The Lonely Fajita

Not again, I think. If this is another lecture about putting clingfilm on leftovers, I’m going to weep.

***

When we head through to the living room (well, it’s more of a living room-cum-kitchen-cum-dining room) Yaz gives us a nod from the beanbag and ladles a spoonful of chilli into his mouth. I perch on the back of the sofa and Tom sits on an upturned stack of empty plastic boxes, left over from Shamaya’s move last month. The four of us cast glances at each other, no one keen to speak first.

‘I don’t want to make it sound like I’m being, like, the “house boss”,’ says Shamaya, using her fingers to make quote marks in the air, ‘but I thought it might be a good idea to talk about a couple of issues that have come up.’ Oh, no. This doesn’t sound like one of those meetings. Usually, she brings in evidence of our deviances and lays them out on the kitchen counter like a domestic member of the KGB. She’s only been here three weeks and so far we’ve covered morning bathroom arrangements, pungent food items that are now banned from the fridge (basically all the good cheese), and a detailed chore chart that I have completely neglected to obey.

Shamaya leans against the kitchen cupboards and weaves her hair into a braid that drapes over her left shoulder. ‘This has got nothing to do with Dad being the landlord, though. I’d say this in any house I was living in.’ Now that I don’t doubt. She ties her plait off with a twang of black elastic and folds her arms across her chest. ‘Now, I know we all came up with a set of house rules – well, not rules really. What were they? Guidelines? Well, I’ve noticed that we’re not all taking them seriously.’

‘Are you talking about my gym stuff in the airing cupboard?’ says Yaz, scraping at his plate. ‘Because it’s not sweat. They’re damp because I washed them.’

‘No, you’re good, Yaz,’ says Shamaya, tapping her forearm with a row of manicured fingers. ‘It’s more this. All this washing up.’ I notice it now. On the counter, a number of cereal bowls have been stacked up, along with smeared plates and a few mugs, sticky with hot chocolate and marshmallows. My stomach does an awkward little jump. Shit.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Tom looking over at me.

‘Er, I think some of those might be mine,’ I say.

‘They’re all yours.’

‘Right. Okay. Sorry about that, I’ll just …’ I walk over to the sink and reach for the Fairy Liquid, but Shamaya interjects.

‘It’s not just that. And I’m not saying it’s you necessarily, but I’ve noticed that someone’s been using my hair oil in the bathroom.’

‘Definitely not me,’ says Yaz, pointing to his buzz cut.

‘Can’t claim that one. Sorry, Liss,’ says Tom. Bloody traitor.

Shamaya raises her eyebrows at me and I root around inside, searching for any semblance of guilt, but … no, I don’t regret it one bit. That oil has been a wondrous gift from the heavens. The curl definition. It defies logic. I’ve been flicking my head about at work so regularly that I’m sure I’ve got mild whiplash.

‘It might have got knocked over?’ I offer lamely.

‘Hmm. I don’t think so, do you?’ says Shamaya. Ouch. ‘Look, I’ve been helping Dad out with some of the property maintenance, and to be honest, this place was only ever meant for three tenants. Technically, it’s me, Yaz, and Tom on the lease. Oh, and the utility bills,’ says Shamaya, trying and failing to seem like she’s only now remembered a clearly rehearsed piece of evidence. ‘So, I don’t know what you guys want to do, but according to the multiple-occupancy license, two adults sharing a room need a minimum bedroom space of 10.22 square metres, which we can’t provide for you here. It would be different if it was just Tom, but when you moved in …’ she trails off, angling her head towards Tom, who sits on his hands and refuses to look up.

Is she … is she suggesting I move out? because of a few crusty dishes and some fucking argan oil?

‘Look, this hasn’t been a problem before. We’re fine! I’m sorry about the dishes – seriously – but me and Tom have an arrangement about the bills and stuff. Don’t we?’

The sound of crunching polystyrene balls comes from the corner, as Yaz does his best to sink deeper into the beanbag.

‘Don’t we, Tom?’ I repeat.

He looks up as though I’ve yelled his name from across a park. ‘Well, yeah. I mean, we said I’d pay for both of us until you got a job and then we’d move somewhere nicer. No offence, Shamaya,’ he says, turning to her briefly. She shrugs. ‘And, well … you’ve got one now—’

‘– that pays me enough to get the tube to work and buy a Freddo at the end of the week. I’ve hardly got enough to start banking in the Caymans,’ I say. Tom always complains about the fact we live somewhere grotty when he could afford a place without lino on the floor. He likes lingering at estate-agent windows – a pursuit I’ve never seen as anything other than self-flagellation. Although it increasingly seems like fantasy, Tom knows I want to share the rent equally.

