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Grace
Adaline
The problem with squeezing one more internet search before I left the flat meant I ran late for appointments. I liked to maximise every waking hour with the aid of caffeine. It would be no surprise to Steph, but today I was super late. The chain on my bike clanged as I peddled up the hill to the train station. I could have cycled down the hill and across to Brighton Pier, but I was a sucker for the shortcut. In my haste to get to Steph, I’d caught the hem of my summer dress in the chain. Steph Parkins, my best friend oozed style and sophistication. Making an effort for Steph meant that I wore a dress when I met up with her. The blame from my chewed-up dress was all Steph’s. She would disagree, but it wouldn’t stop me from telling her. I yanked out the pale-yellow material, instead of back peddling for my dress to come free of my bike. A sample of the material intertwined through the groove of the links. The bike didn’t sound right, but I couldn’t hang around to fix the chain. It would be the fastest way to get to Steph. There wasn’t enough time to go home, change, and then get a bus. Hitching the skirt of the dress into the elastic of my knickers, I peddled faster down the main street from Brighton train station to the seafront. Heading to the new tourist viewing platform, I avoided the tourists who didn’t know they didn’t walk in the cycle lane. I refused to attach a bell on the handlebars. I wasn’t six years old. I much preferred to yell at them to get out of the way.
Runaway children and footballs hampered my path. Cursing three times under my breath and out loud a few times, I made it to the cafe half an hour late. Two men were unchaining their bikes, giving me a spot on the bike rack outside the cafe. I waved over at Steph, who wore an enormous white floppy hat and large sunglasses. She was sitting under an umbrella, looking fantastic in her chic French attire. Her sense of style astounded me. She wore wide-legged white trousers and a loose fitting white blouse. I had an old dress with grease stains thanks to my bike, with a rip. I felt inferior being within twenty feet of her. It was a good job I adored her or I’d turn around and run away until I learned fashion sense.
Locking up my bike, I took off my helmet and pushed the stray hairs back into my bun. I greeted Steph with a cuddle, grabbing harder when she tried to pull away.
“You look like a movie star sitting here,” I told her and fell into the seat next to her.
“For a film star, I was on time,” her playful retort came with a wink and a nudge. I could see she’d finished the green tea in front of her. The pages of the open paperback fluttered in the breeze coming in from the sea.
“I’m sorry. This week has been an epic fuck up. Does this place sell wine?” I said. Pulling the menu that stood upright between the salt and pepper to glance at what they served. Putting my helmet on the floor and my bag on the table. Searching for my purse, I tried to catch the eye of the waitress at the same time. Succeeding in neither, I gave up and told Steph about my hateful ex-tenant.
“I located my big girl knickers and go into the flat. It’s a state. Everything he left, he had smashed to pieces. So, Jeff fucking Brightey not only hasn’t paid three months rent, I now have to find someone to repair the damage he’s caused. Plus, I have to find a new tenant.” By the end of my mini-rant, the waitress had taken my order. Steph had rammed her fist against her mouth to stop her smirk from morphing into a full-on belly laugh. She wasn't mean. She thought my rants were so funny and never took my grumblings to heart. Steph never swore, but lately, I couldn’t go four sentences without using the wordsfuckorshit. Ignoring the mirth that danced in her eyes, I soldiered on with my story.
“I dragged the few personal items Jeff had left behind in a box and put it out the back next to the skip.”
“Whose skip?” she asked. Her words were slow and deliberate, questioning if I had dumped a whole load of rubbish into someone else’s skip.
Now I had her attention. She took a sip of my latte and gestured for me to carry on with what I was saying.
“I can order you a coffee. It’s no hardship. We don’t have to share.”
My sarcasm laced my words, but I ended up laughing. Steph had given up caffeine after an article she’d read in a magazine. This was week two and Elliott, her husband, had already switched the decaf coffee in the house to full strength. He loved her, but she was a little testy without her caffeine. He preferred his balls where they were.
“I ordered a skip,” I said and pulled the latte away from her reach. “It arrived this morning. I can throw Jeff’s stuff over the balcony and into the skip. It will save time trooping up and down the stairs all day. It helps with the rage I feel for my ex-tenant, to fling the broken pieces of furniture over the wall and hear it crash into the skip. I imagine I am throwing his body off a cliff into the ocean. The tide would be out, and there are sharp, spiky rocks to soften his fall.”
Steph let out a chuckle that ended up as a snort. To cover her embarrassment, she closed her novel.
“You’ve thought about it, I see. When was the last time you saw Jeff?”
“About a month ago,” I said. I couldn’t pin down the last time I had seen him. I’d heard him plenty of times banging about the flat. He had a heavy footfall, thundering down the back stairs and then the inevitable slam of the front door. I didn’t let him come through the shop to get out. As far as he knew there wasn’t any access to the shop. Every day, I made sure that the door to the interior stairs had the bolt in place from the other side. I came into the shop to work to avoid him. The only way in while he was renting was through the front door of the shop. Jeff had keys to the door on the side street, next to the backyard door. He wasn’t allowed in there either. It took five days after he moved in for me to distrust him. I was too chicken to kick him out.
“Do you know any carpenters?” I asked to change the subject. I needed to get the flat back into a habitable state to rent out again. Every week it was vacant was a week I had to find the money to pay the bills.
“I’ll ask Elliott if he knows anyone,” she said and tried to hide her smirk again.
“Thanks,” I said.
I didn’t want to know the reason behind her smile, but it always meant she was up to mischief.
“I’ve changed the locks to the back entrance and his flat. If he turns up, then he’s not getting into the flat.” I took a sip of latte after my rant.
“You’re well rid of him. Let’s hope he’s gone for good and didn’t want the stuff he left behind in the flat.”
“Most of his personal stuff was his record collection. They are all in a metal box with enough clasps to keep out a pirate, marauding on the high seas. I tried to break it open, but just snapped a nail for my efforts.”
“Sod him. Does this mean you haven’t found a tenant?” Steph asked me. She concentrated on my reactions. I made a fish impression, trying to break her scrutiny. She only lasted thirty seconds before breaking into fits of giggles. I raised my eyebrows, still making the fish impression with my lips. My cheeks hollowed out, and I increased the tempo of my lips, moving up and down. Steph threw her cloth napkin at me, and I grinned.
“Why do you want to know?”
Leaning forward, I widened my eyes wide to raise my eyebrows towards my hairline. Steph had a plan of action. Her sheepish looking face said it all. She had never cared to help me in the past to get a tenant. I put an advert in the local paper, spend an entire day in a pub interviewing the prospective tenants, while getting drunk.
I threw her napkin back at her, folded my arms under my breasts and waited for her to answer.
Steph straightened up and took a deep breath. “Elliott’s best friend has just come home from overseas. He’s staying with us, but after a day, he feels uncomfortable imposing on us. We’d have him there forever, but he feels as we’ve been married less than a year, we should have the freedom to have sex wherever and whenever we feel like it. He thinks him being around will dampen our sex life.
