toby’s turn to sigh. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘I was just being silly.’

She squinted at him.

‘It’s just that,’ he continued desperately, ‘I eat the same muesli every morning and this morning, for the very first time, there are red things in it and I was just wondering if you could shed any light on the matter. That’s all.’

She peered at Toby, curiously. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no. I don’t think that I can.’

Toby shrugged and tried to force back a smile. ‘Oh, well. I guess I’ll just eat them and hope for the best.’

Joanne smiled tightly and went back to making her coffee.

Toby tried again. ‘What is that stuff that you drink?’ He pointed at the jar.

‘Coffee,’ she replied.

‘No, but it’s not normal coffee, is it?’

‘Yes, it is,’ sniffed Joanne.

‘No, but it’s not.’ He smiled and pointed at the jar again.

She looked at the jar. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Look,’ he picked up the jar and presented it to her. ‘It’s made from chicory.’

‘
Chicory?
’ She took it from him and peered at the label. ‘But I don’t understand. How can coffee be made out of chicory?’

‘Well, exactly. That’s the whole point. It’s not coffee, is it? It’s a caffeine-free coffee substitute.’

‘Yes, but why would someone have sold it to me when I wanted coffee?’

‘Well – where did you buy it?’

‘From a health food shop.’

‘You bought coffee from a health food shop?’

‘Yes – I buy as much of my food as possible from a health food shop.’

‘Even coffee?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which is intrinsically unhealthy.’

‘Well, I suppose, I hadn’t really thought. I just saw the word ‘coffee’ and I needed some and I thought it would be healthier than coffee from a supermarket.’

‘Well, it is definitely healthier.’ Toby smiled, but she just scowled at him and turned away. ‘Didn’t you think it tasted a bit odd?’

‘Well, a little bit. But I just put that down to it being healthy. For God’s sake.’ She tutted loudly and stared at the label. ‘Look,’ she said crossly, ‘it’s there. In black and white. Chicory. I thought that was the brand name. Fuck’s sake…’ She banged the bottle down on the work top and stared angrily out of the window.

‘I’ve got some Nescafé if you want?’ Toby offered after a moment.

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘No. I’ll drink this stupid
chicory
thing. It’s fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ she hissed, her back still turned to Toby.

‘OK,’ he said, opening the fridge and pulling out some milk. ‘You drink your chicory thing and I’ll eat my red things and we’ll just chalk it up to experience.’

He followed Joanne into the dining room a moment later. ‘They’re cranberries,’ he said, putting his bowl
down on the table. ‘The red things. I checked the packaging and there it was. In tiny print. They’re out to get us, these food manufacturers. They keep making all these subtle changes hoping we won’t notice, then suddenly we’re eating cranberries and drinking chicory. And what
is
chicory anyway?’

Joanne turned the page of her newspaper and ignored him.

‘Can I taste it?’ he said, ‘your pretend coffee?’

She looked up at him and Toby watched as the muscles in her face started to twitch and contort. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘Oh.’ He waited for a polite explanation, but Joanne just carried on reading her paper.

Joanne was not responding very well to small talk, so Toby decided to weigh in with the big question. ‘So, what sort of work are you doing at the moment?’

Toby saw her chest cave in then expand again as she took in a deep breath. ‘Look, Toby. I have to be honest. I’m not a morning person. I like to drink my coffee and read my paper and not talk to anyone until I really have to. So if you don’t mind…?’

Toby nodded and exhaled silently. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I understand.’

He picked up a seed catalogue that someone had left on the table and flicked through it mindlessly while he ate his breakfast. Part of him admired Joanne for being so forthright. Another part couldn’t believe how rude and horrible she was. He glanced surreptitiously at Joanne’s hands. They were very pale with raised veins.

She had a ring on the index finger of her left hand, plain gold with no stones. On her left wrist she wore a thin silver watch with a blue face. Around her neck was a silver chain with a ring and a locket hanging from it. And there, on the inside of her wrist, peeping out from just under the cuff of her starchy white shirt, was the first hint that Toby had seen of the real Joanne. A tattoo. Hard to tell what it was from the small amount that was showing, but it was black and faded, as if she’d had it done a long time ago. He opened his mouth to comment on it, then shut it again.

Joanne had a tattoo. On the inside of her wrist. Like a jailbird. Or a prisoner of war. Or a delinquent schoolgirl with a fountain pen. Joanne had a past. He was just going to have to find a way to get it out of her that didn’t involve normal, everyday, polite conversation.