‘The thing is, Elissa, it’s not a case of wanting you out, but Dad would have to apply for a new license from the council, which he’s not keen on,’ says Shamaya.

‘That sounds sort of … fair enough,’ says Tom, shrugging.

‘Yeah, I mean, if we have to find somewhere else, that’s that,’ I say. I look over at Tom. He’s cleaning muck out from underneath his nails.

‘Look, I know this is awkward.’ Shamaya exaggerates a grimace. ‘But there are probably loads of flats happy to take a couple. Elephant and Castle is on the up.’

‘We could, yeah,’ says Tom, slowly. ‘But if we break the lease early, we’ll have to find someone to take our room.’

‘What difference does that make?’ I say.

‘I’m just gonna—’ murmurs Yaz, easing himself up from the floor to slip between us, silently leaving through the kitchen door.

‘Well, it’s a lot of faff, isn’t it?’ says Tom.

‘Yeah, but we’d have to do that in a few months anyway,’ I say. The strip lighting of the kitchen feels razor sharp and I notice the beginnings of a headache pinching at my temples. I have an overwhelming desire to sleep, and to keep on sleeping until everything is simple and soft and uncomplicated. Shamaya clears her throat.

‘It’s inconvenient, that’s all. I’ve got a lot of work stuff coming up,’ Tom says.

I have a vision of tense room viewings sandwiched between arguments about affordability and yet another conversation, instigated by Tom, about asking my boss for a wage. If he’d met Mitchell, he’d know you can’t just ask him something like that.

‘I’m just the messenger,’ says Shamaya, wide-eyed and slack-lipped with concern, ‘but if you wanted to get your own hair products, you know, until you figure out the room thing, that’d be great.’

£17.50 for a 100ml bottle of perfumed oil? She must be having a laugh.

Tom gets up from his plastic-box perch and clicks his fingers absent-mindedly. I’m chewing on the skin around my little finger and don’t notice him near me until he’s slipped his hand into mine, pulling me over to stand beside him. His grasp is a little too tight around my fingers and I can feel his rough, bitten nails digging into my palm.

‘We’ll have to sort something out,’ says Tom, breathing through his nose. I twist my hand free, feeling heavy and hollow with the realisation that my housemates clearly find me an utter drag to live with.

It’s true that I haven’t really made an effort with Shamaya, but to be honest, passive-aggressive Post-it notes about ‘bin etiquette’ aren’t the best foundation from which to build a friendship.

‘Come on, we don’t need to decide on anything right now,’ says Tom, his voice soft, eyes insistent. He gives me a little tug and motions towards the door. As we turn to leave, Shamaya puts down her bowl with a loud clunk.

‘Oh, one more thing. Could you also remember to separate stuff for the recycling? I found an After Eight box stuffed in with the milk cartons yesterday.’

‘Elissa?’ Tom prompts, half out the door. He nods towards the neatly labelled recycling tubs and yawns. I swallow with immense effort and kiss my teeth.

‘Recycling. Sure. Not a problem.’

When I try and smile, I bite my cheek and wince at the pain.

Chapter 3

Last night whilst Tom brushed his teeth, I climbed into bed and tucked myself as close to the wall as possible, my back to the door. I don’t know what I thought it would achieve. A prompt to pull me closer, perhaps, even though I’m still angry that he hasn’t once mentioned Shamaya’s smear campaign against me. Aside from grazing the back of my head with a kiss, he’s apparently unconcerned. I spent an hour blinking at the flaking plaster on the wall before I gave up and turned over, hooking my arm across his chest. He shuffled back to nestle into the curve of my body, at which point I must have drifted off. When Shamaya woke me up at 5.30 a.m. with her military stomp to the shower, he’d gone.

The pipe from the basin runs along the wall above our bed and, in my half-conscious state, it sounds exactly like a trickle of wee. I would say there are worse ways to wake up, but after the rampant foxes that shag on the green opposite the flat and sound uncannily like a woman being attacked, the pissy shower is a close second.

