Chapter Twelve

Gran’s house is empty when I get there, but then I am earlier than usual. After watching A Knight’s Tale while scoffing a chicken pasty (the branded paper bag James had been carrying tempted me, so I popped in the shop on my way back), I pottered about the flat, changing Bolan’s litter tray even though it didn’t need it, stacking the dishwasher (if putting a couple of mugs in there counts as ‘stacking’) and unpacking my carrier bag in Russell and Jed’s bedroom, periodically checking my phone for messages and frantically bashing out a reply every time I spotted one from Paul. Russell and Jed said I could help myself to anything from the fridge, freezer and cupboards, which were crammed with food. The fridge in particular was bursting, mostly with fruit and vegetables (probably to make up for the fish and chips) and I didn’t even recognise a good chunk of it. I didn’t let this deter me. If I’m going to host a dinner party as part of my ‘be a grown-up’ kick, I’ll need to learn how to cook, so why not experiment while I have a fridge full of ingredients and a stack of cookbooks on the shelf in the alcove?

After selecting a recipe for a ‘hearty vegetable stew’ from one of the books, I grabbed a load of leafy green things from the fridge and peeled and chopped while listening to an uplifting playlist on Spotify. The whole lot was chucked in a casserole dish with boiling water and an Oxo cube before being placed in the oven. I checked – and double-checked – for more messages while I waited for the hearty stew to do its thing, and Bolan finally dragged himself from the radiator hammock and curled up on my lap, which was quite sweet until he started to claw at my thigh in a weird, rhythmic way. I had to shoo him away when I heard the threads of my leggings rip, which earned me a look of pure disgust as he slinked his way across the room and disappeared into the hall, where he did a big dirty protest in his spotless litter tray.

After over three hours in the oven, I pulled the stew out, lifted the lid and almost vomited over Russell and Jed’s kitchen floor. Hours later, and with all the windows open, the flat still smells like a teenage boy’s gym bag and, unable to take the stench for another second, I’ve taken myself to Gran’s house.

There’s no answer when I ring, so I use my key to let myself inside. The downstairs rooms are all empty, so I head upstairs. I don’t actually check inside the guest bedroom, though I do press my ear against the door to listen for any signs of life. I’m tempted to have a snoop, to hunt for evidence of James’ wrongdoings – a stack of pension books, a false passport, that sort of thing – but I show great restraint when I take myself back downstairs instead. I find myself in the kitchen, facing the fancy coffee machine James installed yesterday, mug in hand. He did say I could help myself to his pods, but was his offer genuine, or was he playing out his kind, generous spiel for Gran’s benefit?

I open the cupboard beneath the coffee machine and select a pod. If James’ offer was genuine, then there’s no problem with me enjoying a cortado. And if he was simply showing off in front of Gran with his phony offer, then it’ll serve him right for being a smarmy, deceitful git.

The coffee is delicious, with an intense, bitter burst of flavour combined with creamy milk. I’m in heaven right now as I sip the drink on my way to the living room. I have a quick snoop around (just in case James has carelessly left any incriminating evidence lying around) before settling down with my crochet. I may as well – there’s nothing else to do while I wait for Gran to get back. I really do need to kick-start my social life again. It’d be something to post on Instagram to show Paul how much fun I am to be around if nothing else and I consider the places I can venture out to (perhaps not the Red Lion just yet) as I work on my crochet. I’m on the second round of my granny square and it’s oddly satisfying to see it changing shape. How has it gone from a circle to square-shaped? Baffling.

I’m on my second coffee by the time Gran and James get back (the first coffee pod has been stuffed right down to the bottom of the bin so it doesn’t look like I’m taking the piss). Gran is chuckling as she steps into the living room and though she’s still smiling when she spots me, her eyebrows rise in surprise. I’ve caught her off guard. She wasn’t expecting to see me sitting on her sofa when she arrived back with the lodger.

‘Have you two been out somewhere together?’ Eww, they haven’t been out on a date , have they? Because I’ll chuck the cortado and cappuccino up over the sofa if they have.

‘No, I was on my way back from Gwen’s and James stopped and offered me a lift the rest of the way.’

I’m not sure I believe Gran’s version of events. It all seems a tad convenient and doesn’t explain the surprise – or was it guilt? – when she spotted me. ‘You’re learning fast.’ Gran nods at the crochet square in my hand. ‘You’re doing marvellous. We’ll have a blanket out of you in no time.’

I suppose the crochet – being carried out voluntarily – could explain the astonishment on Gran’s face a moment ago.

‘I was bored.’ I raise one of my shoulders in a shrug before going at the yarn with my hook. I’m on the final corner of round two, which means I’m almost halfway there. Two more rounds and I’ll have a whole granny square.

I am definitely adding ‘kick-start my social life’ to my to-do list, because it’s tragic how gratified I feel right now over a bit of knotted wool.

‘Have you eaten?’ Gran drops her handbag onto the other end of the sofa. I watch James for signs of interest in the bag but he’s too busy shrugging off his blazer and draping it on the back of his chair. The chair. Not his, even if he does seem to have claimed it as his own. How long until he’s claimed the whole house?

‘Cleo?’ Gran unzips her anorak. ‘Have you eaten? I could make you something if you’re hungry?’

I tear my eyes away from James. ‘I’m good. I had something before I came out.’

‘Something’ was the pasty I scoffed before attempting to make the revolting stew.