Toby held his breath and tried to make himself as small as possible. Joanne was a few feet ahead of him, fiddling in her handbag in the middle of the pavement. She was wearing a pink tweed jacket with a black trim and a tight grey flannel skirt with pink kitten-heeled shoes and a pink suede handbag. Her hair was a shock of home-applied blonde highlights and she was wearing far too much blusher. After a few seconds she pulled something out of her handbag that looked like a credit card, then she teetered uncertainly towards a building that appeared, according to a steel plaque on the wall, to house half a dozen businesses. She swiped her credit
card through a slot on the wall and pushed her way through heavy steel doors. A large man behind a curved reception desk smiled at her and asked her to sign something. She signed it, then disappeared towards the back of the reception hall. Toby sighed and sat down on a bench.

He waited a few minutes until he was sure that Joanne would be at her desk, then strolled towards the doors to examine the steel plaque:

Davies and Co Solicitors

Rodney Field Fashions

Ultralight Beauty Systems

Larkin Abdullah Legal Services

Tiarella Textiles & Fashions

He pressed the buzzer for reception and the big man behind the desk looked up.

‘Which company?’ he crackled into the intercom.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘I’m looking for Joanne Fish.’

His forehead concertinaed into sausages of skin and he fiddled with a clipboard. ‘Fish?’ he repeated eventually.

‘Yes. Joanne Fish. She just came in, about five minutes ago. The blonde woman in pink.’

‘Oh, that one. Right. She’s up at Tiarella.’

‘Tiarella. Right. OK.’

‘Last bell down.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

Toby smiled tightly at the man behind the desk and gave him a feeble thumbs-up. And then, much to his
confusion, he walked away. Toby had followed Joanne into work today hoping to uncover something shocking and enlightening about her, and all he’d discovered was that she went to work. In an office building. In the West End. Just like a million other people.

He sighed and headed towards Oxford Circus.

16

In the past week Leah had seen a bathroom with mould growing on the carpet, a kitchen with a pet rat on the counter and a bedroom with no windows. She’d met a man whose trainers she could smell from the front door, a woman who’d just had a face lift and a guy with five Chihuahuas. She’d been told variously that she was allowed to watch television only until nine o’clock, that she would have to stay out on Friday nights and that she wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol in the ‘common parts’. If the flat was nice, then the flatmate was awful; if the flat was awful, then the flatmate was even worse.

Leah phoned Amitabh when she got home from a man called Willy’s malodorous, murky basement flat on Hornsey Lane. She phoned him partly because she was missing him and wanted to hear his voice, but mainly because she was so cross with him for putting her in this position in the first place.

‘Hello, it’s me.’

There was a split second of silence. ‘Hello.’

‘How are you?’ She tugged her trainers off with her feet.

‘Good,’ he said, ‘I’m good. How are you?’

‘Shit. I’m shit. Actually.’

‘Oh.’ She could hear Amitabh sitting down, presumably on his bed. She could imagine him stroking his chin like he did when he was uncomfortable.

‘Yes. This whole flat-hunting thing is a nightmare. I’m too old for flat shares. I’m too set in my ways. I can’t live with anyone else.’

Amitabh sighed. ‘I can’t understand why you’re not looking to buy.’

‘Because,’ she said crossly – they’d had this conversation a million times – ‘I have one hundred and two pounds in my bank account and last time I looked flats in London were going for a bit more than that.’

‘Get a mortgage,’ he said. ‘They’re doing 100 per cent mortgages again now, you know. 110 per cent even.’

‘Mmm,’ she said, ‘that’s a good idea. Tie myself up for the rest of my life with the mortgage from hell that I will never be able to pay off
because I work in a shop
. And of course never actually
go out again
because I won’t be able to afford to.’

Amitabh sighed.

‘This is all your fault, you know. All of this.’

He sighed again.

‘I mean, what were you thinking? What were you actually
thinking
?’

‘I wasn’t thinking. I was just…
being
. You know.’

‘No. I don’t know. All those weddings we went to, didn’t you ever, you know, stop to think about what was expected of you? Didn’t you sometimes lie in bed at night wondering what was going to happen to us? How it was all going to end?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I honestly never did.’

‘So what
did
you think about?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Food. Work. Telly. I suppose that it hadn’t occurred to me that I was getting so old. That we were
both
getting so old. I suppose I just thought that we had for ever.’

Leah let a small silence highlight his words. ‘So,’ she said eventually, ‘if that old man hadn’t died and I hadn’t proposed we’d just have carried on, would we, carried on indefinitely, until one day we’d suddenly have woken up and realised we were fifty?’

‘Yes. No. I mean, I’d have realized sooner than that that it wasn’t working, but the old man dying made it happen earlier.’

‘Well, then, praise be to Gus for choosing his moment so well. Because it’s bad enough being in this fucking predicament at thirty-five. Imagine if I’d been forty? In fact, you know something, at this precise moment I’m feeling a lot of anger towards you…
a lot of anger
.’