‘Welcome to my new house.’
Gen’s standing on her bed. She reaches up and pushes the glitter ball that hangs from the ceiling so it twirls, casting squares of light that bounce and reflect off the walls, the furniture and us.
Gen’s always lived in, well, unusual places. She spent a summer after university living in a silent meditation retreat in Bali, sleeping in a hut and sweeping bugs off the floor before bed every night. The concept of the irrepressible Gen, the human embodiment of a can of Coke that’s been shaken up then opened, keeping her mouth shut for a week at a time was pretty much unthinkable to me. But she said afterwards that she’d loved it, and that it had really helped her acting. That made sense. She’s so dedicated to acting that she’d do pretty much anything if she thought it would make a difference – including, it would seem, saving money by sleeping in assorted battered-looking disused buildings to save money for more classes. Her large residence had been a mansion house – huge, grand and with a sweeping staircase that belonged on a movie set – that was waiting for redevelopment.
When she’d told Sophie and me that her new place was an ex-nightclub, I thought perhaps she’d be sleeping in a converted office or something, not on the dance floor.
Gen jumps down, and beckons me to follow her. ‘I’ll make us a coffee. Come this way.’
I climb wooden stairs lined with faded posters that have been plastered to the wall, their edges curled and peeling. Familiar faces look back at me, ghosts of the musical past. The place smells dark and cool and – if you inhale and close your eyes – you can almost imagine the thudding of the bass and the throngs of excited, wild-eyed clubbers ricocheting off each other on the dance floor, arms in the air.
‘They’ve made a little kitchen for us, here – look.’ Gen opens the door, proudly, and I walk inside what was clearly once the manager’s office. It’s got a brand-new IKEA unit, with a hob, a sink, and a fridge and washing machine. But it’s clearly still a room that’s pretending to be something it’s not. Gen switches on the kettle.
Life as a live-in guardian isn’t for the faint-hearted. The properties are vacant, so it can be a bit spooky and weird – basically, you’re making sure the building isn’t taken over by squatters. Gen heard about it from an actor friend while she was working on a play about a year ago. Before that, she’d done what most people do when they’re trying to make their way in London – she’d lived in a tiny, cramped house-share, in a bedroom that was once a walk-in cupboard, with no window and a door she had to keep propped open at night so she didn’t overheat or worse still suffocate. It was grim. Then she found herself looking up live-in guardians, and discovered that – as long as you didn’t mind being relatively impermanent, and could cope with living pretty much anywhere in central London – you could get by paying about half what you’d normally pay for the area. It’s still more than I’m paying Becky, but I’m in a very weird – totally miraculous – position.
‘What d’you think?’ Gen asks as she clatters spoons, spilling sugar and wiping it up, before handing me a coffee.
‘It’s … interesting,’ I say.
‘Cheap. And the other guy who is sharing it is pretty low-profile. Nice to know I’m not on my own here, though. We’ve had a couple of pissed people banging on the door in the middle of the night. I reckon they thought the club was still open. Ancient clubbing dinosaurs from another time …’ She grins, sipping her coffee.
‘I don’t think I could cope with moving every few months, though.’ I think about Albany Road and feel a wave of gratitude for Becky. She could have put that place on the market and sold it for millions. I still don’t know what came over her when she decided to gather us lot together and let us stay there for a ridiculously low rent. As it is, my new publishing salary isn’t stretching very far. By the time I’ve paid rent and my share of the bills, there’s not an awful lot of money left. February wasn’t so bad because it’s a short month, but March has barely started and I’m already feeling the pinch a bit.
‘I don’t mind moving if it means I get to stay here. London’s so bloody expensive.’
‘We could move back to Bournemouth,’ I say, waiting for her reaction.
‘No chance in hell. I’d rather live on 20p noodles from Tesco for the rest of my life.’
‘I think that’s what’s going to happen to me. Payday’s only just gone, and I’m absolutely skint already.’
She looks at me, brows knitted together. ‘I thought your snazzy job in publishing was paying really well?’
‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘In Bournemouth terms, maybe. Not so much in London.’
‘It’s fine as long as you don’t want to go anywhere or do anything.’ Gen lifts her mug up. ‘Even a coffee’s more expensive here. Not to mention drinks …’
‘Yeah. I was invited on a night out to celebrate someone’s leaving do the other day, but I turned it down when I looked up the menu. Cocktails were about £18 each.’
‘Is everyone you work with loaded then?’ Gen swivels herself round on the old black office chair, spinning herself like a child visiting a parent’s workplace.
‘I don’t know. Maybe they’ve got private incomes or something. I reckon half of them are subsidised by parents, and the other half are like me. Jav didn’t go on the night out, either.’
Jav and I have taken to going off to the café down the back street behind our office for lunch a couple of times a week. It’s full of plaster-splattered workers from the building they’re redeveloping round the corner, but they do a pretty decent soup and sandwich for the same price as a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice from the posh restaurant below our building.
