‘Anyway, how are you?’ he asks. ‘Are you okay? Be honest.’
My cheeks fill with air. ‘Not entirely happy about it all.’
‘How so?’ He leans against the counter and puts his mug down.
‘Oh, it’s just everything, isn’t it?’ I scratch at my forehead. ‘You go into these things thinking something will come of it. It’s all very lovely and sweet, and now I feel like I’ve wasted my time. And not just with him, but with the job, too. Everything I’ve spent time building, and now I’m going back in time ten years and moving home.’
‘Now, see, Mum would have called this experience to add to life’s résumé.’ He offers me an understanding smile. ‘It’ll all come in handy, I promise.’
‘Maybe.’ I clap my hands together. ‘Anyway, let’s get this show on the road. I only want to do one trip. I’m sure you feel the same.’
‘Funnily enough, I had to stop Dad driving down last night,’ he says with a soft chuckle. ‘He called and was adamant he was coming to help. Adam, don’t worry, he said, I’ll be there by ten. I talked him out of it. Anyway, I’m meant to be dropping the truck back in Sheff tonight so, yes, let’s get you moved.’
Getting all my boxes into the truck is the easy part. It’s big furniture that seems to take forever. My dining table goes downstairs on its back, like a turtle, and my mattress gets jammed in the lift door. Instead of being worried about the door repeatedly opening and closing, gnawing on my bed like a dog with a chew toy, Adam starts shouting, ‘Pivot! Pivot! Pivot!’ and we fall about laughing.
Today marks the only day I’m officially pleased I don’t do weekly grocery shops. It means my refrigerator is next to empty. While Adam wheels it away with a trolley we manage to borrow from a neighbour, I stick around to do one final clean.
‘Look what I found.’ I wander out of my bedroom when I hear Adam return.
When I’d come to the realisation I wasn’t destined to be a successful photographer, I’d folded up my tripod, buried my studio lights at the back of the wardrobe and hidden my vintage Rolleiflex camera away. It had been so long since I’d seen it, I honestly thought it was back in Sheffield. I don’t recall ever using it in London.
‘Christ, that’s a throwback,’ Adam says. ‘You used to take that everywhere with you, but I never see it anymore. Where’d you find it?’
‘In the back of my underwear drawer.’
‘Gross.’ With a grimace, he tosses the hot potato back into my hand. ‘Not what you normally find in the back of an underwear drawer.’
Though I’m laughing, I offer him a playful slap. ‘Stop it.’
‘You ready to go?’ he asks.
‘Is anyone ever?’
Fiona appears at the top of the stairs, hair swept up in a bun and wearing her usual paint-splattered smock. Adam, Dad, and I have been unloading the truck for an hour already, and she’s just arrived brandishing a brand-new mop and what looks like a washing basket full of handy items for the new renter. Through the clear cellophane tied with white ribbon, I spy bleach, spray cleaner and cloths, mouse traps, disinfectant and those little stars that stick to the inside of the toilet.
One of my favourite moments of the past ten years was hearing Fiona’s take on how she met my father for the first time. After a divorce that can only be described as Mt St Helen’s on a bad day level of catastrophic, she moved to the area and came into Dad’s store looking for a specific brand of oil paint.
All she wanted was to pick up where she left off on an old hobby, but Dad tried telling her she was using the wrong paint, that it didn’t mix as well as the brand he sold, and it escalated into what Dad likes to call a ‘spirited debate’. She threatened to shop elsewhere and he relented, agreeing to order in a bunch of paints for her, and a few extra should she need them later. He took her number and promised to call when they arrived, and the rest is history. Peas in pods and all that.
Turning the basket at angles, I can also see sourdough bread laced with apricots, sultanas, and figs. A sweet cinnamon scent wafts up with each squeeze of the basket. There’s also a block of butter from a local dairy and my favourite brand of local milk with cream on top. Breakfast tomorrow will be nothing like my regular grab-and-go from Pret.
‘This looks amazing.’ I place the basket on my dining table and wrap her in a hug. ‘And you’re incredible. Thank you.’
‘It’s really, really lovely to have you back,’ she whispers. ‘Your father is especially thrilled.’
‘Don’t.’ I retreat and point at her, my bottom lip trembling. ‘Give him a week and he’ll be sick of the sight of me.’
‘I doubt that very much.’ She gives me a motherly look as she moves across the apartment. My apartment.
Adam crosses the threshold with my last box of junk. He looks as exhausted as I am, shaking his arms out as he thumbs towards the bottom of the stairs. ‘Looks like someone’s already planning the grand opening.’
Dad is pacing about the place, checking over each room and calling up his suggestions for what he thinks should go in each room. ‘Oh, and caterers. Lots of caterers!’
Fiona raises a finger to her lips. ‘He hasn’t shut up about it.’
Right now, opening night is the last thing on my mind. Furniture is strewn across the place, I’m exhausted, my head aches and the last twenty-four hours have been an emotional spinning wheel. On the upside, the move was painless, with only one stop at services for a lark before continuing up the M1. I had met Ava, the estate agent, at her office, where I signed all the final paperwork and took possession of the keys and the building.
The flat above the gallery is thrice the size of my London apartment. I’ve gone from a cosy budget hotel room to an open-plan penthouse suite, not that I’d dare complain. I like to think of it as my reward for dealing with a tsunami of trash this week. With what little I own, it’s more than enough room for me without having to spread out into the other rooms. If I break the space up into thirds, I’ve got all my needs sorted.
It had all felt surreal at the time, inspecting the building and asking for permission to do things that generally make a landlord’s eyes twitch. Now I’m here and my belongings are filling up the place, it feels oddly familiar and comfortable, nourishing even.
At the far end, closest to the fire escape, there’s a kitchenette, and we waddle my refrigerator into the corner beside the door. The en suite off to the side looks like a recent addition. My extendable dining table finally gets the chance to shine, and I let it fold right out and drag it into the middle of the dining area. I move it again to accommodate my sofa and television.
The front end of the flat becomes my bedroom. My bed, bedside tables and lamp are all shoved beneath the space by an open window that overlooks the street. When everything’s in place, I stand back and take it all in.
I don’t think I’ve ever had this much room to myself. It’s freeing, if not a little overwhelming, and I’m already so much more in love with it than I thought possible. When everything’s tidy and in place, it’ll be so homely. Even the Tupperware orange wall doesn’t bother me so much anymore. In fact, I might keep it. My low-rise shelf full of art books almost suits it. I quickly decide my art is going on the wall above it.