be hope for you yet.’
It was early when Clem knocked on the shabby front door the next morning – earlier than she usually saw anyway. A night spent on the sofa with nothing more indulgent than
Tom squeezing her feet as they watched
Goodfellas
(his favourite film) meant she had slept soundly and woken up easily. Her grand plan had taken root in the night and, unencumbered by her
usual hangover, her mind had started firing off ideas left, right and centre, leaving her utterly incapable of lying around in bed.
Clem knocked on the door again, wondering what on earth the occupant could be doing other than sleeping at 8.23 a.m. on a Sunday morning, unable to resist fiddling with the flaky maroon paint
that was peeling away. She pulled one bit, which was sticking out like a hangnail, and it ripped slowly up the grain of the door, exposing the bare wood beneath like a vivid scar.
She gasped, appalled by her thoughtless act of . . . well, hooliganism. The two-foot-long timber strip hung limply from her hands just as a groan rumbled from somewhere deep inside the flat.
The rattle of a chain on the other side of the door made her throw the offending paint strip down the stairwell, so that she was standing to attention with her hands behind her back when the
denuded door opened and Simon’s pale, bleary face appeared around it.
‘What is it?’ he muttered grouchily, before focusing and seeing Clem standing before him like one of his visions. ‘Shit, Clem! What are you doing here?’ His hands were off
the door and crossed in front of his genitals in an instant, before he realized he was wearing a pair of cream boxers with brown stripes on and that a modicum of modesty, if not of style, was
preserved.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, smiling serenely and really getting off on her new-found sobriety. It felt great to see someone else looking shocking for once.
He gaped at her in amazement and Clem had a feeling that of the many times he had rehearsed this moment – finding her on his doorstep – in his head, it had never gone quite like
this. ‘What,
now?’
‘It can’t wait. And I can’t discuss it in the office anyway.’
Simon blinked at her. ‘Why not?’
Clem leaned in and waited for him to lean in to her, too. Which, after a hesitation, he did. ‘It’s a secret,’ she whispered. ‘Let me in.’
Simon looked behind him, back into the flat. ‘It’s uh . . . not really a good time,’ he protested weakly.
‘Oh, Si, don’t be such a chump,’ Clem sighed, losing patience and pushing past him anyway. ‘As if
I
care about how messy your flat is.’
It was just as well she didn’t. Last night’s pizza boxes, a case of beers and a bong still sat on the sitting-room table; the huge plasma TV was flickering snow and the Xbox was
humming loudly with thick black wires hanging out of it.
‘Shall I play Mother while you get dressed?’ Clem asked brightly – it was more of an order than a question – locating a kettle in the far corner and opening a window.
‘Uh, uh . . .’ Words defeated him and Simon ducked into the bedroom, falling over furniture from the sounds of things, as he tried to catch up with the dream sequence that was
happening in the next room.
He emerged a few minutes later in his jeans and a red-checked shirt, looking quite the lumberjack with his ginger stubble and wild hair. He ran a hand through it casually, and Clem had to stifle
a giggle as he found it standing on end and quickly licked his palm to pat it down again.
‘So.’ She smiled, letting him clear a space for her on the armchair – actually it was a gaming chair, ergonomic and rocking, and so low she may as well have lain on the floor.
She could see straight under the sofa opposite. ‘Good night last night?’
‘Uh yeah, yeah. Quiet, nothing special.’
‘Did you watch the game?’ The words tripped off her tongue easily, although she had no idea whether there’d even been a match last night, much
It was early when Clem knocked on the shabby front door the next morning – earlier than she usually saw anyway. A night spent on the sofa with nothing more indulgent than
Tom squeezing her feet as they watched
Goodfellas
(his favourite film) meant she had slept soundly and woken up easily. Her grand plan had taken root in the night and, unencumbered by her
usual hangover, her mind had started firing off ideas left, right and centre, leaving her utterly incapable of lying around in bed.
Clem knocked on the door again, wondering what on earth the occupant could be doing other than sleeping at 8.23 a.m. on a Sunday morning, unable to resist fiddling with the flaky maroon paint
that was peeling away. She pulled one bit, which was sticking out like a hangnail, and it ripped slowly up the grain of the door, exposing the bare wood beneath like a vivid scar.
She gasped, appalled by her thoughtless act of . . . well, hooliganism. The two-foot-long timber strip hung limply from her hands just as a groan rumbled from somewhere deep inside the flat.
The rattle of a chain on the other side of the door made her throw the offending paint strip down the stairwell, so that she was standing to attention with her hands behind her back when the
denuded door opened and Simon’s pale, bleary face appeared around it.
‘What is it?’ he muttered grouchily, before focusing and seeing Clem standing before him like one of his visions. ‘Shit, Clem! What are you doing here?’ His hands were off
the door and crossed in front of his genitals in an instant, before he realized he was wearing a pair of cream boxers with brown stripes on and that a modicum of modesty, if not of style, was
preserved.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, smiling serenely and really getting off on her new-found sobriety. It felt great to see someone else looking shocking for once.
He gaped at her in amazement and Clem had a feeling that of the many times he had rehearsed this moment – finding her on his doorstep – in his head, it had never gone quite like
this. ‘What,
now?’
‘It can’t wait. And I can’t discuss it in the office anyway.’
Simon blinked at her. ‘Why not?’
Clem leaned in and waited for him to lean in to her, too. Which, after a hesitation, he did. ‘It’s a secret,’ she whispered. ‘Let me in.’
Simon looked behind him, back into the flat. ‘It’s uh . . . not really a good time,’ he protested weakly.
‘Oh, Si, don’t be such a chump,’ Clem sighed, losing patience and pushing past him anyway. ‘As if
I
care about how messy your flat is.’
It was just as well she didn’t. Last night’s pizza boxes, a case of beers and a bong still sat on the sitting-room table; the huge plasma TV was flickering snow and the Xbox was
humming loudly with thick black wires hanging out of it.
‘Shall I play Mother while you get dressed?’ Clem asked brightly – it was more of an order than a question – locating a kettle in the far corner and opening a window.
‘Uh, uh . . .’ Words defeated him and Simon ducked into the bedroom, falling over furniture from the sounds of things, as he tried to catch up with the dream sequence that was
happening in the next room.
He emerged a few minutes later in his jeans and a red-checked shirt, looking quite the lumberjack with his ginger stubble and wild hair. He ran a hand through it casually, and Clem had to stifle
a giggle as he found it standing on end and quickly licked his palm to pat it down again.
‘So.’ She smiled, letting him clear a space for her on the armchair – actually it was a gaming chair, ergonomic and rocking, and so low she may as well have lain on the floor.
She could see straight under the sofa opposite. ‘Good night last night?’
‘Uh yeah, yeah. Quiet, nothing special.’
‘Did you watch the game?’ The words tripped off her tongue easily, although she had no idea whether there’d even been a match last night, much
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