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Twenty-nine

Joah

Saturday afternoon, me and Ysolde— just bein’ shit-kickers today, we are. Best fuckin’ way to spend time, that. I know—proper gip—but fuckin’ nowt with her, like? Don’t get better than that.

We’ve been knockin’ about the Heath, ended up on one of them posh streets that circles back in on itself, park in the middle. She’s been bangin’ on all day ’bout how her favourite house in the world’s here, so I tell her to show me.

“There it is.” She points to it from about fifty metres away, like she don’t wanna get too close. “That’s my dream house.”

Her face goes this way I ain’t never seen before. Daydreamy like—all fuckin’ reverent.

Now to be fair to her like—it’s a nice fuckin’ house.

And I dunno, there’s summat about it, like it’s been sat there for a hundred years, waiting for some fucking perfect little family to move on in.

All red brick and white window frames, proper posh like—but not that dead cold, toff kinda posh.

Garden wall, but it ain’t too high—inviting enough.

They ain’t tryin’ to keep you out, know what I mean?

“Wait—” Pinch my eyes, trying to see. “Is that—? There’s a sign up—”

She follows my gaze.

“It’s open for inspection,” I tell her, beamin’.

“Oh—” She shakes her head. “No, we don’t have t—”

“Why not?” Give her a shrug. “Let’s go in.”

I pull her that way; she’s shakin’ her head right up till we’re basically outside it.

“Come on—” I nod at the door.

“Why?” She shrugs. “It’s not like I’m not going to buy it.”

And if I were better at pickin’ up on things (which I’m fuckin’ learnin’ I’m really not), maybe I’d clock that there’s summat here—somethin’ way above my fuckin’ pay grade.

“Why not?” I shrug back. “You could.”

She gives me this look, like I’m daft. “I couldn’t.”

Summat there on the edges of her eyes but—fuck, I dunno—bit like hopefulness, innit?

And seein’ that look on her face—fuckin’ better than coke. Addictive.

I’d take a bump of that every day of me life, if she’d let me.

So I decide to feed it. Want that hope to stay right there on that face of hers, don’t I?

“You literally could,” I tell her.

She shakes her head again, eyes gone all wide now—but there’s somethin’ different in ’em this time. Seen it on her before like—bit like she’s waitin’ for somethin’ bad to happen.

“I can’t live in a house, Jo.”

“Why?” I say, not getting it, right up till the second I fuckin’ do. Proper bellend, I am. “Oh,” I say quietly, and she takes this big breath that’s more like a sigh than owt else.

Hope’s gone from the face—and fuck, I miss it already. Want it back.

“Well—” Give her a shrug. “What if I’m there?”

Her little head pulls back, don’t it?

“ You’d want to live here ? In this house—?” She looks ’round, confused. “On this quiet, posh street?”

“Maybe?” Peer ’round the street again. And yeah, like—it don’t fuckin’ scream ‘Harrigan,’ does it…? But she do. “If you’re there.”

She smirks. “Liar,” she says, but that hope’s back—right there on her face.

And I want it to stay forever, don’t I? You know what, like—?

I fuckin’ am lyin’, but. Sounds like a fuckin’ nightmare.

But Christ, she looks happy at the thought.

And fuck me, that’s scary as owt. “We both travel too much…” she tells me technically, but I reckon she’s really just tellin’ herself.

“Come on—” I nod towards it. “Let’s just have a look.”

Grab her hand, lead her up the stairs, an’ it’s funny—get this feelin’, dunno, like—In some other world, maybe. One where I’m not me, not famous, where my fuckin’ priorities are just…normal. Like normal people priorities, yeah? And fuckin’—whatever else, then… Yeah—I can kinda feel it, I s’pose.

The front door’s black—but like, rich black, somehow.

Don’t like when people say black’s black.

It ain’t. There are different types and this fuckin’ black door’s posh black, innit?

Got a bloody lion’s head knocker right in the middle, all brass, not overly polished—wish I didn’t like it, but fuck, I kinda love it.

