The House Mate Read online

  She looked at me sympathetically. I hated that look on anyone, and I wished more than anything it wasn’t Sophia wearing it.

  ‘Just checking how your first day was?’ She tried to hide what she was thinking, but I could see the concern in her eyes. I knew she didn’t mean anything by it. I stepped back and allowed her to come into the room. ‘It’s looking nice in here now.’ Sophia looked around and I tried to see the extreme neatness of the room through her eyes.

  ‘It was fine, I guess.’ Trying to remember the day but only seeing an image of Will in my mind’s eye.

  I looked towards the window.

  ‘The neighbours, I…’ I stopped myself.

  ‘What is it, Regi?’ Sophia headed to the window. ‘Are they being too noisy?’

  ‘No, I… I just heard something. It was nothing.’

  I couldn’t talk to Sophia, or anyone, about this because I hadn’t disclosed my past. Without that information, I was just a crazy thirty-something woman ranting about hearing and seeing a child.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Sophia sidled closer to me. I stepped backwards as I felt the edge of fear creep over me. I could trust Sophia, right?

  ‘What is it you’re worried about, Regi?’

  Was that concern in Sophia’s voice, or sympathy?

  ‘You don’t have to tell me, but we have the party this weekend, so maybe you can let your hair down a bit. Enjoy yourself?’ Sophia folded her arms across her chest and shrugged her shoulders up and down.

  ‘I guess… I guess I’m just tired.’ I glanced back at the window, the cries of the child ringing in my ears. Sophia was right; I needed to make room for enjoyment in my world that had been so crammed full of other emotions that my soul had been clouded in darkness.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’ll look forward to the party.’

  After Sophia left, I sat down in my immaculate room and pulled out my phone and plunged straight into Mrs Clean’s Instagram account. How I longed to have a kitchen like hers, with so much symmetry and surfaces that gleamed. I knew that my life could never again be filled with the joyous rapture of children’s laughter, so I would need to fill the void somehow. Here, in this shared accommodation, would be a good place to practise. I had the summerhouse I could work on, and the kitchen was the hub of the house; I could make that into something using all these ideas that Mrs Clean was handing out for free.

  I noticed Mrs Clean had posted a new photo of the inside of her fridge. The image showed clear glass containers with lids, labelled with whatever was inside. She had boxed up ingredients for a fish pie: potatoes mashed in one container, the raw fish in another and the sauce in another. We had a large enough fridge, where we each commandeered a shelf, so I imagined I would be able to replicate this system pretty easily. She had added a name of the website so I could navigate my way straight to the place that sold the containers. I bought six. I wouldn’t be able to plan for the whole week with only one shelf to myself, but I could organise a couple of days in advance.

  The very thought brought a bubble of excitement to my gut, and I was thankful when it wasn’t replaced with the fear that had shrouded my body for so many years now. This was what I needed all along: a bigger focus, an actual purpose. I could hear voices from my past reminding me I was allowed to feel joy in certain things. I didn’t need to remain a prisoner in my mind forever.

  I found myself back on the Instagram home page and along the top was a small round circle with Mrs Clean’s profile picture on it. I remembered these were the stories that Mini was telling me about, so I clicked on one and found myself watching a fifteen-second video of Mrs Clean mopping her floor. There was an ad hashtag and something which read, Swipe up to buy. When the video had ended, I went back and watched it again. The camera was obviously on some sort of tripod as it captured the whole of the kitchen and Mrs Clean mopping. She had her back to the camera. There was a song accompanying the video: Dolly Parton’s ‘9 to 5’. Mrs Clean was swaying to the beat as she mopped. It was fun and I found myself smiling as I watched. So far, I had not seen any images of her face, although I knew she used a filter occasionally to hide her identity. She had been crafty and arty with her shots. An arm holding a spray gun, a leg up on a footstool. In this video, she had on a pink bandana, which covered most of her hair except for a swish of blonde which crept through the bottom. She was wearing pink Marigolds, black leggings and blue slippers, and a pink apron was tied around her waist. And having looked through most of her Instagram posts by now, I was beginning to realise this woman wished to keep her face away from the camera and that air of anonymity made her even more appealing to me.

