1
PRESENT DAY
They say there are three sides to every story: mine, yours, and the truth.
So, which one do you want?
Most of you will choose the truth, right? That’s the obvious choice. But before you make your final decision, hear me out. Because I’m telling you, my version is pretty damn hard to beat.
I mean, maybe not this bit, obviously. Because right now, I’m fishing half-empty beer cans out of an overchlorinated hotel swimming pool, wearing a bright-orange baseball cap with “Hot Mess and Doin’ My Best” emblazoned across the front.
Casual observers will tell you that slogan is fairly accurate, and my boss would probably say it’s something I should be aiming for. But from my point of view, while “hot mess” is arguable, I can assure you, I am resolutely not doing my best.
The baseball cap is part of the standard-issue SUNKISSED & SINGLE uniform and, contrary to the label’s wild claims that it’s 100 percent polyester, on a day like this it feels more like wool. Despite the early hour, the sun is already beating down relentlessly on the white plastic sun loungers dotted around the pool.
SUNKISSED & SINGLE HOLIDAYS (yes, the capitalization is mandatory) is the number-one travel company for singles. At least, that’s what they told me—repeatedly—during the two-week intensive training boot camp in Bolton (aka the second-worst two weeks of my life). I shouldn’t whine though. I mean, where else could one learn both the full dance routine to Beyoncé’s “Texas Hold ’Em” and the most effective way to remove sun-baked vomit from under a sun lounger?
My task this morning is getting the area ready for tonight’s Tidal Rave pool party. Thankfully, it’ll be a good couple of hours before any of last night’s revelers emerge from their rooms, meaning at least I can get on with it in peace. Galling as it is to be cleaning up after them, what makes it worse is that, at almost thirty-one myself, I’m just over the age threshold for a “SUNKISSED & SINGLE UNDER THIRTIES VAY-CAY PAR-TAY.” Those mere months of difference mean that while the guests party, I polish; while they drink, I daydream; and while they sleep off their hangovers, I search the deepest depths of my blackhearted soul. But hey, I get free board and unlimited access to the hotel continental breakfast buffet. And, crucially, I’m a thousand miles away from anyone who knows who I am.
Or what I did.
As I attempt to fish the final elusive beer can from the pool, an inflatable unicorn floats past, cutting a lonely figure in the morning sunshine. He seems to be giving me the eye, as if to say, Come, weary Cinderella, let me carry you for a while. And frankly, it would be rude to turn down such a generous offer, right? So, slipping off my Crocs, I pop my phone and hotel key card in the heel and clamber onto Mr. Sparklefarts* (*name of unicorn subject to workshopping).
Pulling the brim of the cap over my eyes, I lie back and try to block out everything but the soft lapping of the water against the tiles. In the distance, I can hear the faint beat of dubstep drifting over from the Strip as the bars prepare for the
lunchtime crowds.
I know I can’t lie out here forever. For one, I think Horny McPointyface* (*hmm, we can do better, people) might be slowly deflating, and two, I can feel my pale English skin beginning to fry under the boiling Mediterranean sun. But I reckon I have at least two more blissful minutes before my overly enthusiastic team leader emerges from the hotel, yelling his favorite catchphrase: “Kirby Cornell, this isn’t a holiday, this is an opportunity!”
And then, because the universe hates me, I hear my phone buzz from the side of the pool, lighting up the inside of my shoe like a shit disco.
I paddle Princess Glitterhoof* (*ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a winner) over to see what world-shattering news requires my immediate attention. Turns out it’s just a WhatsApp notification from an ancient group chat that I could’ve sworn I’d muted a long, long time ago. I swipe the notification to open the chat and read the message.
Despite the heat, the words send a shiver through me. I stare at the screen, rub the chlorine out of my eyes, then read it again.
Esme: miss me?
It’s the first message anyone has written in this group chat for ages, but that’s not the really weird thing.
The really weird thing is, Esme died twelve months ago.
2
TWELVE MONTHS AGO
As I watched the soufflé slowly deflate, I was overcome by a deep sense of kinship with the sad, soggy cake on-screen.
“Rubbish!” Dave yawned. “They should get me on this show. I would absolutely ace the technical round.”
Dave—aka Dave “The Legend” (more on that later)—had commandeered the big beanbag in front of the TV, which, under strict Flat Four rules, granted him dominion over that most powerful of devices: the TV remote.
“Unless the technical round now consists of reheating pizza in the microwave,” Dylan said, stretching out a leg from the sofa to give Dave a friendly toe poke, “I don’t fancy your chances of a Hollywood handshake, mate.”
“Can’t we watch that new documentary? You know, the one about the woman who strangled all her Tinder dates?” Seema asked, not looking up from her phone. “If I see one more soggy-bottomed sponge cake, I think I’m going to kill somebody.”
