‘I… Yes, I suppose they do.’ And that was true. I had spent so many rainy days sat in our Hackney flat wondering what children in massive houses were doing at the same time as I was cooped up in my tiny bedroom. And my parents had wished the same, which was why they got us out of there in the best way they could. But I often wonder what my life would have been like if Dad hadn’t got the job at Saxby and we had stayed living in Hackney. Would I have been as lucky as Roxy? What kind of friendships would I have established and with whom? Would there have been another Caitlin in my life? Somehow, I don’t think that would have happened. I knew I wouldn’t have met her under any other circumstances. It’s that thought that shocks me, and I try not let myself think about the last two decades as wasted emotions.
My phone lets out an invasive trill. I keep meaning to change the ringtone. I look down into my bag and see the name flashing on the screen.
‘Do you need to take that?’ Roxy gestures to my bag.
I ignore the call. ‘No. No they can wait.’ I bring my focus back to the task I am here to do, but all I can see is the face of the caller.
‘How do you take yours?’ Roxy says, taking two cups out from a cupboard and placing them next to a machine. I request mine black. We exchange more pleasantries over our beverages and discuss the size of the coffee machine, which is like something out of Starbucks, and then I get straight to it. I ask her to show me the damage and we laugh all the way upstairs, with her telling me it’s an absolute nightmare and I’ll be a flipping miracle worker if I can sort it out. I bat away all her negativity and tell her I’m sure I’ve seen much worse.
Only when we turn the corner onto the first landing, I can already see clothes and shoes spilling out of a door to the right. And then when we reach the doorway to the room allocated for her clothes, I can see that, in actual fact, this is the biggest display of untidiness and disorganisation I have ever seen. There are hundreds of boxes of shoes stacked against the walls of a huge room, piles of clothes just thrown on the floor – if I ran and jumped, I could land in the middle of them and be guaranteed a soft landing. It gives me an idea. I propose it to Roxy, who is all for it, and after a moment of moving a few shoe boxes onto the pile of clothes and setting her up with a tiara on her head, she dives into the clothes and lands comically in the middle. I begin shooting straight away. She has arranged herself and starts pulling pose after pose. But I already know the first couple of natural shots are the ones I will want to use, and I hope she will be happy with them too.
‘I’m sorry it’s such a mess.’ Roxy climbs down from the pile of clothes. ‘You must think I’m a right bloody hoarder.’
‘No,’ I say, slinging my camera over my shoulder. ‘Just a girl who loves her clothes.’ And as I say it, I already know the tagline for the blog.
I leave the house – not before taking a quick snap of the hallway with the beautiful flower display – and realise I am bang on time. Just like clockwork, my phone pings a text message and I feel a familiar fizzle of joy.
I’m on the corner. Meet me over the road.
And just like that, across the street, I see a flash of someone disappear around the corner. Once on the other side of the road, I step around the end of the street and instantly I’m grabbed by my arm and I have to stifle a scream.
‘Chuck,’ I say and we fall into an easy embrace.
He looks flushed and tense. He is wearing a blue pinstripe shirt, sleeves rolled up, blue jeans and boat shoes – a look he sported so often when he was younger, it is as though no time has passed. Except the flawless appearance is marred by the fact he’s perspiring quite heavily.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask him.
‘Sasha, I’m going out of my mind here, you need to answer my calls.’ He breaks free from the embrace and runs a hand frantically through his strawberry blonde hair.
‘I do, Chuck!’
‘Yes, but all the time, not just when you can. I called you earlier.’
‘I was with a client!’
‘Yes, yes, I just presumed you’d be done earlier. Look what you’ve driven me to, old girl – I’m following you halfway around London. Was that Roxy Tyrrell’s place?’ Chuck is trying to look past me and around the corner.
I glance back over my shoulder to check I can’t be seen from where I’ve come from and pull him away along the path, away from the corner.
‘Yes, she needs blogs and video stuff, I’m helping her… Anyway… Chuck, why did you want to meet again? Haven’t you had enough of me?’ I laugh a little. ‘This is risky – someone could see us.’
‘Who? Who could see us? I don’t know anyone in Notting Hill – far too hipster for my lot. Besides, we’re not actually doing anything wrong right now, are we?’ Chuck grabs hold of my arm and slips his through it. We begin strolling slowly. ‘Anyway, I could