  I went downstairs and thought about preparing my dinner. The kitchen was empty. I looked around and saw the potential again, how this kitchen had such a similar layout to Mrs Clean’s kitchen and how I would like to replicate the exact same fittings. If the house were mine, of course. But for now, I was sure I could find great comfort in testing out a few of Mrs Clean’s ideas. I walked to the fridge and opened it. It really was a mess and having seen the cleanliness of Mrs Clean’s fridge, I felt an overwhelming urge to get stuck in right away. I pulled out a tray of half-eaten lasagne with the foil all scrunched up. I placed it on the counter and as I turned back to the fridge, I physically jumped. The fridge door had closed and in its place was Steve.

  He looked at me and blinked.

  ‘Jeez, Steve,’ I said and opened the fridge again. He turned and walked around the door, so he was half behind me, half to my other side.

  ‘You’re making dinner?’ he asked tediously.

  I continued to remove items from the fridge and lay them on the side.

  ‘I was, but now I’m cleaning.’ I spoke into the fridge.

  ‘Good. Therapeutic,’ he said, extenuating the word.

  Karen walked in, sneezing into a tissue. She paused by the fridge.

  ‘Hey, babe,’ she said to Steve and I was reminded that I hadn’t had a word with her yet about her boyfriend letting himself in without anyone’s consent.

  ‘You ready?’

  ‘Sure am,’ he said.

  ‘Have fun,’ Karen said with what could only have been sarcasm in her voice. I guessed if I was a young girl sharing digs in my early twenties, I would have been offended. But Karen didn’t know the joy that could be gained from a clean and organised fridge space.

  Karen walked out of the door, but Steve stood still for a second longer. ‘Bye, Regi.’ He sounded very restrained. I looked over my shoulder at him as I crouched back down in the fridge. He was looking directly at me, as though he might say something more. And even though his expression was neutral, I felt all the joy within me wash away. It felt difficult to swallow and there was a pain in my chest. I turned my attention back to the fridge as a ripple of uncertainty flared up within me, a flash of a memory, a face from the past and the nothing look Steve gave me before he turned to leave. I shook my head and tried to make the thoughts fall away. You are safe, Regi. All is well.

  I looked back at the doorway and seeing that he had gone, I blew out a long breath.

  Fifteen minutes later I had wiped down all the shelves and sides of the fridge with a spray gun of antibacterial cleaner and the cleanest cloth I could find. I decanted oven trays of food into smaller containers and labelled them, then I wiped all the bottoms of the jars of jams, marmalades and pickles and put them all into the side compartment of the fridge, freeing up another shelf. I stood back and admired my work. It was as good as Mrs Clean’s posts, so I pulled out my camera and snapped an image of the inside of the fridge, wishing I had done one of the damn tap-to-tidy photos that Mini had told me about. I posted it on my own Instagram wall and tagged Mrs Clean. Maybe she would see it, maybe she would reply.

  I looked at the time. It was getting on for six and I needed to eat. I warmed up a can of soup and sat down at the table. The sound of the doorbell trilling through the hallway made me jump out of my skin. I walked to the kitchen doorway and waited to see i
f anyone else would answer it. But Karen and Steve were out, and I could hear the sound of the shower from the bathroom and music playing from Mini’s room. I edged closer to the door, knowing I would have to answer it if no one else would. I felt an unease unfurling within me, and so I prepared myself to open and close the lock six times. I worked as fast as I could, not knowing who was behind the other side or what their reaction would be to my behaviour. I took a deep breath and pulled it open.

  A man in a fluorescent jacket was standing there. Behind him, his white van chugged away on the road.

