‘But it’s a house,’ I mutter. Not an apartment.
On my phone, I find the screenshot I took of Nick’s address below his email signature; Nicholas Consultancy, The Loft, 6 Clifton Crescent. Well, this is it. And it’s big, for a British house. Semi-detached with its own garage, the roof extension, which of course must be Nick’s office, clearly in view. Why had I thought he lived in an apartment? Hadn’t he told me that? A long front lawn spreads beneath a large bay window, well kept with a neatly trimmed hedge and a miniature wishing well. The front door has a cute plaque that says ‘Welcome to the Mad House’.
I adjust the rear-view mirror and give myself a check.
No smudged eyeliner, no goop in the corners of my eyes. Good. I grab my make-up bag and top up my lip gloss, a peachy pink. My scar is still more prominent than my long nose, the first damn thing I see whenever I catch a glimpse of my reflection. But that doesn’t matter. If anyone can see past that scar, it’s Nick Gregory.
Oh my God. I can’t deal with the fact that I’m here. I’m actually here!
I’m too excited to move. I want to relish every little detail. It’s like the moment where you receive a beautiful gift wrapped with a bow: although you can’t wait to open it, you also want to savour it as a mysterious box.
It’s bang on four o’clock; starting to go dark. How is the day almost over before it’s even begun? Mind you, it’s already eight o’clock in Dubai. What would I be doing if I was there, instead of here? Thursday nights are the start of the weekend. Restaurants are filling up, taxis difficult to hail, the traffic moving slowly around Mall of the Emirates. A twinkle of party-time dancing in the air. Not for me, though. Not anymore. I’d be curled up in my PJs by now, watching Grey’s Anatomy, waiting for Nick to call me on Skype. Nine-ish was usual for us on Thursdays; five-ish for him in Liverpool.
I take out my phone. I’ve got three messages from Nick.
It’s almost Fri-yay!
I hate it when he says Fri-yay.
Haha, I know you love it when I say that.
Haha.
So, what you up to today? And how was camping? I miss you xxx.
Thrilling. That’s what this is; absolutely thrilling. Nick thinks this is just a regular day for me, four thousand miles away from him, and yet here I am, outside his house. Everything we have talked about for months is about to start. Now.
I type my reply.
Hey, hey! Camping – meh! Sorry I’ve been off the radar. Phone issues. Boring! I miss you too xxx.
Agh. He’s read it already. And he’s typing.
‘Come on!’ I sing out loud, psyching myself up. ‘Let’s do this.’
I open the door and get out of my little hatchback. Pushing the driver seat forward, I lean into the back seat and grab my army jacket; authentic – apparently – US Army, with badges that have seen better days sewn along the sleeves; I love it. It’s a fond reminder of hopping from festival to festival with an awesome group of people a couple of years ago, partying in green field after green field after green, muddy field. We covered quite a distance, from Suffolk to Budapest, although it kind of rolls into one. Shame we’ve all lost touch. I slip the army jacket on over my denim pinafore and grey t-shirt, patterned with silver stars. I’ve thought about my outfit carefully. And yes, I’m a bit cheesy, but really, the stars are aligning.
I open the trunk, slide the mop out. Everything else can remain inside the car for now. The mop and I are the same height, neither likely to be described as tall. The bow tie has fallen into the boot, so I fix it back around the edge where the handle is visible below the mop’s head. I place a pair of cheap aviators into the mop’s ropey hair.
‘Hey, you,’ I grin. ‘Shall we?’
And throwing my shoulders back, I march up Nick’s garden path, past the wishing well, and ring the doorbell. The mop stands beside me, proud, like a centurion’s spear. How totally British this house is; the bricks, the grey and white painted door frame, the stained glass patterned panels. I take a deep breath, my future about to become my present.
A little girl with tatty braids and wide blue eyes answers the door.
‘Oh, hello!’ I say, startled.
Another even littler girl hangs off the bigger one’s legs. Both are dressed in sparkly tutus over what looks like bottle-green school uniforms, tiaras hanging out of their messy hair. They look from me to the mop and back to me again.
‘Hey kids,’ I smile, aware of the shake in my voice. ‘Is Nick here?’
‘Mummy!’ the littlest one yells. ‘Is Nick here?’
The older girl just continues to stare.
‘Who’s Nick?’ the little one asks.
‘Mummy’ appears, throwing a towel over her shoulder. A navy-blue baggy tracksuit hangs off her curves. With black shiny hair cut into a short bob, her baby pink lips curl beneath a neat button nose.
‘Nick doesn’t live here,’ she says, clear, with an air of confidence, unless it’s her accent that gives that effect. She looks down at her little girls and pushes out her bottom lip, pulling a perplexed face which makes them giggle.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, checking out the house number again, scanning Clifton Crescent. ‘My mistake, I guess.’
‘Yep. Your mistake,’ the woman says.
‘Her mistake,’ the littlest one says.
Turning to my domestic pal, I give the mop an awkward smile and catching my reflection in the aviator lenses, I feel my face flush. I’m totally lingering on a stranger’s doorstep, and there’s nowhere to go other than back to my crappy car to readdress the situation. Maybe the satnav’s directions were wrong. The wishing well didn’t feel very Nick. There might be many Clifton Crescents on the outskirts of Liverpool. All it takes is one wrong letter to make one big error.
‘Come on, girls,’ the woman says, and ushers them inside. ‘It’s Thursday, which means?’
‘Egg and chips at Nana’s house!’ the girls cheer, jumping up and down.
‘Let’s go and get ready then.’
‘Sorry … bye!’ I say, but the door slams shut.
Except, wait. This car, here beside me on the driveway, it’s just like Nick’s car. But, God, what do I know about cars? If it’s got four wheels and a roof, it’s the same as the next car with four wheels and a roof. I take in my surroundings. There are three, four, five cars all parked on driveways in this close that are kind of similar. Totally similar. Well, practically identical.
I back away. The sign, ‘Welcome to the Mad House’, is making me feel most unwelcome. The gravel stones on the path are noisy beneath my suede sneakers. I just want to disappear; my whole presence feels so unnecessary, so misplaced, outside this neat yet bland house. The older of the little girls is at the front window now, watching me and the mop. She hadn’t spoken, but her eyes are wide, inquisitive. She waves, and I instantly feel like less of an intruder. I return the wave and mouth, ‘Sorry,’ again, pulling a funny face that says silly me. The little girl smiles, her big teeth wonky, not quite the right fit for her small mouth yet.
The mop slips back into its place in the trunk, poking into the passenger seat via the car’s interior, and I open the driver’s door, wondering what my next move should be. I’ve got no reason to look back; it’s the wrong house. But, without intention, I do it anyway.