Jav’s nice, and I relate to her because she comes from a housing estate in Peterborough, and doesn’t have parents in the business. There are an awful lot of people in the office who seem to have found their way into the job because of someone knowing someone. The MD of the company is so posh that when he talks I have to focus very hard to work out what he’s actually saying. He doesn’t just have a plum in his mouth – I reckon he’s got several fruit trees.
‘Jess?’
I shake my head. Gen’s been talking and I’ve been lost in my thoughts.
‘If you’re struggling, maybe you should give notice at Becky’s place and sign up to become a live-in guardian? I know you said the rent’s cheap, but this is really cheap.’
I shake my head. I haven’t actually told her how much I’m paying, because I feel a bit guilty that she’s been struggling for ages to get by and then I just landed on my feet.
‘I like it there. And the rent’s not expensive. It’s just I keep buying coffees and stuff and they’re so bloody ridiculous. I was walking with Alex the other day in Bloomsbury and we went past a place that was charging £5.50 for a flat white.’
Gen whistles. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘I know.’
‘You need to get a flask,’ she says. ‘More to the point, what’s with all the walking with Alex stuff?’
I make a face. ‘Nothing. He’s just showing me London.’
‘Thought you said he came from Kent?’
‘He does. He just used to spend a lot of time here as a teenager with his dad, and he’s got a really good memory for places and stuff, and you know what I’m like with directions.’
‘Completely, unimaginably hopeless?’
I nod. ‘And it’s really helping. I made it home on foot the other day without getting lost once. It’s nice – like joining up a jigsaw puzzle. And that’s why everyone wears trainers with their office stuff. I couldn’t work it out at first.’
‘Yep.’ Gen waggles a foot. She’s always in huge, chunky trainers. ‘It’s easier to walk most of the time instead of waiting for a bus or fighting your way through the tube. Nice that Alex is taking the time to show you round,’ she says, giving me a sly, sideways look, one eyebrow crooked upwards. ‘Out of the goodness of his heart?’
I feel my cheeks going slightly pink. ‘There’s nothing going on. He’s completely wrapped up in work, and I get the feeling that whatever he’s got going on with Emma is exactly what he wants – no complications.’
‘What about Becky’s no-relationships rule?’
‘I don’t think she knows there’s anything going on.’
‘Oh my God. So you’re the keeper of the secret? Does he know you know?’
I pull an awkward face. ‘Don’t think so. Emma doesn’t realise I saw her coming out of his room that morning, and there’s nobody but me on our floor.’
‘You should say something. Drop a little hint.’
‘God, Gen, no. That would be awful.’
‘Right. So you’re just going to quietly carry on living with the man of your dreams while he’s banging your flatmate on the QT and not say a word.’
‘He is not the man of my dreams.’
‘He so is. I’ve seen him. And I’ve seen the way you looked at each other. I reckon he’s got the hots for you, too. Why else would he be spending his non-existent time trawling over London showing you how to get from A to B when Google Maps exists?’
‘I can’t work Google Maps, you know that,’ I say, only half joking. Whichever way I start walking, I always end up going the wrong way. It happened the other day at work when I was supposed to pop out to a bookshop near the office. Fifteen minutes later, I’d walked in a circle and still hadn’t found it.
‘That is so not my point, and you know it.’
Gen takes a sip of her coffee and narrows her eyes slightly, in that way she does when she’s convinced she’s right about something. I don’t say anything.
There’s a pause. I stand up and look around the little kitchen, and Gen spins round on the chair again. A couple of times she opens her mouth to speak, and then – uncharacteristically – closes it.
‘Gen?’ I sit back down, looking at her. ‘What’s up?’
She rubs her finger and thumb together. It’s an anxious habit she’s had as long as I’ve known her. Before a performance on stage, she stands in the wings doing it unthinkingly. I look down at her hand and up at her face. She realises what she’s doing and lifts both hands up in a gesture of confusion.
‘It’s Soph. This wedding stuff. The baby stuff. All of it.’
Sophie’s on the verge of something called the two-week wait. Apparently, it’s something to do with waiting to see if her and Rich’s attempts at getting pregnant have been successful. Our group chat has become a little bit … medical, these days.
‘You mean you don’t want to know how many times she and Rich have had sex?’ I say.
Gen makes a slightly disgusted noise. ‘No. I love her, but she’s treating this exactly the same way she treated exams at school, and it’s a bit TMI. And she’s obsessing over wedding dresses and it’s like there she is, on the verge of becoming a Proper Grown-Up. And I feel a bit shit. I’m living in—’ she waves her arm, indicating the converted club manager’s office that is her kitchen ‘—well, in this. Still hoping for my big break, still scrabbling to survive from one month to the next, still having to tap my parents for money when I’m skint and with credit cards up to my eyeballs.’