Walk inside, and she’s peering ’round eyes wide—summat about her face that makes me chuckle, looks like she’s snuck in here on her own devices, like she shouldn’t be in here.

I watch her takin’ it all in, get lost in that weird, dreamy hope in her eyes.

“Hi there—” The estate agent rounds the corner. “Can I help y—”

Stops dead in her tracks when she clocks we’re us. Fit enough, she is. Blond, neat hair, good face—probably would’ve had a crack a couple months ago, no doubt.

She blinks twice, swallows once. “Are you—?”

“Uh—” I chuckle. “Nah—” Shake my head, but give her a little wink to say actually, yeah. “Just look like ’em.”

She smiles, charmed, because I’m me.

“Phoebe Woodhouse—” She extends her hand. “And you are…?”

“I am”—thinkin’ on me feet is what I’m fuckin’ doin’—“Mr.… Jones .” I give her a quick smile.

Ysolde’s balkin’ at me, well confused as Phoebe Woodhouse turns to her, offering Ys her hand. “And you are—?”

Ysolde stalls, so I toss me arm ’round her. “ Mrs. …Jones.”

“Pleasure.” She smiles at us both. “Are you in the market for a home?”

I nod. “ The Joneses are, yeah.”

“Well, Joneses , you’ve stumbled onto a real gem here. Built in the late nineteenth century by Horace Field, I believe this house specifically was built in 1895 but has obviously been very well tended to…”

Ysolde looks ’round, summat a bit like wonder—proper kidlike—dancin’ about in her eyes. “I didn’t realise it was so old.”

“Timeless though.” Phoebe smiles. “Don’t you think?”

Ysolde nods.

“Semi-detached, five bedrooms, three bathrooms, original hardwood floorings, all new appliances and obviously”—she waves her hand ’round the fuckin’ sun-soaked entryway we’re all standin’ in—“flooded in unbelievable natural light.”

Ys flashes her a smile, walks cautiously deeper into the house.

“So, Mr. Jones—” Phoebe says, smirking. “What is it you do?”

“Uh—” Think about it for a second. “— finance .” Then I point at Ysolde. “She’s…a…yoga instructor.”

She glances over her shoulder, confused.

I shrug. “Explains the body,” I tell her, then turn back to Phoebe, keepin’ it goin’. “Don’t pay much, but fuck me—would you look at that arse?”

Ysolde’s head snaps ’round again, eyes wide. I snort, proper amused—Phoebe cracks up, too.

“Do you have any kids?” she asks us.

“No,” Ysolde calls back as we walk through to the kitchen.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “Boys. Two of ’em. Just wee sprogs, like—month old.”

“Wow.” Phoebe nods, playing along. “I mean—” She looks at Ysolde. “You look amazing.”

“Uh—” Ys glances down at herself. “Thank you. I bounced back very… quickly …apparently?”

Phoebe smiles, walking ahead.

Ys grabs me hand, looks up at us. “You want boys, do ya?”

“Aye.” Nod, like she’s a right div. “Course I do. I’m scared of girls.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, you aren’t.”

“Well—” Give her a look. “Can’t be fuckin’ two of ya’s, can there? I’d be proper fucked then, wouldn’t I?”

She smirks, shakes her head as we step into the next room.

Some fuck-off fancy room, baby grand smack bang in the centre.

“Alrigh’—” I nod at the piano, catching Phoebe’s eye. “Can I—?”

Phoebe nods, gesturing for me to sit.

I play piano, did you know? Dunno if Ysolde does, mind. Mustn’t, cos her mouth falls open soon as I sit down an’ start playin’ “Imagine.”

Lennon’s a fuckin’ legend, innit?

Look at how my girl’s lookin’ at me right now—that man’s gettin’ me laid from across the fuckin’ beyond.

Ys stares at me, eyes all—fuck, I dunno—she loves me like, that’s all. Best feelin’ in the world, that. Havin’ the person you love, love you back. Think you’re the fuckin’ sun.

Don’t sing, though, do I? Ain’t no fuckin’ soft lad.

Stop abrupt after the first chorus, give Ys a smile. She walks over, puts a little hand to me face, eyes all soft, proper serious but.