“Oooh, now there’s a true-crime doc I would actually watch,” I said. “A bloody massacre in the Bake Off tent.”
Welcome to a standard Thursday night in Flat Four, Stewart Heights, 106 Courtney Road. We were squeezed into our classic formation: me, Dylan, and Seema next to each other on our tatty sofa with Dave nestled on the beanbag, all half-watching yet another amateur baker spectacularly fail to make a sponge rise.
Currently, we were four shows deep into what I called the Netflix Paradox: despite an almost infinite number of shows, there was absolutely nothing to watch. Or at least, nothing we could agree on. I dreamed of a day when the world would have only two buttons on the remote—murders and cakes—and everyone’s lives would be a lot easier.
As Dave began another epic scroll through the gazillion thumbnails on the TV menu, I reached for another slice of pizza.
“New season of Ghost Detectives UK, get in!” Dave cried with glee.
Dylan rolled his eyes. “Please God, man, not that load of crap. Those guys have never even detected so much as a bent spoon.”
“Uh, not true,” Dave said. “Remember all those floating orbs in the last episode?”
“They see those things every bloody week!” Dylan groaned. “How many times do I have to tell you! It. Is. Just. Dust! The Ghost Detectives should come to your bedroom sometime, they’d have a field day.”
Dave shook his head. “You need to open your mind, mate. Science can’t explain everything, you know. There are mysterious forces in this world that none of us truly understand.”
I flicked a pizza crust at his head.
“Hey!” He turned around and scowled at me.
“It was the mysterious forces!” I protested, holding my hands up in mock innocence.
When I’d moved into this place a year ago, the hodgepodge of randoms who lived here were, well, just that—randoms, thrown together by a shared inability to afford anywhere nicer. And, if I’m being honest, to a certain extent, they still were.
Random, that is.
Dylan, a trainee chef at the local pub, came as a two-for-one with his best-mate-slash-sidekick Dave “The Legend” Watkins, while Seema was a true-crime-obsessed dental nurse who only really graced us with her presence when she wanted to watch something on the “big TV.”
And lastly, there was me, Clare “Kirby” Cornell, hotshot local journalist. Maybe you’ve read a few of my greatest hits, such as “Lost Glove Found in Tree” or “Man Freed after Getting Head Stuck in Bin”? No? Well, just you wait for the upcoming $200 million Hollywood adaptation starring Tom Cruise as Man with Just One Glove and Jack Black as the voice of the CGI glove, which I am sure will hit multiplexes ANY DAY NOW.
Unless you are the aforementioned Tom Cruise, or your parents are minted, you’ve probably experienced the joys of sharing an apartment at some point in your life. For most people, they’re a minefield of passive-aggressive notes on the fridge door and actively aggressive cleaning schedules, but not for Flat Four. No way. Here, we were all about endless Netflix marathons paired with a slice of cold pizza and washed down with a makeshift “whatever’s left at the back of the cupboard” cocktail.
On the whole, we were a pretty solid unit, which is more than could be said for the flat itself, which was barely functional most days. Complete with a dodgy boiler and at least six mysterious cracks in the ceiling (which our landlord claimed were “part of the ambience”), it was a cozy little four-bed on the top floor of an ex–council building. Oh, and by the way, when I say “cozy,” I mean shit.
In an attempt to squeeze out every last penny from the flat, our landlord was even threatening to rent out the tiny box room next to mine, which had been empty all summer (and currently used as a dumping ground for dirty laundry and Dave’s never-used pandemic-era exercise bike). Luckily for us, there wasn’t exactly a rabid mob desperately refreshing SpareRoom.com for a place to live in Crowhurst, a last-chance-for-gas town tucked away in the arse-end of the English countryside.
While Dave was distracted by my flying pizza crust, Dylan pinched the remote and flicked back to the Bake Off.
“We almost missed the vicar with the nose ring dropping his flan,” he said.
“God forbid!” Seema cried, snatching the remote off him. “Why do you guys always get to pick anyway?”
“Because whatever we choose, you’ll just spend the whole time texting Hot Dentist anyway,” Dave said, grabbing the remote back.
Seema folded her arms and huffed. “Literally no one calls him Hot Dentist.”
“We all call him Hot Dentist,” I said.
“Yes, you lot all call him Hot Dentist, but the rest of the world, the solar system, the universe, have never once called him Hot Dentist. For a start, he’s not even a dentist.”
“Aha! So he is hot!” I cackled.
Seema bristled with frustration. “I’ve told you a million times, he’s a dental therapist, and technically he’s my boss. So actually, it’s against the law to refer to him as ‘hot.’ ”
“Okay,” Dave said. “So why don’t you go and text Not Hot Dental Therapist while you watch your gruesome murder shows in the privacy of your bedroom?”