  He handed me the package, then held out a device for me to sign with my fingers. I shakily gave my signature and looked at the package, which I could see was addressed to me. Intrigue swept through me, but the fear was stronger. I didn’t remember ordering anything other than the storage tubs Mrs Clean recommended, that wouldn’t arrive for a couple of days, and no one knew my address. I carried the box to the kitchen table where I examined it. Footsteps at the doorway made me spin around to see Sophia standing there in her towel.

  ‘Did I hear the door?’ She edged closer. ‘Cool, Amazon, what you been buying?’

  ‘I… an alarm clock,’ I say quickly, thinking on my feet.

  ‘Nice.’ Sophia went to the fridge and opened it. ‘Oh my… wow!’ she turned to me. ‘Is this your work, Regi?’

  I felt a sudden flutter of pride. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Good job. Now I can actually see what the hell is in this fridge. I always look at it and think I must do it but, you know, I never do. Obvs.’

  ‘I’ve been getting some inspiration from some cleanstagrammers.’

  ‘Cleanstagrammers. Hey, getting down with this Instagram thing, then?’ Sophia pulled out a jar of pickles and picked one straight out of the brine with her fingers. I looked on slightly appalled, glad that pickles were not my bag.

  ‘Maybe I’ll have to check her out. I’m glad you have found something to, you know, to ease your mind a little.’

  I cleared my throat and nodded. I wished I could speak, say the words to her. Tell her how I became this strange creature that stood before her. I would have loved her to have known me in my former life.

  Once Sophia had retreated to her bedroom, I darted to my own room to open the package. Once inside I locked and unlocked the door six times, then tore open the box. Inside was a white box, and on the front it read, Non-stick hamburger press.

  I dropped the package on the bed and took a few steps backwards. I had always been a woman of simplistic needs, never requiring materialistic things to make me happy. The memory began to filter back. I had been standing in front of the TV watching as a chef made burgers with this simple device. I remember saying out loud, what a fab gadget it was and maybe it could go on my birthday present list. I received a sneer in return. ‘I can get you more than a piece of cheap plastic for your birthday, babes,’ and it was never spoken about again. Only now here it was, sitting on my bed in a house I was absolutely certain no one else could have known about.

  Some people will keep on hunting relentlessly until they find what they want. He was one of those people. I looked at the package on my bed. And today, on the day I turned thirty-six, I knew his small birthday gift was also another of way of telling me he had found me.

  8

  Then

  ‘Found you,’ he whispered in my ear. His breathing was ragged, and his speech was slurred. His breath was laced with the sweet tang of yesterday’s drinking and the sharp scent of the shots of brandy he had been on since lunchtime. It was now 3 p.m. He had been calling for me. I had thought to hide, never wishing to be around him when he had been drinking, I had hoped he would eventually tire and fall asleep on the sofa. But he searched the house until he found me in the airing cupboard. I quickly turned it into a game. ‘You found me!’ I said with a tight smile and threw my arms around him. He pulled me out of the small space and lay me on the floor on the landing.

  He was bearing down on me, holding me firmly by both wrists. His legs straddled my waist and even his heels dug into my sides as extra force to hold me still. But I knew he was drunk, and he would soon tire.

  ‘Were you… trying… to… hide… from… me?’ he slurred. I wished for something to distract him, and to my relief the doorbell rang. He clumsily fell off me and staggered to the door. The package the post lady handed him kept him busy and away from me until he eventually passed out on the floor next to the sofa.

  When he woke several hours later, I had prepared a simple meal of mince, potatoes and carrots. He didn’t thank me but later, as I passed him in the lounge to tidy up a few bits, he pulled me into his lap and there we stayed as the TV blared out repeat episodes of a British sitcom we had both seen a hundred times before.

  ‘This is living,’ he whispered lazily into my ear. I suppressed a shudder and looked past the television and gazed at a small, dark splatter on the wall. I made myself believe this moment would pave the way for more moments like this until we found our way to a place that felt relatively normal. It was only when I had been staring at the patch on the wall for five minutes or so that I realised I was staring at my own blood. A vivid reminder of his last rage.

