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I didn’t really know her, did I? So what if I’d had one run-in with her, or two if you counted our first couple of exchanges, it didn’t mean she wasn’t a nice person underneath that arsey exterior of hers.
‘She was very unhappy for a while because her young man moved out,’ said Clive conspiratorially. ‘I remember it was around Christmas when it happened. Not the one just gone, the one before. She didn’t even get a tree that year and I said she should because it would make her feel better.’
I was interested all of a sudden. I lapped up stories about other people’s disastrous love lives because it made me feel much better about not having one of my own. In fact, I’d go one step further and say that it was evidence that I was doing the right thing by steering clear of all that. I had enough to worry about without adding relationships into the mix. What did I have to offer someone, anyway? I was working what felt like 24/7, I had no money and even though I was thirty now, I had a pathological fear of having to ‘settle down’ in case it interfered with my ability to travel guilt-free to wherever the next acting job might be. I was hardly a catch, was I?
‘What happened?’ I asked, unable to resist the Marlowe Court gossip mill that Clive appeared to be at the helm of. I glanced up to check that Rebecca was still safely behind a closed door. I didn’t imagine she’d take kindly to her neighbours swapping stories about her. I mean, who would?
Clive shuffled closer, lowering his voice. ‘I don’t know all the details,’ he began, ‘but that girl looked sad for months. Barely smiled. Worked all hours. I told her she mustn’t work so hard.’
‘Blimey,’ I said, wondering what had gone so wrong. It must have been quite gutting for her if they were actually living together.
‘She’s much better now. Always smiling.’
I nodded politely, but the truth was, I thought she seemed very serious. She hadn’t even seen the funny side of her not being able to find my package, for example, judging by the way she’d been storming about looking for it with a face like thunder. Mind you, neither had I at the time. And she was a vast improvement on my last neighbour, who had been a miserable middle-aged man who banged on the wall with a broom handle whenever we dared to put the TV on. He particularly hated it when my old housemate, Gideon, who did musical theatre, was rehearsing his repertoire with his tinny backing track on full blast.
‘Anyway, better go and make myself some dinner,’ I said, starting up the stairs. ‘Let me know if you need anything else, Clive, yeah?’
‘If you make any more of that banana bread, I’d really appreciate a slice,’ he called after me.
I gave him a thumbs-up. I’d tried a new recipe at the weekend and had dropped a couple of wedges down for him.
‘And don’t you work too hard either,’ shouted Clive. ‘Hollywood not calling yet, then?’
I looked over my shoulder, grimacing at him. ‘Don’t ask.’
Clive pointed his finger at me. ‘Don’t you go giving up now.’
I waved him off. I wasn’t quite there yet and was holding onto the tiniest bit of hope that something might happen with the Lightning thing. And until I heard for sure, I was going to attempt to remain hopeful.
