Year of Being Single (20 page)

He said it’ll be too late. It’s maths. I can help him with it. You’re useless.

Thanks! Can’t you print it off the internet?

No. He needs his textbook.

Ah, okay.

Can you bring it over? You can see where I live.

Frankie stared at the text. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see where he lived. Rob’s flat, house, home, place, pad whatever. It would be a bit weird. How long had he lived there now? Three months? Where he lived was now a world apart, his place had nothing to do with her.

A text from Hugh arrived:

We can do fish ’n’ chips. Then a 2k run to burn it off ;)

She sent a quick reply.

I’ll think about it. Got to go out now. Speak to you later x

She put a kiss because she felt bad, but she had to think about whether or not she would go to Rob’s flat. She had often wondered what it was like. It was strange and often horrible not to know where her children were sleeping every other weekend. She couldn’t picture them there, asleep at night, and it was weird. Their bedrooms, their pillows, their duvets. They were unknowns and she didn’t like it.

She’d cried last night, actually, out of nowhere and into her pillow, panicked that she couldn’t picture Alice’s face because she was unable to visualise her sleeping. She’d had to get out of bed and fetch the photo she had of all four of her children, from her dressing table. She’d examined them all. Traced over their faces with her finger. Perhaps she
should
go and see their bedrooms at Rob’s. Witness where they spent all that time. And, if she really admitted it to herself, she did have the tiniest, tiniest desire to go and have a nose at his flat.

Okay. Text me the address. The lady will help me find it.

Rob would know what she meant. The ‘lady’ was the satnav lady. Frankie liked to talk back to her, thank her for her instructions and call her a ‘dozy bint’ if she sent them the wrong way. She’d once forgotten her satnav (it was one of those stick-on ones) when driving Josh to a camp at Mersea, and Rob, at work, had looked up the route on Google Maps and spoken to her on loudspeaker as she drove, in satnav lady’s lilting Irish accent. It had been really funny.

As she pulled up outside a new-build row of terraces, featuring four storeys of windows with little balconies, she could see why Rob had chosen to live here. It was walking distance from an Asda and right up his street: quiet, clean and with no work needing doing to anything. Rob had been pushing for a new build when they’d moved to their house in New Primrose Road. He thought one would be less ‘grief’, as he’d put it. He’d been over-ruled; Frankie had wanted a rambling doer-upper and she’d got it. On the other hand, he’d made her move
not far enough away
from her parents, so it was a kind of payback.

Rob’s own parents had lived in an ancient, ramshackle farmhouse, up until his dad died and his mum moved into sheltered housing. It had constantly needed work doing to it, work that Rob was often roped into helping with, even as a kid. He was painting bannister spindles by the age of ten and regrouting by thirteen. When he grew up, he dreamed of owning a brand spanking new place that needed zero work: uPVC windows that never needed painting; walls that didn’t crack in the same places every year no matter how carefully they were filled in; rooms that were
warm
, but Frankie had come across the 1930s house in central Chelmsford, Rob’s required area, and thought it perfect. She liked a period feature, a tiled fireplace and a dado rail or two; she was partial to large rooms, good ceiling heights and a garden that was larger than a handkerchief. She persuaded Rob that it had the space and potential they needed and he spent the next two years with a power tool or a paintbrush in his hand.

He hadn’t always been a lazy git, thought Frankie ruefully, as she got out of the car. At one time, he’d made a real effort. He’d worked really hard on their house. So, where had it all gone wrong? she wondered. At what point exactly had he turned into an idle, good-for-nothing slob?

Rob loved Chelmsford. He loved living there. He always declared that he was a Chelmsford Man. Strictly speaking, though, he wasn’t. The ramshackle farmhouse he grew up in was in Danbury, a village five miles away. He and Frankie had met in the village, at The Ram pub and restaurant. She’d been on a girls’ night out, with work; he was out for a family dinner with his mum and sister. They’d seen each other at the bar, when he’d let her get served first, and later, she’d literally bumped into him in the narrow beamed corridor as they were both coming out of the toilets. Romantic!

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ he’d said.

‘Yes.’ She’d laughed. He looked nice. Jeans, a short-sleeved shirt. Short, fair, curlyish hair. Not fat, not skinny. Cute.

As they’d passed each other, he’d turned and called back to her. ‘We’re going on into town tonight,’ he’d said. ‘Well, me and my sister Beth are – I don’t think my mum can be persuaded.’ He laughed, showing all his teeth. ‘I know this is a bit cheeky, but I’ll be in The Schooner if you fancy it.’

