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Apart from my parents, she was the only person who’d ever called me Beccy. It made me sad that once Nan had gone, that particular nickname would be gone forever, too.
I glanced at Nan’s bedside table, which was peppered with pictures of my mum, the odd photo of the three of us, all in different-sized frames, the ceramic one I’d brought Nan back from Greece years ago taking pride of place. There was only one picture of me on my own: I must have been two or three and was sitting on a beach bashing a bucket with a spade. I didn’t know where we were, but Mum and Dad would have been nearby, just out of shot, waiting to take me for a swim in the sea or fishing for crabs in a rock pool.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’ve been looking around.’
‘You deserve more,’ said Nan. ‘You shouldn’t put things off – you know that better than anyone.’
She was right, I shouldn’t, but it wasn’t that easy to start over, not after I’d spent over a decade building a place for myself at Kingsland. I’d fallen into marketing after uni because I needed a job and that seemed as good a one as any. I’d worked hard and had moved up the ranks pretty quickly and had enjoyed the feeling of being successful and well respected. I’d realised lately, though, that something was missing. Nan was forever asking me what it was, but I found it difficult to explain. I supposed it was that I didn’t much like the feeling of earning a multimillion-pound business even more money. That part of my job – working out how best to persuade people to buy our clients’ products – felt fake and, at times, dishonest. I wanted to help people, I’d always thought that, but I couldn’t seem to get off the corporate treadmill for long enough to take the time to work out exactly how.
‘I’ve applied for a promotion at work,’ I said, wanting to make it sound more exciting than it felt. ‘Head of press and marketing. I think I’m in with a good chance of getting it.’
Nan nodded slowly. ‘More money, is it?’
‘Yeah,’ I replied, nicking one of Nan’s Quality Streets and passing her a strawberry delight. ‘That’s not the only reason I’m going for it, though. It would be the next step up in my career. I’d be on the senior management team, all that.’
‘You’d get to make all the decisions, then,’ said Nan.
She reached out for her glass of water, struggling to hold its weight as she brought it to her lips. I helped her put it down again.
‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘I would have a whole team under me, though.’
Nan looked at my suspiciously. She had a way of seeing through me, of knowing when there was something bubbling away under the surface that I wasn’t admitting to. The thing was, half the time it was just a feeling. Something I couldn’t quite make sense of. Or didn’t want to make sense of, more like.
‘And what about the flat?’ asked Nan. ‘Are you managing on your own?’
I topped up Nan’s water from a plastic jug on the table. ‘Course I am. I’m actually quite enjoying being on my own.’
Nan looked at me. ‘Don’t forget, I know how lonely it is living by yourself.’
Nan hadn’t done so well after Grandad died. She’d kind of gone into herself, had pretty much lost her spark overnight. And then when she’d had a bad fall, things had got even worse. It had taken her a while, though, to admit that she might need a bit of extra help. In that respect, I could see lots of myself in her and understood her determination to do it all on her own. It had taken a lot for her to move in here, but I was glad she had, and I thought she was, too, in a way. She was being sociable again for the first time in years, for a start, which was lovely to see, but I knew it was still a struggle for her. She missed her home and my grandad every day – I did, too.
‘I’m not in much during the week, anyway,’ I told her. ‘And the neighbours are nice. Friendly. A new guy’s moved in across the corridor. I’m not sure about him, actually. I think he might have anger issues. And there’s that old guy downstairs, you know, the one who likes to chat?’
‘A new neighbour, you say …’ said Nan, perking up. ‘Good-looking, is he?’
I rolled my eyes at her. ‘Don’t go getting any ideas, Nan.’
I almost told her about Tyler. He was my type: well dressed, polite, polished, charming. Not someone who lounged about in tracksuits and shouted at strangers about missing packages, although I supposed he had apologised.
Dipping my hand into the box of Quality Streets again, I pulled out my favourite: the green triangle. ‘Right,’ I said, with a mouthful of chocolate. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea, shall I? And fill up your vase so I can arrange the flowers. Oh, and look,’ I added, pulling a box of Mr Kipling’s Fondant Fancies out of my bag with a flourish. ‘I got us a treat. Your favourite.’
