the outside, I know it looks like a crack den. And no matter how many scented tea lights I burn around the place, the smell of grease from the chippy can’t be masked. Why do I care what Zara thinks? Christ, she thinks I’m some ‘mysterious entrepreneur’, a joke almost worse than today itself. Maybe that’s it; I can’t pretend that I don’t like the notion of being somebody I’m not. Somebody successful, somebody who has it all. Anything’s better than the truth.
‘Starving,’ I tell her.
Well, I’m not lying. Except something from Wong’s? Ah, bollocks. The novelty of that wore off about four days after I moved in. But I say, ‘And you should eat before your journey.’
‘From there?’ Zara asks, horror bleeding from her voice.
I’m quick to defend. I’m fond of Mr and Mrs Wong and their antisocial kids.
‘Best chips in Liverpool,’ I say. ‘You can’t leave without trying them.’
‘We’re kind of in a hurry …’
‘You’ll be sorry.’
Zara flashes her perfect teeth, smiling from her mouth, not her eyes.
‘Okay. I’m up for anything,’ she says.
‘Wait here.’
I’m parked on double yellows, but there isn’t another space free. Switching on the hazards, I dive out of the car but not before warning Zara to stay put. I don’t trust her not to wander off, so I give her a job; to watch out for traffic wardens. She accepts her challenge with a small salute and I run into Wong’s.
‘Jimbo!’ Mr Wong cries, his blend of Chinese and Scouse always sounding on the verge of tears. ‘Long time no see, lad.’
An acute waft of vinegar and chip fat hits my nostrils.
‘Can I go through the back, mate?’ I ask.
‘You forget your key?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Jimbo!’ Mrs Wong appears, always sounding as though she’s telling me off.
‘He forget his key, love,’ Mr Wong cries.
‘Stupid.’ Mrs Wong folds her arms.
I ignore her and fly past, through the kitchen and out the back door, ajar to carry away the smell of cooking. I grab the spare key from under the mat, there for the Wongs’ antisocial kids to let themselves in and watch Netflix on my telly.
Taking the lid off the biscuit tin, I see a sea of silver and copper; about fifteen quid’s worth, I reckon. It’ll take me too long to count all this out. I open the cupboard below the cutlery drawer, take a carrier bag from the stash. Emptying the coins into the bag, I shake it to check there’s no holes, then tie a knot in it. I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror hanging in the hall beside the bathroom door. It won’t hurt to change my t-shirt. It reeks of smoke, stale booze, body odour. I throw the carrier bag of coins onto my bed, unzip my fleece and take off my t-shirt, scrunch it into a ball, chuck it into my wash basket. I grab a clean t-shirt, one I won from the Pacific Arms pub quiz, a local brewery advertised across the chest. I put my fleece back on.
Shit. Zara’ll wonder why I’m wearing a different t-shirt.
I drop the plastic bag, zip my fleece right up to beneath my chin. That’s better. I ruffle my hair a bit and retrieve the bag.
Oh, double shit. The bag rips. Coins splatter across the carpet. There must’ve been a bloody hole in it after all. Falling to my knees, I attempt to collect the coins but can’t hold onto them without some slipping between my fingers. Blood rushes to my head. I see stars, black spots. Snowy wasn’t half right about how I handle hangovers. Suddenly the idea of salty, greasy chips from downstairs isn’t such a bad one.
I go back into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water. I catch a glimpse of the collage hanging on the wall, photos arranged all slapdash, yet thoughtfully planned with an online template, made by Helen – a joint gift from her and my mates – for my thirtieth birthday. Most of the photos were taken during our teens and twenties, boozed up, boggle-eyed and effervescent. Hats played a big part: all of us wearing sombreros and drinking tequila; all of us in Santa hats or sparkly devil horns. Christ, I was broke back then, too, except it didn’t seem to matter the way it does today. An unwise arrogance allowed me to enjoy the lack of cash, the start of debt, almost as if there was a poetry attached to it, a beauty that portrayed me as more interesting