Page 22 of The Cost of Love

“Tomorrow?” I check my watch and see she is right on time.

“You are giving me your Friday night? I feel honored.”

I scoff to stop myself from laughing. “Yes. Now, goodbye.” I hang up before he can say anything else, and put my phone on silent. Just in time for her to walk up and greet me.

We exchange names and quickly shake hands before she lets me in the building. Based on the state of the stairs alone, I can tell this place is going to be a dump. Still, I let her lead me up until we reach the top floor.

“Now, this place is being leased as is, but we are doing everything we can about the smell.”

Before she even opens the door, the pungent stink of human feces hits my nose. My instincts have me stepping back as she urges me forward into the place. It only gets stronger the further we go in. When we get close to the bathroom, it becomes almost unbearable.

“What is that?” I ask, no longer able to take it.

“Some sort of sewage backup issue in the piping. We have a plumber coming tomorrow. Hopefully, it’s resolved by that.”

Hopefully? Just hopefully? I don’t know why I am still considering this place, but I enter the kitchen. The little counter space and closed-in feel of it being more like a hallway lends to the cramped layout of the entire apartment. The style of the building speaks to it being built in the 19th century, so saving space was the objective. That isn’t going to be a problem for me, though.

One bedroom is right off the side of the living room. I pop my head in and see that it would barely hold one bed, let alone the two single beds for the girls. Possibly, it can be Jamal’s room. Looking around, I don’t know where the other one could be.

“Where is the second bedroom?” I ask.

“Right here.” She opens what I assumed is a closet, flicking a light on.

It might as well be one, for how big it is. The size of a queen mattress, the entire space is more like a walk-in than a room.

“How many square feet is the place?”

“Six hundred,” she says proudly, like that makes sense.

“And how much is the rent?”

“£1800.” The smile widens on her face like she is delivering great news. That’s double what we pay now, and with less space.

“Thank you, I’ll think about it.” I take the stairs two at a time in desperation to get some fresh air. I also need to get to the next place and hope that it is better than this one.

It is, but the price isn’t, and I’m left with an overwhelming panic. What are we going to do? We have less than three months to figure out somewhere to go, and our options are looking slimmer by the day. Yesterday, Imani offered to get a job and help out, but that will just lead to her dropping out of school. Maybe if I can find something that pays more than minimum wage, I can make this work. Get some bunk beds and a futon, and we can squeeze into the second apartment I saw.

I sigh as I start down the stairs of the tube. My shift starts in an hour, so there is no time to stop home. Luckily, food is a perk of the job, so I won’t starve.

Throwing my work shirt over my tank top as we pull up to my stop, I wrap the apron around my waist just before we get off. I walk into the café ready to go and with time to kill.

“Hey Chanice!” The baker calls out to me, waving his hand for me to meet him in the kitchen.

“What’s up, Franco?”

“I totally fucked the first batch of my chocolate croissants. You want to take them home?”

They look dilapidated and flat, but they smell delicious. I pop a piece of one in my mouth and find they still taste good.

“Thanks.” I start to turn to put my stuff in the back.

“The old bake has also been put in a bag for you. I say you could probably get a few more days out of them if you put them in the fridge.” He points to the counter, and I see a clear bag with enough bagels and muffins to last us a week. It will have to be all we eat for our three meals, but it would save us some groceries. I give him a hug before I grab it and head back.

Emerging a couple of minutes later, I jump right into work. It’s enough to keep my mind off my problems, as I focus on serving the waves of people coming for lunch and a late afternoon coffee. Time passes in a blur, and soon it’s almost my break. Just in time for a deliveryman to step through the door.

“Chanice Jones?” he asks, large bag in hand.

“That’s me.” I walk up to him.