There’s a small flurry of birthday messages on my Facebook page and I wonder if it was incredibly narcissistic of me to reactivate my account just before I went to bed last night, largely from a fear that otherwise this day would go entirely unrecognised. They’ve ranged from Maggie’s 12.03 a.m. re-post of an old picture of us from school, aged ten and doing ‘girl power’ peace signs at the camera, to a video clip of my mum and dad on the deck of a cruise ship somewhere in the Caribbean. I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying because of all the wind, but there’s lots of blowing kisses from Mum, and Dad is wiggling around and dancing with his elbows up near his ears to avoid spilling his pint. Other than that, a couple of people I haven’t spoken to since school and a guy called Paul I slept with once at uni (bit weird) have sent birthday wishes. Oh, and my brother, who has sent me an emoji of a birthday cake. Nothing from Tom. I guess it’s early.

I’ve missed my designated bathroom slot, as Shamaya is followed by Yaz, who has been singing in there for a full twenty minutes. Tom so irrationally hates Yaz’s singing it makes me laugh. In fact, I’ve always found Tom’s cynicism and general intolerance of other people’s quirks endearing. But then again, it means he also won’t let you talk during a film, or when Pointless is on, or during the cricket, which is sadistic because sometimes those matches go on for actual days.

Earlier, I’d jumped out of bed to put my dressing gown on the radiator and only now manage to slide out of my marshmallow duvet, straight into the gorgeously pre-warmed robe. It had been my nanny’s before she died a few months ago and I’d brought it back to London with me, seeing as she’d hardly used it before she went into hospital. Tom thought that it was morbid and weird, but I find it quite comforting. The thick towelling material had swamped her when she’d worn it; her little bespectacled face peeked out of the top, the belt tied twice round the waist. With Mum and Dad declaring early retirement a few years ago, Nanny had been the only one I could call for a chat without someone thinking I needed money.

From the midst of my bedcovers I hear the muffled tinkling of my snooze alarm, now on its eighth repeat. I look at the screen whilst scraping my hair into a rough bun:

REMINDER: Friday 8.30 a.m. Smear Test @ Vassal Medical Centre

No! How is that today?! No, no, no!

I look at my phone, which now reads 8.11 a.m., and throw it back down on the bed. Mentally calculating my options, I quickly assess the two most likely. One: I could skip it, but that would mean I’m struck off the surgery’s patient list and I’ll have to sneak over the border into Southwark to register under a pseudonym. Or, two: I could go, somehow explain to Mitchell why I’m not coming in, and turn up unshowered with a faint red wine stain around my mouth.

Why would I have booked a smear test on my birthday?! Happy Birthday, Elissa. Here’s your present: having your fanny winched open in front of a total stranger. In addition to the horrifying fact I’d read this morning (at age twenty-six, your cells decay more quickly than they are replaced, so you essentially begin dying. What a treat!) this has to be the worst start to a birthday I’ve ever experienced. Worse than waking up in my second year of university with a sticky pillow, because my housemate had climbed into bed with me and promptly vomited the previous night’s snakebite all over the sheets.

I’d put off asking work for a late start because I couldn’t bear the thought of having a talk with Mitchell about anything even remotely associated with my vagina. I’d tried writing out different versions of the conversation in my notebook, but I’d torn out all the pages like an indecisive teenager writing a love letter.

Last time I went for one, I’d had a mini freak-out in the waiting room when I realised the doctor was a man, so I panicked and told the receptionist that I’d left an egg boiling on the stove and needed to rescue it immediately.

I leave the house with mottled skin from the splash of cold water I’d chucked at my face as I left the flat, and jab Suki’s name into my phone as I quick-walk up the road. Suki picks up on the third ring.

‘Suki, I’m in a—’

‘Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to—’

‘Suki! Suki, I’ve had a ’mare of a morn—’

‘– YOU. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ELLISSAAAAAAA.’

A pause.

‘Suki, I’ve—’

Oblivious to my plight, Suki breaks into a Maria Carey style riff and runs up and down the scales like a has-been 90s diva. ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUUUUUU!’ The last note turns into a screech and I hold the phone away from my ear.

‘Thanks, Suki, that was, er … lovely,’ I say, my body straining from the burst of movement I’m forcing it into. I take a breath and glance at my screen to check I’m still heading the right way. ‘Suki, I’ve got a problem. I’ve booked a fucking smear test and I’m already late and I’ve forgotten to tell Mitchell. Is there any chance you could make up something that explains why I’m not in? Like I’ve … twisted my ankle or dropped my phone on a tube track or something?’