“You are the talent,” she says and fuck, that’s me well done, know what I mean?

Like, that’s it. Best compliment of me life. Fuck all the others. Don’t need ’em.

Weird, havin’ a total stranger clock a moment like that between me an’ Ys. But then—that’s bein’ fuckin’ famous, innit?

Phoebe shows us the bedrooms—one’s a nursery.

Ys runs her hand along the edge of the cot, eyes gone dreamy again but sorta sad. Sorta lost.

“This is a great neighbourhood for a young family,” Phoebe says gently, watching us from the doorway.

I look over at her. Forgot she was there. “Yeah?”

“It really is—” She nods. “It’s safe. The schools are great. The Heath’s right there…”

“He’s just pretending—” Ys shakes her head, like—fuck knows, like she’s worried someone might actually believe it. “We don’t really have kids.”

“I know.” Estate agent gives her another proper sweet smile. She’s a good bird, Phoebe. Don’t mind her.

“I know who you are.” Phoebe whispers it to Ys, gives her a little wink.

Ys’ cheeks go a bit pink. “Oh.”

Then she brushes past us, back into the hall, down the stairs—like the dream’s gone bust.

“Sorry—” I toss Phoebe a shrug. “Spooks easy, her.”

Ys is waitin’ for us at the bottom of the stairs, hands in her pockets, eyes big and wide. And as I walk toward her—Fuck, you know what? I see it.

That other world.

Where I’m not me, but she’s still her, cos she’s fuckin’ perfect.

Where she’s barefoot in the kitchen, and there’s toy cars fuckin’ everywhere, crayon drawings on the wall, kettle always on, fire always lit.

And it’s enough for me.

Don’t need the whole fuckin’ world to know my name. Don’t need to be remembered by no one but her and them two boys.

But I do.

And I know that makes me a fuckin’ piece of shit.

Do need it, but.

When we reach the bottom, Phoebe tilts her head at Ys. “You know, people buy houses for the lives they hope to create all the time…”

“Oh, I—” Ysolde shakes her head. “I can’t…I can’t live in—I have to live in a hotel.”

The estate agent looks confused.

“Something ha—” Ys stops herself. “I just have to live in a hotel.”

“Okay,” Phoebe says, not pushing. “If you ever change your mind—” She hands me her card, then gives Ys and me a proper good smile. “It was lovely to meet you, Joneses.”

We walk back out front, stand outside the gate—her on the outside, lookin’ in. Makes my heart fuckin’ pang for her. Throws me sometimes, like—how much I’m still gettin’ to know her. How much about Ysolde I don’t understand right till I do.

An’ this is one of them times.

I mean, it’s not nothin’—probably set you back two mil, easy. But that house—it ain’t drippin’ in money, is it?

Not all fuckin’ gold an’ marble, know what I mean?

Her dream home’s a home.

Proper lived in.

And her face right now, starin’ at it—it’s hers, you get me?

And summat about that fuckin’ tells me somethin’ ’bout her that scares me to me bones.

Cos that’s her house. I fuckin’ know it is.

Dunno that it’s mine, but—?

That house speaks to summat in her. Somethin’ she don’t even know she wants.

And I dunno. Don’t reckon I’ll ever be able to give her this, know what I mean?

And I wanna give her everythin’.

“Oi.” Scratch me cheek as I take her hand, cross the street.

Nod back toward the house. “That what you want, Trouble?”

“No.” She shakes her head quick.

Watch her a couple seconds. “You said it’s your dream house.”

“Yes…” She nods. “ Dream .”

“You could have that house, but—” Nod back at it.

She gives me a tight little smile. “But I don’t have that life.”

I lift me brows. “Aye. Could, though.”

“How?” She shakes her head, shruggin’. “With you—?”

Dunno why her sayin’ that feels like someone’s cracked me over the head with a fuckin’ saucepan.

“Well, I don’t—” Fuckin’ flounderin’, I am.

She looks past me, over me shoulder—lookin’ for a distraction. “Oh! Ducklings.”