Page 92 of Not in a Million Years

As soon as my back was turned, I realised with a sense of grim futility, things would return to how they’d been before. It might take a while, but within a few weeks, Andy would be back where he was before my visit, unwashed, unfed, existing only from one increasingly fleeting high to the next.

I’d never visited him again – at least not until today. And today, I was equally uncertain what I’d find when he opened the door – if he opened it.

‘It’s only been a week, Kate,’ I told myself firmly. ‘At least he won’t have had time to flog all his belongings. Look on the bright side.’

But the bright side, on this cloudy Manchester morning, was proving elusive. Although it was officially summer now, the city didn’t appear to have got the memo. The sky was heavy with rain, the heavens threatening to open and soak me through at any moment. I hadn’t brought an umbrella – I’d left my flat that morning on an impulse, the urge to see him suddenly so strong that not even the extortionate price of a last-minute train ticket could put me off. A blustery wind cut through my thin jacket, and I could feel goosebumps rising on the skin of my thighs under my light cotton skirt.

‘Way to go, Kate,’ I muttered. ‘You might at least have thought to check the weather forecast before you left.’

But I hadn’t – I hadn’t thought of anything, really. When it came to Andy, acting rationally had never been my strong point, and why change the habit of a lifetime?

I fumbled my phone out of my handbag and flicked open the map app. Because I’d only been here once before, the route was unfamiliar, and the converted warehouses and modern glass towers lining the canal all looked much the same. But I remembered it being under fifteen minutes’ walk from the station, and I was pretty sure I’d been about that far already. The map confirmed I was correct – it was just here, just around this corner to my right.

I paused now, feeling the need to compose myself and collect my thoughts. But what was the point? Why bother planning what I was going to say when I didn’t know who I’d be addressing my words to – buzzing Andy or sober Andy, Andy riding the wave or Andy coming down, flippant Andy who’d meet any attempt at seriousness with yet another joke, or tearful Andy full of self-hate and remorse.

I’d just have to deal with what I found, when I found it. And for all I knew, he might not even be in. He could be with a friend or a lover. He could be out doing some perfectly normal Saturday activity like shopping for food or seeing a movie. He could be in some sketchy pub scoring coke or he could be at a meeting. Absolutely anything was possible.

The street I’d turned into was beginning to look familiar now, the way a place does when your memory of it is so vague and distant you might as well have seen it in a dream. But I recognised the restaurant on the corner – it had been a Mexican place last time, I recalled. I’d taken Andy there for food but he hadn’t wanted anything except frozen margaritas and I’d been powerless to stop him ordering one after another while I picked without enthusiasm at my tacos. Now it was an artisan pizza place. If we went there today, I thought glumly, it might be negronis Andy drank while I forced down a quattro stagioni.

There was a florist next door to it, and on impulse I went in and bought a bunch of roses, a successor to the flowers Andy had presented to me on my birthday all those years ago as a peace offering or a bribe or just a simple gift – I couldn’t be sure now what he had meant it to be, and I suspected he hadn’t really known himself.

And here was the building where he lived: Wood Quay. I stood for a moment before the serried ranks of buzzers, my hand not obeying my brain’s command to lift and press one. But then a couple with a baby in a buggy appeared in the lobby and the man politely held the door open for me, so I had no option but to enter.

I hitched the strap of my handbag more securely onto my shoulder, took a deep breath and headed for the stairs. Andy’s apartment was on the second floor and it didn’t seem worth taking the lift, but my legs felt disconcertingly weak as I climbed – just nerves, I told myself. There was no way some mysterious wasting illness had attacked my quadriceps between London and here.

And here was Andy’s front door – again distantly familiar from my previous visit. Last time, I remembered, I’d been able to detect the smell of smoke and long-accumulated grease before Andy had even opened the door. Today, I couldn’t smell anything at all.

I lifted my hand to knock, but before I could, the door flew open, making me jump backwards in fright.

Andy jumped backwards too, and then we both burst out laughing.

He was wearing the leopard-print apron and rubber gloves with neon-pink faux fur around the cuffs that I’d given him years ago as a joke Christmas gift. He had a feather duster in one hand and a microfibre cloth in the other, and a strong smell of bleach emanated from inside the flat.

‘Katie babe,’ he said, a delighted smile spreading over his face. ‘This is a surprise. And you’ve caught me mid-spring clean. Isn’t it extraordinary how grubby a place gets when you’re away, even though you’re not there to dirty it? It’s like the dust had a massive fucking party while I was away, and I’ve been too busy at work to get to grips with it until today. Come in and I’ll put the kettle on, since I’m in full 1950s-housewife mode.’

Giddy with relief, I followed him into the flat. It was clean and orderly – there was nothing untoward to see at all. The cushions on the sofa were plumped, the bed on the mezzanine level neatly made. Andy’s crutches stood propped in a corner, but he was walking easily without them.

He stripped off the gloves and flicked on the kettle, and I leaned my hip against the kitchen counter, feeling like my legs might no longer be able to support me.

Andy dropped teabags into two mugs – rose and fennel flavour, I noticed; he was clearly keeping up the posh tea habit I’d got him started on – and then turned to me, counting on his fingers with exaggerated concentration.

‘One, two… Yes, I make it three.’

‘Three what?’ I asked.

‘Three unscheduled appearances from my friends since I moved here. One from you back in – what was it, 2018? One from our Daniel a couple of years later, and now this. I don’t have much recollection of your last visit, if I’m honest. I’d been hitting the old marching powder hard, and I was a bit out of it.’

‘You drank margaritas.’

‘So I did! And very delicious they were too. But I’m guessing you’re not here to sample the delights of the local hostelries this time.’

‘I’m not,’ I agreed. ‘I wanted to talk to you about— Hold on. You say Daniel came and visited you here too?’

‘He sure did. About a year or so after you came up. Only he didn’t treat me to tasty salty cocktails.’

‘No? That doesn’t sound like him. What did he do?’

Andy poured boiling water over the teabags. ‘He frogmarched me off to my first NA meeting.’

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