Tattered shop hoardings and windows held together with thick layers of fly-posted adverts are interspersed with metal shutters graffitied with ornate spray-painted tags. We walk past a betting shop, which already has multi-coloured lights strung across the doorway and we hear a blast of ‘Step into Christmas’. It’s not even December. It gets stuck in my head and the words jam there, reminding me of this time last year when we were moving into Albany Road and I was still getting over Alice. It feels like light years ago. She sent me an email the other day, just to let me know she’d got back together with Paul, and that she hoped I was okay with that. I sent her a reply wishing them both well, and I meant it. I’m glad she’s happy.
‘Where are you headed now?’ Abeo asks, checking his phone as we stand at the crossing, waiting for the lights to change. A recycling lorry groans and clatters past. It’s got fairy lights strung across the dashboard and the driver’s wearing a red and white Santa hat. I feel like the whole of London is lit up for Christmas. It’s weird, then, that it feels like something inside me has been switched off.
‘Back to my place,’ I say, correcting myself mentally: my old place. I’ll have to get used to the Victoria line, and find myself another café to hang out in on a Sunday morning. But it won’t be the same without Jess. I’ve only seen her fleetingly since she got back from Venice – work is manic, by all accounts, and she’d messaged saying she’d have to put off the farewell walk we planned for Sunday morning. I chew my lip. I think she’s probably avoiding me, and that makes perfect sense. Instead she’ll probably be spending it tucked up in bed at James’s place.
‘Cheer up, mate,’ a gang of suits say as they run past, tinsel round their shoulders, knocking me backwards. It looks like someone’s cloned our estate agent. There’s about ten of them, all in shiny-looking suits, ties loosened. They must be on an early Christmas lunch. A very early one. One of them pauses and drapes their piece of tinsel over my head, shouting, ‘It’s nearly Christmas, have a mince pie.’
God, London is oppressively cheerful at this time of year. I feel like the bloody Grinch. I must get a grip and stop moping. It’s pathetic.
When I get back to Albany Road the house is deserted. There’s a pile of post on the mat in the porch – mostly junk, none of it addressed to me. I stack it on the dresser and wonder if I should bother getting my mail redirected, or if I should just pop round once in a while and pick it up. That’ll mean risking bumping into Jess. That’s a good thing, and a bad one.
In the kitchen it looks like everyone’s rushed out as usual. Someone’s left the lid half-fastened on a carton of milk and it’s fallen over sideways, leaving a leaky puddle on the fridge shelf. I pick it up, wipe up the mess, and bang the fridge shut. It never closes on the first attempt.
Upstairs, Jess’s door’s open. I pause for a moment outside her room, looking in at the unmade bed, the jumble of clothes on the chair beside her bed, and the snaking wires of hairdryer and straighteners tangled on the carpet. And then I notice the light of the straighteners is glowing green – she must’ve left them on in her rush to get out of the door and get to work on time. They’re balanced on a pile of paper – she’s always leaving stuff like that lying around – and I stand on the threshold, wondering what to do. Is it weird to go in? I can’t ignore it. I decide to send a message to the house group chat. It’s been quiet there for ages.
Just standing outside your door, Jess, and you’ve left your straighteners on.
Bloody hell, Jess , Becky shoots back.
Excuse me, Jess types, (I feel a little jolt of something. And then I shake my head. For God’s sake.) You did it the other day, Beck. Can you switch them off, Alex? Thank youuuu x
I step in, carefully, and unplug them from the wall. For the briefest of moments I look around at Jess’s things – at her framed When Harry met Sally picture on the wall, and her fluffy pink coat thing. There’s