I totally get it. Admittedly I can’t tap my mother for money, because she’s always been skint and – oh God, I’ve just realised it’s Mother’s Day at the end of the month. I must check and see if it falls before payday. She’s going to expect flowers, and wine. Mainly wine. I wonder if she’d mind if I skipped the flower bit.
I remember we’re talking about Sophie. Now there’s someone who likes things just so. Always has. If she has children, she’s going to be calling Interflora to make sure they send reminders a week before every occasion.
‘Soph’s always been like that, though,’ I say.
We both fall silent for a moment. I think of Sophie at primary school, her pencil case filled with neatly sharpened coloured pencils, ruler and strawberry-scented eraser, writing her name neatly at the top of her exercise book. Meanwhile, Gen and I would be scrabbling around at our desks, trying to find a pencil sharpener and rummaging in our bags for our crumpled, half-finished homework.
‘She’s just – naturally organised,’ I conclude.
‘It just feels like our ski trip was the last hurrah,’ Gen says, looking a bit sad. ‘I don’t want to grow up.’
‘Don’t worry, Peter Pan.’ I reach over and squeeze her hand. ‘I’m always here to make you feel like a normal, functioning adult. I can’t even manage to get relationships right.’
Speak of the devil, Sophie messages us a moment later, asking if we want to meet up on the South Bank for a drink later on – her treat.
‘I need a bit of moral support,’ she explains when we meet her a couple of hours later, shifting out of the way so the waiter can put our drinks down. ‘Thanks,’ she says, with a smile. The bar looks out over the Thames. We’re protected from the still-cold spring weather by a wall of glass, but we can watch the people scurrying about like ants on the Embankment. I gaze out of the window for a moment, but Sophie gives a large sigh, drawing my attention back to her.
‘What’s up?’ Gen puts her chin in her hand.
‘Well, I’m not pregnant, that’s what’s up.’
I don’t know a whole lot about trying to get pregnant. To be honest, I’ve spent the last decade trying to avoid it. The way we’re taught at school, you’d think you just had to sit on the same sofa as a man to end up up the duff, so the idea that it’s a bit of a challenge is news to me.
‘You’ve had two goes,’ says Gen, trying to be consoling. It’s never been her strong point. ‘I think it probably takes more than that. Look at all those people that have years of IVF.’
I spin my head round and give her A Look.
Sophie gives a wail. ‘Oh my God, what if that happens to me?’
‘I’m sure it won’t,’ I say, reassuringly. ‘I think you probably just need to not stress about it. And have sex lots.’
‘I have been. Rich says he’s feeling a bit worn out. And I’m bloody exhausted. I fell asleep at work the other day.’
‘That might be a sign you need to cool it a bit. Maybe focus on the wedding stuff instead?’ Gen flicks a glance in my direction. ‘Have you got any ideas for our dresses yet?’
Sophie shakes her head. ‘We haven’t actually made it official yet.’ She waves a naked left hand.
‘You’re not getting married?’
She shakes her head vigorously. ‘Oh we are, it’s just we haven’t had the official Will You Marry Me bit.’
‘Did you just instruct Rich he was getting married, Soph?’ Gen gives her a look.
‘I did not.’ She looks offended. ‘He did have some say in it.’
Gen gives a snort. The waiter arrives with a tray of drinks – gin and tonic for me, a beer for Gen, and a large vodka and tonic for Sophie.
‘Cheers,’ she says, clinking our glasses.
‘What happened to not drinking?’
‘Oh, bollocks to it. Just for tonight, anyway.’ She takes a large swig and gives a happy sigh. ‘God, that’s good.’
A couple of drinks later and Sophie’s feeling much better. She’s visibly relaxed, and it reminds me that in amongst all the other stuff – finding my way through this new job, the house stuff (which is what I’m calling it and definitely not the Alex stuff) – it’s so nice to have both my oldest friends living right here in the same city. I beam at them and they smile back.
‘I love you two,’ I say. ‘And that’s not the gin talking.’
We order another round of drinks. Thank goodness Sophie’s paying, because this place is astronomically expensive.
‘You should order the most tight-fitting, slinky, unforgiving wedding dress you can find,’ I say, thoughtfully. ‘I bet if you tempt fate you’ll be preggers before you know it, and you’ll have to have a bump-extension sewn in.’
‘Or you can get a Meghan Markle style dress?’ Gen’s one hundred per cent Team Meghan and a bit obsessed. ‘She looked like she’d left room for expansion in hers.’
‘D’you think?’ Sophie perks up a bit. I’m scrolling through Instagram to find photos of Meghan’s dress, and before we know it, Sophie’s writing lists and making plans and normal Sophie service is resumed. I catch Gen’s eye over the top of Sophie’s head as she scribbles down a list of wedding dress designers in her ever-present notebook, and we exchange grins. Friend duty complete.