“Well, then I’d miss all your insightful comments about my love life, wouldn’t I, David?” she shot back.
While they argued, I turned away from the TV and gazed out the living room window behind us. It was a warm mid-August evening, still light, and the sky was turning a pleasing shade of orange. Across the rows of terraced houses opposite our building, I could see the flickers of television sets in every window and wondered how many were entangled in the same tedious negotiations. I exhaled, leaving a cloudy patch of condensation on the glass, onto which I drew a little sad smiley with my finger.
“Revolutionary idea,” I said, “but maybe we just turn this thing off and do something else?”
None of them replied, too engrossed in the television.
slobbing around the living room. We’re still in our twenties, for God’s sake!”
“Late twenties,” Dylan added.
I shot him a look.
“I’m just saying, Reverend Patrick dropping his flan is the most interesting thing that’s happened in this flat for months.”
“Hey, now come on, that’s unfair,” Dave said.
“Is it?” I asked.
“Yeah, that dude from Solihull made a sourdough in the shape of Queen Elizabeth last week.” Dave bowed his head, made the sign of the cross across his chest, and mouthed “RIP Your Majesty.”
“That’s not what I mean!” I cried. “I’m saying, surely there’s something more exciting we could be doing with our Thursday evenings.”
Dylan patted me on the shoulder. “We could watch CSI after this if you like?”
I launched a well-aimed cushion at his head.
“What’s got into you?” Seema tutted, picking up the cushion and placing it back neatly. “Normally you’re the first one in your pajamas.”
Thanks to her amazingly lush jet-black hair, Seema always managed to look glamorous, even when she was curled up on the sofa in a long cardigan and boyfriend jeans.
“These are not pajamas,” I said, looking down at my Taylor Swift 2018 tour T-shirt and jogging bottoms. “This is my post-work loungewear.”
(Reader, they were 100 percent my pajamas.)
“Remember when we used to go to the pub on a Thursday night?” I continued. “Now we watch repeats of baking shows and eat pizza.”
“Well, that’s when Thursdays were the new Fridays,” Seema said.
“Yeah, now Thursdays are the new Sundays!,” Dave explained.
“Every day is the new Sunday around here!” I cried. “Look at us. Dave’s drinking a cup of tea!”
“It’s actually hot cocoa,” he corrected me. “Mint flavor.”
I pointed to his face. “Are we just going to accept that? Dave ‘The Legend’ is drinking a cup of mint-fricking-cocoa. Remember when he ate two entire rotisserie chickens in one sitting for a bet?”
There was a moment of silence. Unfortunately, we did all remember that, and it did not end well.
“We could get the bong out?” Dave suggested.
I glared at him. “No, we are not getting the bong out, thank you, Legend.”
“Please don’t use my nickname ironically.”
“We are literally drinking hot chocolate and watching The Great British Bake Off at seven p.m. on a Thursday night. I’m not sure the nickname still applies, Dave,” I said.
Dave was the kind of man who thought nothing of wearing a complete replica soccer uniform indoors, shorts and all, but looked like he hadn’t actually kicked a ball since 2014. I’d given him the nickname Dave “The Legend” myself, and as much as he might deny it, it had always been an entirely ironic moniker.
“All right, what do you want to do then?” Dave asked.
“I dunno. We could have a house party or something?” I suggested meekly.
“Seriously?” Dylan said. “The last party we had ended with a game of Clue and you fell asleep on the sofa before midnight.”
“To be fair to me for a change,” I said, “it was Strip Clue. And I only fell asleep because my hay fever medicine made me drowsy.”
“You know Creepy Frank’s rule about parties, guys,” Seema said. “And besides, aren’t we getting a bit, you know, old for that sort of thing?”
building, and I can assure you that his nickname was not ironic.
“What about a dinner party?” Dylan suggested. “There’s a show on here about how to roast the perfect parsnip—”
The three of us groaned at him in unison. The moment I agreed to a dinner party, I knew my thirties had officially arrived and the slow, inevitable countdown to death had begun. So obviously, I was keen to delay that particular soirée until the last possible minute.
“All right, that’s it, no more TV. Gimme me that!” I cried, and launched myself at the beanbag, making a grab for the remote.
Dave tried to wrestle it out of my hand while Dylan whacked him with the empty pizza box and Seema stood there yelling at us to stop messing around before we broke something. Suddenly we were interrupted by the ring of the door buzzer.
We froze and looked at each other in confusion.
“Who on earth is that?” I said. “Everyone we know is here.”
Sticking the remote in the back pocket of my jeans, I headed into the hallway. But before I could look through the peephole, there was the clank of a key in the lock, and the door swung open.
“Hi,” said the young woman standing in our doorway. “I’m Esme. Your new flatmate.” ...
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