Turns out it’s not that easy finding a place in London. We’ve been trying for the last month but every time we think we’ve found somewhere that’s the right price (cheap) and the right size (basically not a postage stamp) someone’s got in before us with references and deposit. It’s a full-time job trying to find somewhere, and we’re all trying to juggle college work, agency shifts, and being in the same place at the same time. But I think at last we’ve done it.
The flat in Stockwell seems tiny compared to Albany Road. We take a final look at it as the letting agency guy stands in the hallway. The whole flat is approximately the size of the kitchen and dining room at Albany Road. The windows look out over a landscape that’s grey and depressing. I give myself a shake, reminding myself that it’s pissing down with rain on a gloomy November afternoon, and anywhere would look miserable under those circumstances.
‘Everyone happy?’ The estate agent does a sort of shuffling motion, bobbing his head. He’s wearing a shiny grey suit and smells of Lynx Africa. It reminds me of school changing rooms.
‘Yep.’ I look at the boys and we all nod.
‘Excellent.’ He puts out a hand. ‘Let’s shake. I like to shake on a deal.’
We all go through the motions. I suppress a yawn, because I’m exhausted after working a night shift.
‘Assuming your references work out okay, you three can be in just before Christmas.’
We’re going to be working shifts, so the fact that the sitting room is the size of a cupboard is a minor detail. It’s pretty unlikely we’ll ever be in the room at the same time.
We all stand and watch as the letting agency guy – who’s probably only twenty-one, at most – wanders back to his little car, branded with the name of the agency. He’s already on the phone, organising his next deal. He gets in and drives off, giving us a wave as he passes.
It’s not exactly Notting Hill. Walking back to get the tube we skirt a massive heap of rubbish waiting for collection, and pass a house with broken railings, and half a bicycle chained to a lamp-post outside. Music’s blaring from a window and a man wearing a vest is hanging out shouting down to a boy on a bike below. He circles, then disappears. It all feels a bit like something from a crime drama, and I half expect a flotilla of police cars to appear, blue lights on, and police officers to leap out and start surrounding the place. Still, it’s all we can afford. And at least I’m getting out of my current house-share situation. Living in the same house as Jess has just brought it home to me that there’s no way we can carry on the way we were before.
We walk down the road towards Stockwell. Some parts of it are unrecognisable now they’ve been poshed up, but it doesn’t take long before you’re in streets that look the way they’ve done for decades. Tattered shop hoardings and windows held together with thick layers of fly-posted adverts are interspersed with metal shutters graffitied with ornate spray-painted tags. We walk past a betting shop, which already has multi-coloured lights strung across the doorway and we hear a blast of ‘Step into Christmas’. It’s not even December. It gets stuck in my head and the words jam there, reminding me of this time last year when we were moving into Albany Road and I was still getting over Alice. It feels like light years ago. She sent me an email the other day, just to let me know she’d got back together with Paul, and that she hoped I was okay with that. I sent her a reply wishing them both well, and I meant it. I’m glad she’s happy.
‘Where are you headed now?’ Abeo asks, checking his phone as we stand at the crossing, waiting for the lights to change. A recycling lorry groans and clatters past. It’s got fairy lights strung across the dashboard and the driver’s wearing a red and white Santa hat. I feel like the whole of London is lit up for Christmas. It’s weird, then, that it feels like something inside me has been switched off.
‘Back to my place,’ I say, correcting myself mentally: my old place. I’ll have to get used to the Victoria line, and find myself another café to hang out in on a Sunday morning. But it won’t be the same without Jess. I’ve only seen her fleetingly since she got back from Venice – work is manic, by all accounts, and she’d messaged saying she’d have to put off the farewell walk we planned for Sunday morning. I chew my lip. I think she’s probably avoiding me, and that makes perfect sense. Instead she’ll probably be spending it tucked up in bed at James’s place.
‘Cheer up, mate,’ a gang of suits say as they run past, tinsel round their shoulders, knocking me backwards. It looks like someone’s cloned our estate agent. There’s about ten of them, all in shiny-looking suits, ties loosened. They must be on an early Christmas lunch. A very early one. One of them pauses and drapes their piece of tinsel over my head, shouting, ‘It’s nearly Christmas, have a mince pie.’
God, London is oppressively cheerful at this time of year. I feel like the bloody Grinch. I must get a grip and stop moping. It’s pathetic.
When I get back to Albany Road the house is deserted. There’s a pile of post on the mat in the porch – mostly junk, none of it addressed to me. I stack it on the dresser and wonder if I should bother getting my mail redirected, or if I should just pop round once in a while and pick it up. That’ll mean risking bumping into Jess. That’s a good thing, and a bad one.
In the kitchen it looks like everyone’s rushed out as usual. Someone’s left the lid half-fastened on a carton of milk and it’s fallen over sideways, leaving a leaky puddle on the fridge shelf. I pick it up, wipe up the mess, and bang the fridge shut. It never closes on the first attempt.
Upstairs, Jess’s door’s open. I pause for a moment outside her room, looking in at the unmade bed, the jumble of clothes on the chair beside her bed, and the snaking wires of hairdryer and straighteners tangled on the carpet. And then I notice the light of the straighteners is glowing green – she must’ve left them on in her rush to get out of the door and get to work on time. They’re balanced on a pile of paper – she’s always leaving stuff like that lying around – and I stand on the threshold, wondering what to do. Is it weird to go in? I can’t ignore it. I decide to send a message to the house group chat. It’s been quiet there for ages.
Just standing outside your door, Jess, and you’ve left your straighteners on.
Bloody hell, Jess , Becky shoots back.
Excuse me, Jess types, (I feel a little jolt of something. And then I shake my head. For God’s sake.) You did it the other day, Beck. Can you switch them off, Alex? Thank youuuu x
I step in, carefully, and unplug them from the wall. For the briefest of moments I look around at Jess’s things – at her framed When Harry met Sally picture on the wall, and her fluffy pink coat thing. There’s a striped woollen rug thing on the end of the bed, and a teetering pile of books on her bedside table. I step out of the room, realising that it’ll probably be the last time I’m in there. It feels very final.