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Authors: Adele Parks
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work; as well as Tippex, paper clips, Post-it Notes. As a student she’d regularly raided her flatmates’ kitchen cupboards. She’d avoided her council tax for three consecutive years. She’d never paid Tube fares when she visited London as a teenager; she could afford them but it was a thrill to jump the barrier, part of the holiday experience. Eliza started to feel a bit like a cross between Ronnie Biggs and Bonnie-and-Clyde, so she pursued a different train of thought.
Chioca, what the fuck was it? Apparently, it was ‘tasty waxy red tubers, originally cultivated by the ancient lncas’ – or so the packet said. Eliza looked for the cooking instructions; she was none the wiser. ‘Do not need peeling and have a slightly sweet taste; ideal roasted.’ Eliza shrugged. She put a bottle of organic balsamic vinegar and a bag of wheat-free flour into her trolley. She had a vague idea that you could splash balsamic vinegar on salads, but she wasn’t sure if it would work with chips; she would never open the wheat-free flour but the packaging was very attractive and would look good on Greg’s shelves.
Bored by her own ignorance, Eliza headed towards the bakery, drawn by the smell of freshly baked bread and sugary doughnuts. She decided to ditch her idea of buying rye bread and honey to be served with prunes. She was going to buy some bacon and eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms.She was going to go back to Greg’s flat and cook a massive fry-up and then they could spend the afternoon making love. She’d put all ideas of pension policies and mortgages out of her head for now.
9
They did not spend their afternoon making love. When Eliza returned from Martha’s she found the flat empty. There was no note to say where he’d gone. Of course not. To think of writing a note, Greg would have had to… well, think, for a start. A note would assume a measure of responsibility way beyond Greg’s capabilities. Eliza didn’t bother cooking up the eggs and bacon; she had no stomach for a brunch for one.
Eliza flung open the windows in an attempt to rid the flat of the various stenches of their lives: from fish and chip wrappers, stale tobacco, sweaty clothes and trainers. She couldn’t help but think of the aromas that drifted around Martha’s home: freshly brewed coffee, clean clothes, shampooed babies. Eliza felt grubby. She went to the bathroom with the intention of removing some of the grime that seemed to be a permanent symptom of her lifestyle. She pushed the door with some caution – the bathroom was never a pretty sight; even spiders objected to being in there on grounds of health and safety. Wet towels abandoned on the floor had obviously reproduced in her absence and were now forming a barricade. There was a tide mark around the bath that suggested Eliza and Greg worked down t’pit. Various ointments and unguents had mysteriously splurged from their tubes and tubs. They oozed across the sink, mirror, tiles and floor, as thoughthey too were trying to effect an evacuation from this hole of Calcutta to a more sanitary environment. Her feet stuck to the lino, there was no loo roll, the blind didn’t open.
Eliza sat on the edge of the bath and cried. When she stopped crying, she started packing.
‘Hi, Babe,’ Greg called from the hall. Well, from the sitting room really, as the front door more or less opened into the sitting room, which smudged into the kitchen, which was barely divided from the bedroom. Only the bathroom was a separate entity in Greg’s flat, and even then the door was always open. Eliza was not going to live in a studio flat for the rest of her days.
She flung another pile of Ts into her open suitcase. She heard the front door slam, the TV come on, and the pshushhh of a can of beer being opened. She checked the clock; it was half past four in the afternoon. She knew Greg was now lying on the futon (with his trainers no doubt muddying the throw). His jacket would be on the floor. Greg didn’t actually
Chioca, what the fuck was it? Apparently, it was ‘tasty waxy red tubers, originally cultivated by the ancient lncas’ – or so the packet said. Eliza looked for the cooking instructions; she was none the wiser. ‘Do not need peeling and have a slightly sweet taste; ideal roasted.’ Eliza shrugged. She put a bottle of organic balsamic vinegar and a bag of wheat-free flour into her trolley. She had a vague idea that you could splash balsamic vinegar on salads, but she wasn’t sure if it would work with chips; she would never open the wheat-free flour but the packaging was very attractive and would look good on Greg’s shelves.
Bored by her own ignorance, Eliza headed towards the bakery, drawn by the smell of freshly baked bread and sugary doughnuts. She decided to ditch her idea of buying rye bread and honey to be served with prunes. She was going to buy some bacon and eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms.She was going to go back to Greg’s flat and cook a massive fry-up and then they could spend the afternoon making love. She’d put all ideas of pension policies and mortgages out of her head for now.
9
They did not spend their afternoon making love. When Eliza returned from Martha’s she found the flat empty. There was no note to say where he’d gone. Of course not. To think of writing a note, Greg would have had to… well, think, for a start. A note would assume a measure of responsibility way beyond Greg’s capabilities. Eliza didn’t bother cooking up the eggs and bacon; she had no stomach for a brunch for one.
Eliza flung open the windows in an attempt to rid the flat of the various stenches of their lives: from fish and chip wrappers, stale tobacco, sweaty clothes and trainers. She couldn’t help but think of the aromas that drifted around Martha’s home: freshly brewed coffee, clean clothes, shampooed babies. Eliza felt grubby. She went to the bathroom with the intention of removing some of the grime that seemed to be a permanent symptom of her lifestyle. She pushed the door with some caution – the bathroom was never a pretty sight; even spiders objected to being in there on grounds of health and safety. Wet towels abandoned on the floor had obviously reproduced in her absence and were now forming a barricade. There was a tide mark around the bath that suggested Eliza and Greg worked down t’pit. Various ointments and unguents had mysteriously splurged from their tubes and tubs. They oozed across the sink, mirror, tiles and floor, as thoughthey too were trying to effect an evacuation from this hole of Calcutta to a more sanitary environment. Her feet stuck to the lino, there was no loo roll, the blind didn’t open.
Eliza sat on the edge of the bath and cried. When she stopped crying, she started packing.
‘Hi, Babe,’ Greg called from the hall. Well, from the sitting room really, as the front door more or less opened into the sitting room, which smudged into the kitchen, which was barely divided from the bedroom. Only the bathroom was a separate entity in Greg’s flat, and even then the door was always open. Eliza was not going to live in a studio flat for the rest of her days.
She flung another pile of Ts into her open suitcase. She heard the front door slam, the TV come on, and the pshushhh of a can of beer being opened. She checked the clock; it was half past four in the afternoon. She knew Greg was now lying on the futon (with his trainers no doubt muddying the throw). His jacket would be on the floor. Greg didn’t actually
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