‘A smear test on your birthday? Fucking hell, Elissa, you know how to celebrate.’

‘I know, I know.’ I don’t know if it’s the sharpness of the cold air on my throat, but I’ve got a sudden urge to sink onto the floor and have a bloody good cry. She’s laughing down the line and I force a smile even though I know she can’t see me.

‘I absolutely would – in a heartbeat – but I’m not in the office, babes. Louis’ got some bloke over from Seattle and he’s using my desk. I’m working from home. Well, I’m playing Street Fighter with Jazz at the minute but I will be working. Soon.’

‘Okay.’ I take a ragged breath and hear my voice crack on the line. ‘Okay, don’t worry. I’ll sort it out.’ I try to feign enthusiasm, but it sounds like I’m in a hostage video with a rifle-clad soldier standing just out of shot. ‘See you tomorrow then!’

‘Snatch night, babe!’

‘Can’t wait!’ My voice wobbles and I bite into the casing of my phone to stop myself from screaming. A man walking in the opposite direction recoils, flicks up the collar of his navy woollen coat, and quickens his pace. My phone now reads 8.26 a.m. and according to the map I’m ten minutes away. Lurching into a quick walk with a hop every other step, I dial Mitchell’s work number and wait for him to pick up. I chew my top lip as it rings for the fourth time.

Just as I’m about to celebrate the far less intimidating prospect of explaining myself to Mitchell’s voicemail, his clipped, nasal voice breaks across the hum of rush-hour traffic on Clapham Road.

‘Mitchell Chandler speaking.’

‘Um, hi, Mitchell, it’s Elissa.’

‘Who?’

‘Elissa. Elissa Evans?’

‘Oh right, Els, what’s going on?’

My rehearsed explanation slips entirely out of my head.

‘Are you running?’ asks Mitchell.

‘Yes, well, no, I mean, I am running but I’m not on a run. Hahahaha!’ Come on, Elissa, initiate brain!

‘Unless you’re about to give me a visual description of your sports bra, I’m not interested, darling.’

‘I’m phoning to … I’m phoning because … I’m having a …’

‘I’m having a fucking existential crisis listening to you. Would you please get to the fucking point?’

‘I’m a … I’m … It’s my vagina! I’ve got vagina issues! It’s a vagina thing!’ I scream down the phone.

What. The. Fuck. I’ve lost it. I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at it in disbelief, gaping as the call lengthens by the second. I want to shove my whole fist in my mouth. I’m effectively fired now, aren’t I? And if I’m not fired I’ve got to quit. And move cities. Possibly countries.

‘I’ll be in later. Thanks, Mitchell! Doctors, you know, the appointments always run late, what can you do! Okaythanksbye!’

Well, that’s one way of dealing with it.

By the time I arrive at the surgery, I’m puce, panting, and sticky from the run.

I strip off my coat and fan myself with a meningitis leaflet to try and appear as anything other than a sweaty monster. The waiting room is bulging with elderly people and parents with tiny, sticky-fingered children who squabble over toys and frayed cardboard books in the corner of the room. A mum, straight out of a Boden catalogue except for the slightly swollen and bloodshot eyes, yawns wearily and pushes a pram back and forth, despite the fact that her chubby baby is gurgling happily on her lap. Behind her, a noticeboard hangs heavy with community adverts: kittens for sale, a request for a French-speaking au pair, mother and baby groups, and local litter-picking walks (I will never be a good enough person to do that.) Just as I’m considering whether ‘mother and baby’ groups are an example of everyday sexism, my name flashes up on the obtrusively large LED screen and I’m called through to room five. Gender politics will have to wait.

Chapter 4

Okay, not the horror show I was expecting. I could have done without being shown that strange speculum thing before it went in (why does it have to be made of clear Perspex?), but in all honesty I’ve had far more awkward sexual encounters with Tom, so this was an upgrade if anything.

As I leave the surgery, I tuck into the wall, allowing a man in an electric wheelchair to navigate expertly round the socked feet of crawling toddlers. I hitch my bag up onto my shoulder, but when I do it catches on thumbtacks and dry Blu-tack, sending a flurry of notices to the floor.

‘Oh, bollocks.’