‘Oh, right,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

She didn’t know if the girls would be going into town after the meal or not, but by the time they’d polished off dessert and the last of the seven bottles of red, Frankie definitely was. She’d been glancing at Schooner man, over at the other side of the restaurant. He’d been laughing a lot. His mum and sister were laughing a lot, too. He left the restaurant at half ten. By eleven o’clock Frankie was drunk enough to call a taxi for herself and head into Chelmsford.

Rob was alone at the bar of The Schooner and the rest, as they say, was history. A whole lot of history.

His modern, low-maintenance flat was on the top floor. Frankie supposed Rob would have to buzz her in, but a girl in a denim jacket was heading in through the heavy glazed door in the centre of the block so she skipped in behind her, into a stark white communal hall. There was a pushbike there – wasn’t there always, in these places? It wasn’t Rob’s. His was still in the garage at home, flanked up against the wall next to the kit car.

She went up the grey, concrete stairs. Four flights. She counted along the blank white doors to Number 54 and rang the bell. There was a shout of ‘Mum’s here!’ and Harry came to the door.

‘Mum,’ he said. He didn’t look ecstatic to see her. He looked wary. Almost suspicious. It must have been as strange for him to see her here as it was for Frankie to be at the door of her husband’s unknown home. ‘Dad!’ he yelled, as though calling for backup, in the way that fathers who answer phones to their children always call for their wives. Then he took the text book Frankie was proffering and hopped back into the flat.

Rob appeared. He had an apron on. An actual apron. It wasn’t even a comedy one with boobs on. It was a proper, serious apron. With blue and white butcher’s stripes and a wholesome smear of flour across the front. Alice was balanced on his hip, her chubby legs wrapped around him. She reached out for Frankie with a huge toothy grin and Frankie grabbed her with near relief and took her in her arms.

‘Hello,’ she whispered, into Alice’s perfect, pink ear. ‘So this is where you are.’

‘Come in!’ Rob said, all jolly, like Abigail at
Abigail’s Party
, welcoming her guests. ‘Excuse the pinny. Tilly and I were just making some fairy cakes. Or cupcakes, or whatever they call them these days. Come on in,’ he said again. Frankie followed him down a short hall and into an open-plan living room that had a kitchen shoehorned at one end, behind squeezed-back concertinaed doors. A lovely vanilla-y smell was wafting from a very clean-looking built-in oven.

‘Hi, Mum,’ said Tilly distractedly. She had an apron on, too, and was sitting on the sofa next to Harry. They were watching cartoons.

‘Hi, darling,’ said Frankie, going over to kiss them both. ‘You both okay?’ Her eyes were filling with tears and she felt ridiculous, but it was just so
weird
seeing them here.

‘Yeah,’ they said, in unison, without taking their eyes off the television.

‘Where’s Josh?’

‘Playing outside,’ said Tilly.

‘Oh.’

‘He’s out on the communal lawn,’ said Rob, ‘with some of the neighbours’ kids. He’s made loads of friends.’

‘Especially Jonathan,’ said Tilly in a sing-song voice. ‘And
Daddy
is
friends with Jonathan’s mum.’

‘It’s just one of the neighbours,’ said Rob, shrugging and looking slightly sheepish. ‘Jenny. No biggie. We’ve been to Kaper Kids together.’

‘You don’t have to explain,’ said Frankie, but she was quite taken aback. Rob had a new friend? A Jenny? How was she supposed to feel about that? She didn’t know, but she supposed she didn’t have a right to feel anything about it.
She
sort of had a Hugh.

‘I’ll show you round,’ said Rob. ‘It won’t take long.’ He grinned. He looks happy here, thought Frankie. Really content. Perhaps he
was
happier. Now he was away from her. With his new flat and his freedom and his
Jenny
.

She followed him to the window where he pointed through the glass to the tiny balcony. He had a couple of pot plants on it. They didn’t look like they were on the brink of dying. They looked like he actually watered them.

‘Balcony,’ he said, unnecessarily.

She nodded. ‘Very nice. Those plants look like the kind Mum’s always bringing round for us. Er, for me,’ she added.

‘They are,’ he said. ‘She popped round.’

‘Oh! How did she know where you were?’ asked Frankie, incredulous.

‘She phoned me at work.’ Rob shrugged. ‘I got a lot of
poor Rob
’s.’

‘I bet you did,’ said Frankie.

‘There’s Josh,’ he said, pointing, and she could see him, kicking a ball around with a couple of other boys. Laughing his head off, a jumper tied round his waist.