  I wriggled myself out of D’s lap and excused myself to go to the toilet.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ he called after me and winked at me suggestively.

  When I returned after an unnecessarily long toilet trip, he was asleep.

  I fell to my knees next to him and examined the softness of his skin, the light smattering of stubble and the way his lips were parted slightly as he softly snored. As I knelt there, I tried to will an unconditional love that would carry me through this, shield me from the brutality. My body could withstand the beatings, but my heart and my soul were slowly dying. All the dreams I had of a family life were shattering. I knew now that this was who he was, and I could and would never change him. But that wasn’t what terrified me the most. What scared me more than anything was that I knew I would never leave him. That no matter how much pain he caused me physically or how many times I cried myself to sleep at night, leaving was something I knew I couldn’t do. And I had no explanation for it. It was simply a feeling that I could neither get rid of or change, no matter how much I tried. I was trapped and no one was going to save me.

  9

  Now

  I walked through the college corridor on Friday and I saw him. There was no escape. He was coming straight at me. I shoved my chin down into my scarf, dipping my head, but it was too late.

  ‘Regi!’

  I looked up in mock surprise. ‘Will!’

  We stopped in front of one another. I gave an awkward smile. There was no denying he was an attractive man and that he was clearly interested in me. I couldn’t help but be reminded of what it was to be attracted to someone and how good it felt.

  ‘Have you had a good first week?’ He leant against the lockers to his left and clutched a red folder to his chest. A small smile played across his lips; his dark eyes were looking at me so intently that I began to feel a prickling sensation under my armpits. I didn’t know where to look, so I looked down at my Converse trainers.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ I scuffed my feet on the floor.

  ‘Found your way around okay?’

  ‘No problems.’ I looked back up to find Will’s bright eyes looking intently at me and I was surprised to feel heat rising up my neck and into my cheeks.

  He snorted a small laugh from his nose.

  ‘What?’ I shook my head.

  ‘Ahh, I kinda half expected – hoped for – a knock on my door and to see you looking lost, that was all.’ Will’s face broke out into a smile, the skin around his eyes crinkled at the edges.

  ‘There’s a few of us old ones hitting the pub after class. It’s the Fiddlers Inn, just outside the college. A few of the students find their way in, but overall, it’s refreshing to get away from it all. Fancy it?’ Will said, widening his eyes in anticipation.

  I stood there, thinking about
what to say. I had nothing to give to a relationship right now, and dragging this out was only going to make it worse for both of us.

  I thought about home and what waited for me. Opening and closing doors countless times, changing my bedsheets, a meal for one and maybe some TV with one of the girls. It was nothing to rush back for, but I knew that taking him up on his offer would escalate the relationship further and I wasn’t ready to share the little scraps of what was left of me and my life with anyone.

  ‘I, um, can’t tonight. I have a…’ I suddenly I remembered it was the party tomorrow night, ‘… there’s a party at my house tomorrow, one of my much younger millennial house mates is celebrating their birthday – I said I’d help get things organised.’ That last part was a lie. I had no intention of playing any part in event organising for a twenty-first-birthday party.

  ‘A party, wow.’ Will raised his eyebrows in interest. ‘Sounds fun.’

  And now I had insinuated that I was looking for a date? Why was all this such a minefield? I remembered when talking to a guy was the easiest thing on Earth to do.

  ‘So, well, yeah, that’s what I need to be doing, but have fun in the pub.’ I began walking away, my chin pushed back into my scarf.

  ‘Hey, Regi,’ Will called, and I stopped and slowly turned around. He stood facing me, one hand raised. ‘Have a good weekend.’

  Regret raged like a flood within me. Threatening angry tears, I turned and walked away. I stared straight ahead of me and saw myself in a parallel universe, one where I hadn’t made any mistakes. One where I didn’t have to hide anything about myself and one where I could accept Will’s offer.