‘How’s it going? Living away from home for the first time?’

‘It isn’t the first time.’ I don’t mean to sound sulky, but that’s how it comes out. ‘I went away for a bit, during my gap year with Sienna.’

The gap year that turned into a decade, because I never made it to university.

‘Only for a bit?’ James sits down on the chair. I watch him closely for signs of snark, but he seems mildly curious, if anything. He can’t even be bothered to make eye contact as he reaches into the box beside his chair.

‘I had to come home.’ I focus on my treble crochet. I’m still slow and clumsy with the hook and yarn, so it takes a lot of concentration. ‘My grandad had a stroke. He needed looking after.’

‘I’m sorry. That must have been tough.’ I see James looking at Gran out of the corner of my eye. He’s still reaching into the plastic box he keeps his crochet kit in, but he’s stopped rummaging.

‘It was quite a mild one. He recovered well with the help of his family and we had a few more precious years together.’ Gran stoops to kiss me on the top of the head, her lips nudging my messy bun. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on. I suppose you two will want one of those fancy coffees?’

‘I’m fine for now, thanks.’ I nod towards the mug on the table. ‘I used one of your pods. I hope that’s okay?’ The coffee churns in my stomach as I fleetingly meet James’ eye. I shouldn’t have stolen a pod – two pods – and now I feel guilty. ‘I’ll buy some more to replace them… it.’

‘It’s fine.’ James places his latest granny square on his lap. It has a green centre, a cream inner layer and he’s about to start a green outer layer, the show-off git. ‘Like I said, help yourself. Your gran’s being so generous, a few coffee pods is the least I can do.’

How generous? What’s she offering up to this stranger?

‘You are paying rent, aren’t you?’

James snorts. ‘Of course. What do you take me for?’

I keep quiet. I’m not sure James would appreciate the answer to that question.

‘I’ve bought you a little house-warming present.’ Gran’s back from the kitchen, beaming at me as she carefully hands me a spotty gift bag. ‘I know you’re only at the flat temporarily, but I was passing that upcycling shop near the station and I saw this in the window.’ I peer into the bag and see a bunch of leaves. Reaching gingerly inside, I feel around and find a cool, smooth pot. There’s a handle, which I use to pull the object carefully from the bag. ‘Isn’t it perfect for you?’

The ‘object’ is a Starbucks mug containing some kind of leafy plant. It’s a lovely gesture, and it’s the perfect house-warming gift for the coffee-obsessed, but my stomach churns again. Not only do I have to take care of Russell and Jed’s cherished cat, I also have to somehow keep this plant alive too. I mentally add another item to my mounting grown-up to-do list.

It’s strange being in a bed that isn’t mine. I’ve slept in other beds, obviously – the bed in Gran’s guest room many times (the bed James is probably sleeping in right now. Icky thought. Let’s move on), the fold-up bed Sienna used to squeeze into her bedroom for our sleepovers, the scarily narrow bed at Jerry and Gwen’s caravan, and, briefly, the beds in the hostels Sienna and I stayed in during our travels. I found those hostel beds the most difficult to sleep in, and not just because we had to share a room with strangers. I hated being away from home, from Mum and Dad, and Gran and Grandad, and my friends. Travelling the world wasn’t at all what I had expected it to be. I thought being away from home would be freeing, but it was exhausting and grimy, and the nights were the worst, when there was nothing to keep my mind off how homesick I was, even with Sienna by my side. At night I could admit to myself that I wasn’t happy, that I missed my old life and wanted to go home. So sleeping was hard and the only thing that helped was putting on the playlist Sienna and I had made before we left Clifton-on-Sea. It was made up of memories – the song we jumped around with abandon to during our primary school’s leavers’ disco; the song we listened to during Sienna’s first break-up, when she was heartbroken and couldn’t express the feelings swirling around her thirteen-year-old body; and the song that picked her up again and made her a fighter. Songs that we listened to on a loop during our first residential school trip, and songs we belted out the lyrics of as we staggered home after a night in the Red Lion. I grew up listening to these songs and it didn’t matter that I was hundreds of miles away from home while that playlist was blasting through my earphones.

I have the playlist on Spotify, and I set it going now. Bolan, it seems, doesn’t sleep in his fancy four-poster bed during the night. He curls up on the end of Russell and Jed’s bed, but he’s a quiet sleeper and at least it means he’s forgiven me for shooing him away earlier. I close my eyes as Avril Lavigne tells me the story of the sk8er boi and the snobby, judgemental girl who threw away her chance to be with him. I can picture Sienna and I jumping around the hall of our primary school, the room filled with balloons and banners. Jessica Smithson was crying in the corner, being comforted by Mrs Langley and Miss Paris, and at the time I’d thought she was an attention-seeking baby. But I get it now. We were leaving one stage of our lives behind and moving on to the next but Jessica wasn’t ready to let go. I wonder what happened to Jessica Smithson. We didn’t go to the same secondary school and I never saw her after we left Year 6. She’s probably acing life like all the others. High-flying career. Gorgeous house. Husband (or wife, let’s not make assumptions). Kids.

I’m feeling gloomy again, but a message on my phone perks me up. It’s from Paul, saying good night (with three kisses ). For the past seven years, my life has been on hold, suspended between my teenage years and adulthood, but Paul ‘Franko’ Franks will be back in my life in eighty-two days and I’ll be nudged back on track again.