‘Yes, I see him,’ she said. For some reason she felt incredibly sad.

Rob turned back to the room. ‘Living/dining/kitchen, as you can see.’ He swept his arm round the space. His sofa was a rather nice dark brown leather one, all antique-looking. She wondered where he’d got it from. Had he hired it? Or did it come with the flat?

‘Three bedrooms,’ he said, almost proudly. ‘Follow me.’

She followed, still holding Alice – although she was getting a heavy old lump, she didn’t want to put her down. He led her to a small bedroom that housed a double bed and a single. ‘Mine and Alice’s room,’ he said. The double bed had a pale blue cotton duvet and was neatly made. The single bed had a duvet and pillowcase set that was pink and had roses on it. It was very pretty.

‘A big girl’s bed,’ lisped Alice.

‘Yes, darling,’ said Frankie. ‘It
is
a big girl’s bed.’

At home, Alice still had a cot bed so it was a lot smaller. Alice’s big girl’s bed had her favourite rabbit on the pillow. There was a white bedside table next to it, with a little pink lamp and a drawer with a heart-shaped cut-out. Everything was so neat and tidy! Was Rob sure he lived here? Did he actually live in a fleapit next door and had broken into this pristine show home especially for her visit?

There was nothing else in the room, just one of those clothes rails you get in Argos, with a few of Rob’s things neatly hung on it.
Neatly
! It was unheard of! Perhaps the flat was so small he simply couldn’t be untidy here. Perhaps he’d been abducted by aliens and replaced with someone who gave a toss.

She would reserve her judgement. He was a messy so-and-so and always had been, she bet all the bedrooms weren’t as nice as this. If they were, she’d be quite angry, actually. How dare he be all tidy and conscientious here, when he never was at home?

Rob led her into the room next door.

‘The boys’ room.’ The next bedroom had two single beds. You couldn’t swing or
squeeze
a cat between them and surely the boys had to crawl up from the bottom of their beds to get in, but, again, it was
tidy
. She was flabbergasted.

‘And Tilly’s room.’ It was the other side of the narrow hallway.

Rob let her go in by herself. There probably wouldn’t have been room for both of them anyway; it was tiny. A single bed, chest of drawers and wardrobe. Flat-pack. She wondered if he’d put them up himself, without swearing. The last time he’d attempted any kind of flat-pack assembly at home, he’d ended up saying the F word fifteen times and they’d had to get a man in to finish the job. She was rather proud of herself, as last week she’d put a wooden shoe rack together all on her own. No fuss, no drama, no F words. Just the help of a forum on Google and a quick call to Grace. Who needed a
man
to cock it up?

A cuddly toy Frankie didn’t recognise was on top of Tilly’s bed. Everything was neat and tidy, tidy and neat. That was a line from the
Mr Men
book Rob used to read Tilly at bedtime, if he got home from work early enough.
Mr Messy
. Tilly loved it. As Rob put on a sing-song voice and described Mr Tidy and Mr Neat, who sorted out Mr Messy and made him a better person, Frankie used to stand in the doorway and laugh, thinking, ‘Nothing like Rob, then.’ That was before things got too bad. Before Rob became a Mr Messy who couldn’t be helped.

On the bookshelf in Tilly’s new room were a stack of about thirty
Mr Men
books. Square white books, all stacked together. He’d re-bought them. All of them. Her anger at his new tidiness momentarily disappeared and her eyes welled with tears. Stop it, she thought and shook them down. You wanted this. He lives somewhere else. He’s bought a few books – so what?

She went back into the living room. Rob was picking up a toy car from the floor.

‘It’s very tidy,’ said Frankie. ‘Have you got a cleaner?’

‘Nope.’

‘Has your mum been round to tidy up?’

‘No.’

‘Has
my
mum been round to tidy up?’

Laughing. ‘No!’

‘Then how come it’s so tidy?’

‘I tidied it.’

‘And you made the beds? I didn’t know you knew how.’

‘I’ve had to learn. I looked it up on YouTube.’

She didn’t know if he was joking or not. He leant over the back of the sofa and retrieved a basket of folded washing from behind it. Everything – T-shirts, children’s vests, socks – looked clean, smooth, folded. Where had this apparition of good housekeeping appeared from? Rob had always managed to crease a shirt transporting it from a hanger to his own body. How on earth was he able to materialise a whole basket full of nicely laundered clothing? As far as he was concerned, clean and pressed laundry just appeared from nowhere, done by the laundry fairy.