Hurrying over with small clicky steps and a jaded expression, the receptionist helps me pin the adverts back up, some of which are stiff and crinkled with age. I pass her each notice and after a quick glance, she scrunches and drops most of them into a bin that she’s dragged beneath us using the pointed tip of her shoe.

As I hand over the last one, I waver, and we end up clutching either end of a purple-bordered flyer lettered in bold Comic Sans. From under her thumb, the phrase ‘rent-free’ peeks out at me, along with a picture of a young woman perched on the arm of a winged armchair. In it, an elderly lady sits, her eyes crinkled with a strained smile.

‘Hang on, can I keep this one? Is that okay?’

She looks down at my hands and shrugs, speaking out of the corner of her mouth to save the pins from falling. ‘Sure, saves me some space.’ I look at the flyer and squint to read its sun-bleached words:

Are you seeking a unique opportunity to care for an elderly member of your community? Are you looking for low-cost accommodation, whilst greatly adding to another’s quality of life? The ElderCare Companionship Scheme could be for you! A rewarding and fulfilling opportunity, our scheme is open to anyone patient, friendly, and helpful (over 25 years) willing to be a live-in companion. Contact the ElderCare team to find out more about matchmaking, locations, and availability.

It shouldn’t feel aspirational, but the people on the flyer look so … content? I thought companionship would be easy if you lived with someone, but recently I’ve found myself apologising to Tom for asking to spend time with him. It’s like I need permission to be his girlfriend.

I fold it up and slide it into my back pocket.

I wind my scarf around my neck and walk out of the surgery feeling oddly proud of myself, kind of like when you use a trolley to go food shopping for the first time. I’d done a grown-up thing! And I hadn’t cried! Yes, the doctor may have referred to the scraping of cells as ‘a bit like caving’. Yes, I may have shouted the word ‘vagina’ to my boss, but I have achieved something today!

I stand outside the surgery, take my phone out, and flip the camera round. I grin and point to the sign above the door, adding a spattering of ‘thumbs up’ emojis around my face along with the caption:

I had a smear test and it wasn’t horrendous!

I send it off to Maggie. Within seconds she’s pinged one back, her face grimacing in front of a plywood stage.

Well done Supergirl! I’m auditioning Year Two for the Easter musical. All trying very hard but tone deaf. Only one recorder so far! Bless them!

Oh, Maggie. She has oodles of patience and an unrelenting ability to see the best in everyone, even screechy children. At university, she had the reputation for being the ‘mum’ of our group, so naturally she’s fallen into teaching. Whilst we all took advantage of five-for-£10 sambuca deals at the bar, she’d happily nurse a single pint of snakebite and she’d always put us to bed with a glass of water and two paracetamol laid out on the bedside table. She lives over in Richmond and I wish I saw her more, but she’s busy and I pretend to be. When she does moan, it’s about middle-class mums who linger at the school gates to discuss Japanese counting methods or trampolining club. She says I can call her whenever I like, and she does really mean it, but I know I’ll only have her for ten minutes before she has to get back to marking, or the vital stage of a complicated Ottolenghi recipe. I sound quite bitter. I am, I guess. She’s always known what she wants to do and she’s even been putting money into some sort of ISA that’s designed to help you build up a house deposit, which is an alien concept to me.

Whereas Maggie went straight into teacher training after school, I spent a few years waitressing at a pizza restaurant, gained ten pounds (a calzone for dinner five times a week will do that) and did the odd bit of admin temping until I applied for an internship at Lovr. I’ll admit it: I was seduced by the idea of legitimately working from a beanbag, a Cilla Black for the new age, pinging off witty tweets between coffees (made by the in-house barista, of course).

I inflated my experience; they gradually deflated my hopes of a decent wage, and nine months down the line I’ve barely anything to show for it.

***

As a birthday treat, I buy myself a meatball marinara sub and clutch it like a baby on the tube platform. The train arrives and I sit down, carefully pulling away the wrapper, at which point the train lurches and a fat meatball plops onto my lap. I pick it up and put it straight in my mouth. I’d be mad not to. This thing cost me £4.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and scrunch the soggy wrapper into a ball, licking each finger clean before I pull out the flyer I kept from the surgery. I smooth it out on my leg to study in closer detail. The old lady pictured is buttoned up in a lilac cardigan and next to her a woman with pastel hair and a nose ring holds a plate of bourbons between them. It reminds me of the battered biscuit tin my nan kept in a cupboard of her little council house. My chest aches a little at the thought.