Page 5 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Thanks,’ I said again. ‘Anyway, have a good rest of the⁠—’

But before I could finish, he’d leaned in and kissed me.

It was horrible. I’d had my share of unwelcome snogs, of course, but this was up there with the worst of them. Gary smelled of stale Lynx, beer and fags. His stubble scraped my skin. The hand that wasn’t holding the beer can was pressed against the wall next to my head, trapping my hair.

I fought to escape and, after a few horrible seconds, I managed it. But I wasn’t quick enough.

As I snaked away from him, I heard Samantha’s voice calling from the stairs, ‘Gaz, where the hell are— What the fuck?’

Desperately, I ran the rest of the way to my room and ducked inside, locking the door behind me.

FOUR

17 MARCH 2005

St Patrick’s Day. Well, I shan’t be carousing in the street with pints of Guinness and a sexy leprechaun outfit this year – or any year, come to that. But I find myself, as I huddle under the duvet – which at least, now, covers a new mattress and a proper bed – considering breathing a prayer to him, the patron saint of engineers.

Yesterday a surveyor visited and the news he left was not good. The house, it seems, is practically falling down. There’s dry rot in the floors and rising damp in the walls, as well as evidence of woodworm and rodent infestations, not to mention the fact that the entire roof needs replacing before the top floor gets even more sodden than it already is and the ceiling above me collapses.

Then something else happened – something better. Maybe St Jude, patron saint of lost causes, has been looking out for me after all? It was when I visited the newsagent, not just because I’d run out of bread and milk but because Imran, the shopkeeper, was likely to be the only friendly face I’d see all day.

For the first time, I stopped outside Imran’s shop and took a proper look at the cards stuck in the window. Many of them were faded, curled at the corners and dusty – it’s a quaintly old-fashioned way to advertise one’s services, whether as a painter or a prostitute, now that everything happens on the internet. But one looked relatively new and freshly lettered, carefully handwritten with what looked like a permanent marker. I can’t remember now exactly what it said, but two things jumped out at me: Handyman Services and a mobile number.

I hadn’t been praying but it was like an answer to prayer.

I dialled the number. A young man’s voice answered and I gabbled out the fact that I was in desperate need of his services. Then he dashed my hopes: his circumstances had changed, he said, his accommodation in London had fallen through and so he was going to return to his family in Leicester.

Some kind of desperation possessed me. In that moment, it seemed like this boy – Luke, he’d said his name was when he answered the phone – was my only hope.

Don’t do that! I begged. You can come and stay in my house for free if you’ll do some of the work that’s needed.

He must have thought I was mad. I think I am mad!

But he must also be just as desperate as I am, because he agreed to come and meet me and see the house. I will have to pay him, I’m sure, in addition to putting him up in one of the rooms here – the one across the landing is probably the most habitable. There is far too much work here for one man to tackle, however desperate he is for a roof over his head, and I know absolutely nothing about this Luke – he could be a fraudster or even an axe murderer. But even if he is, I have nothing to be defrauded of and his axe-wielding skills might come in handy getting rid of some of the crumbling dry-walling left over from when this place was a warren of cheaply rented offices.

What’s more, he mentioned that his ultimate goal is to become an artist – almost as if he knew that would instantly make me look kindly on him, given my own mothballed ambitions.

Best of all, my conversation with him has given me an idea. I may have almost no money, but I have all the space I could want. Eventually, I may be able to find other people who are desperate enough to want to live here – people who will pay me actual money. I can cook and clean for them, like a proper old-fashioned landlady. The prospect makes me feel almost hopeful. Perhaps we have a future together, this house and me. I will put a card of my own in the newsagent’s window and see what happens.

FIVE

I stayed in bed as long as I could the next day. I felt like a child who was about to be called into the head teacher’s office for a misdemeanour she hadn’t committed – I knew I’d done nothing wrong. But, with equal certainty, I knew that Samantha wasn’t going to see it that way. Still, the only alternative I had to getting up and facing whatever there was to face was staying locked in my room for the rest of my life – a prospect that wasn’t without appeal.

It was the sound of Gary snoring that finally propelled me out of bed. Even through my closed door and Samantha’s across the landing, I could hear it as clearly as if he was in my bed, not hers. A grinding inhale, a pause, a snorting exhale. Over and over.

Abruptly, I sat up. It was pathetic to hide away in here like I was some kind of criminal. Besides, I needed to wee and clean my teeth. I opened my bedroom door tentatively, peering out on to the landing then scuttling furtively to the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, showered and dressed, I made my way downstairs. My trepidation had eased now, and I was feeling resolute if not exactly confident. I’d take myself out, buy a copy of Loot and read the accommodation section.

I’d make a plan.

It came almost as a shock to see Samantha when I got downstairs. She was sitting on the sofa in her pyjamas, last night’s make-up still smudged under her eyes, her hair hanging lankly over her shoulders, eating tuna mayonnaise out of a cereal bowl with a spoon.

‘Good morning,’ I said, as calmly as I could.

She didn’t respond to my greeting. She looked straight through me, as if I wasn’t there. I saw right then what lay ahead – weeks and weeks of being shunned and ignored, treated as if I was invisible, until eventually I gave up and moved out.

‘You don’t have to bother sulking,’ I said. ‘I’m going to find a new place to live. And you might want to find a new boyfriend.’