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15
Rebecca
It was half-twelve and I was still up, not at all tired and enjoying the Negroni I’d made for myself. I was perfecting the recipe before I offered it to anyone else and reckoned I’d nailed it on the second attempt, having achieved the perfect ratio of Campari to Martini Rosso to gin. I’d watched TV and listened to music for a bit and I’d had a nice bath, but mostly I’d laid on my sofa and looked out of the window. People were beginning to go to bed, and one after the other I watched lounge lights switch off and imagined bedside lamps being flicked on. The couple diagonally opposite were up, I’d just seen her smoking a cigarette out of the window. The guy in the apartment one floor below them had his laptop open and kept stopping what he was doing to take a swig from what looked like a bottle of beer. I’d often wondered what he did; he was always out before I got up and home before I got in. At weekends, he disappeared altogether.
When I went to wash up my glass, I heard voices. A man and a woman with a sunny, young-sounding voice. I plastered my cheek to my front door, being as quiet as I could. It took me a few seconds to make anything out, and I smeared my thumb across the spyhole because I could barely see out of it and then realised it was dirty on the other side.
Jack was outside. I could see the top of his head, and his shaggy brown hair and the bridge of his nose. His back was pressed up against his door, his head was bent and tilted to the side and he was kissing someone. I could only see the back of her head – she was tiny and was wearing a black puffa jacket with a red scarf. Jack had his hands cupped around her face, his fingers laced through her long, black hair.
I took a step back from the door. I could hear them, still – she was moaning loudly (which I thought was a bit unnecessary given she was in a public place), but he was silent except for the sound of him fishing about for his keys.
I let myself have one last look. They’d switched around now and she had her back against the door. She was standing on tiptoes and had her hands hooked around his neck. He had a hoodie on, one I’d seen him in before; it was a bit too short for him, as though it had shrunk in the wash. His jeans were sitting low on his hips. He had one hand on her waist, and his key was in the other. Why didn’t he just hurry up and let them in for god’s sake, instead of making a scene on the landing?
I dragged myself away, even though part of me wanted to keep watching. Was this what my life had become: sneakily observing the sex lives of my neighbours?
My glass slipped out of my hand, crashing into the sink. I froze for a second or two, hoping Jack hadn’t heard, which he feasibly could have done if he was still in his hallway. I reassured myself that he was probably far too caught up in what he was doing to notice.
Already regretting drinking this late at night, thinking that it wasn’t going to do my running any good if I kept having hangovers and sacking it off, I poured myself a glass of water.
I couldn’t resist one more glance through the spyhole on the way back to the lounge, just out of interest, of course. The door was closed and there was no one to be seen. I could hear music, though, and could just about make out the familiar chords of Massive Attack’s ‘Unfinished Sympathy’. He had decent taste in music, then, not that it mattered. I wondered if she was his girlfriend, although I’d never seen her before. I wasn’t sure how he’d find time to have a relationship, given he was allegedly out all the time. Perhaps now he’d be in to receive his packages instead of expecting everyone else to do it for him.
Back in the lounge, I picked up my phone. Tyler had been back in New York over a week and we’d barely been in contact, which, of course, was what I’d wanted all along and yet somehow, tonight, I thought it might have been quite nice to know he’d been thinking about me. I’d texted him to see how his flight had been and he’d replied to say New York was freezing; that he’d enjoyed his trip to London, that he’d see me next time. But there had been no mention of when the next time might be.
My thumb hovered over the open message key. Should I contact him? Was I only tempted because I felt a bit lonely, suddenly? Although, rationally, I knew that I had no right to feel sorry for myself when there were millions of other people in the world who didn’t have anyone either. It was just that when Dan had gone, it had felt doubly bad, because I’d naively assumed he was the one person who could be relied upon not to leave me. Just shows you, you can never really know someone, can you?
I flicked through my phone contacts, pausing when I got to the ‘D’s. I hadn’t spoken to Dan for months and had unfriended him on Facebook so that I didn’t have to be subjected to photos of him having a whale of a time with his new girlfriend, a woman from his office who I’d met twice and had foolishly thought was lovely.
Worried I was about to do something stupid, I texted Val instead. She was one of those people who went to bed late and got up early and was fully functioning no matter how little sleep she’d had. She rarely called it a night before 1 a.m., which I’d always thought would be a brilliant way to get things done. All those extra hours! She read at least a book a week and had memorised the most film trivia of anyone I knew.
Are you still up?
I pressed send and waited, looking out at the flats opposite. Almost every window was in darkness now, except for one on the second floor. I thought students might live there; I’d seen three or four young guys coming in and out, wearing V-neck jumpers and Eastpak backpacks, which seemed to be prerequisites for students studying in London.
My phone rang.
‘What are you doing up?’ said Val.
‘Watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills on loop. You?’
‘Had a late dinner. Started a film but didn’t finish it. Ekon’s knackered, so he’s gone to bed, but I’m not tired yet.’
‘You must have too much going on in that head of yours,’ I replied.
I wondered whether part of Val’s inability to sleep was about her not being able to switch off. She seemed to think she could solve the problems of the world at two o’clock in the morning.
‘Yeah. Maybe,’ she said.
I curled my feet up underneath me.
‘You OK?’ I asked.
She didn’t sound her usual upbeat self, although, given the time, I supposed it was hardly surprising. I didn’t think I’d ever spoken to her on the phone this late before, not because she wasn’t up, but because I wasn’t.
‘Just tired,’ she said.
I frowned. ‘But you said you weren’t tired a second ago.’
‘Oh, I don’t know then,’ she muttered.
