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20
Jack
Rebecca was standing over me looking wet and a bit sad.
I took the spanner from her. ‘Thanks.’
‘What are you doing, then?’ she asked.
‘Attempting to fix my door. It makes a really loud creaking noise every time you open or close it and it’s doing my head in, so I can only imagine what it’s doing to everyone else’s.’
She smiled. ‘Ah, yes. I had noticed that.’
I grimaced. ‘Sorry. Hope it didn’t wake you up or anything. It can be quite late by the time I get in from my shifts at the pub.’
She shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, I’m quite a heavy sleeper. Once I’m off, nothing can wake me.’
I laughed. ‘I’m the same.’
‘Well. Good luck,’ she said, walking over to her door, her hand dipping into her pocket for her keys.
I noticed the wine in her hand. ‘Looks like you’ve got an exciting night planned,’ I said.
She looked down at it as though she’d only just remembered she’d got it. ‘Oh, right,’ she replied. ‘Not really.’
Her boyfriend was probably coming round, although I hadn’t seen him much lately. I reckoned he had the kind of job that spanned several time zones. He was probably away in Hong Kong or wherever it was these business types went.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy a glass?’ she asked.
I ran my fingers through the front of my hair, surprised. Although things were easier between us now, we’d never really got past the awkward small-talk stage. This was definitely the friendliest she’d ever been. ‘Um, yeah. Sure. Why not?’
‘Back in a sec,’ she said, letting herself into her flat and closing the door softly behind her.
I could hear cupboards being opened and shut, the clink of glasses knocking together.
Turning my attention back to my door, I picked up the can of oil I’d found under the sink and applied it generously to the hinges. Someone upstairs turned their music up and I could hear bass-heavy dance music. Presumably it wasn’t Ed Sheeran girl. Anyway, somebody was having a good time up there. I was surrounded by people who had an actual life, or at least some semblance of one. I made a mental note to reconnect with some of my old mates from drama school – there was a group of them who always used to be out on a weekend and I’d join them on the odd occasion I had enough money to buy a round. And then because I kept not turning up, because I was working, or whatever, they stopped asking me. It had made me feel a bit shit, to tell you the truth, as though I’d been very easily forgotten about. I still didn’t have any money, but it would be good to catch up with them once in a while.
I tried the door – no squeak. Mission accomplished. I packed all my tools away and waited, unsure what to do. Maybe Rebecca had had a change of heart and realised she didn’t want to have a drink with the sad case across the landing. Then, suddenly, her door popped open and she was standing there holding two tumblers of red wine. She’d taken off her coat and was wearing a black pinafore dress over a camel polo neck. She’d put her wet hair up into a ponytail.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘It’s only from the corner shop, I’m afraid, so I’m not sure how nice it’ll be.’
I took a large mouthful. ‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Shiraz, right?’
She nodded, seemingly impressed. ‘Do you know a lot about wine, then?’
I leaned against my door frame, swilling the wine around in my glass. ‘A fair bit. My dad’s really into it. He brings all these vintage wines up from the cellar on special occasions and we all have to “ooh” and “aah” about how amazing they taste and pretend it’s not ridiculous that he’s spent two hundred and fifty quid on a bottle of drink that’ll be gone in half an hour.’
‘Wow,’ replied Rebecca, pushing up her sleeves one by one, swapping her glass from one hand to the other. ‘A wine cellar, eh? Very nice.’
I took another mouthful. I knew how that must make me sound, but it was the kind of thing that didn’t even register when I told my actor mates. Nothing I said about private school or skiing holidays or having had an au pair from the age of twelve months ever landed, because it was what everyone did in the circles I hung out in. It was refreshing to see Rebecca’s reaction and to realise that this was not, in fact, normal.
‘It’s more of a giant wine rack, really,’ I said, trying to play it down, ‘and we call it a cellar because it just happens to be in our basement.’
‘Still,’ she said.
‘Yeah. Still. Sounds a bit flash, doesn’t it?
I noticed how she’d begun to mirror me, how she was leaning against the frame of her door, too, her hip bone jutting out to the side.
