Page 63 of Not Moving Out
‘Martin predicted that within the next year, we could stop using the oven all together. We will see. He also predicted Brexit wouldn’t last six months, Scotland would vote for independence, and that I would pick the winner of the last Grand National.’
‘Did you?’
‘They fell at the first fence.’
‘Oh.’
Mum looked down at me and smiled. ‘I’m proud of you, Freya.’
‘Why?’ I said, a little shocked, and then standing up, too.
‘Because you’re doing cold water swimming, you have a career, and you’re dealing with a messy divorce a hundred times better than I did,’ said Mum, and then I saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. She reached down and held my hands for a moment. Mum wasn’t always the most effusive parent in the world and so when she was, it was always a bit of a shock. Maybe the sea water had temporarily affected her emotions. ‘I’m just so proud of you, darling, because you’re you. You’re doing it all and making it work. Good for you!’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said, feeling tears settle in my eyes, too.
‘I really had better get going before Martin sends out the search party. See you soon, darling,’ said Mum, giving me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, before she walked off towards her car. I decided to keep sitting on the beach for a little while longer. Dolly was working at the language school, and I didn’t know where Joe was, but it was a Saturday and I had nothing to go home for. I had been looking into returning to university and finishing my studies to become a full-time solicitor, and I could start in the autumn. My life would soon be significantly busier then, on top of potentially selling the house, and starting a whole new life on my own. I was going to enjoy sitting on that beach in peace and quiet because for one reason or another, it felt like the calm before the impending storm.
Chapter Thirty-One
Joe
I had finished the last episode ofHouse Shared, sent it to Carl, and I knew it was something special. I had felt it the whole time I was writing it. It had that magic something, an alchemy that was intangible and couldn’t be created but happened from time to time when I was writing. Maybe it was because the subject matter was so close to my heart, or because it was happening while I was writing it, I didn’t know, but the words flowed from me and it was funny, emotional, dramatic and it really felt like a hit. The only other time I had felt like that was when I had handed over the script toThe Mornings. The only problem now, of course, was telling Freya about it because I had used her life, her problems, and I had essentially written a sitcom about us. I knew that without her blessing there was no way the project could go ahead, no matter how much Carl wanted it or whatever money was involved. It terrified me because I needed this to work, but it relied on Freya giving me the green light. Then there was the daughter in the show and what I had decided to do with her. It had been a hard struggle, but I had finally found the edge Carl had demanded.
I had arranged to meet Stuart and Barney at a cafe in Hove called Fika. It was something of a local for Stuart, who explained they had wonderful coffee, and excellent breakfast sandwiches. I hadn’t seen Stuart or Barney for a while because I had been working so hard onHouse Shared, but now it was done and I was waiting for Carl’s response, I could focus on a life beyond my writing room. Writing was an erratic profession, and I would often find myself losing months of the year holed up in my office, but once it was over, I would have weeks where I did nothing at all. I was feeling nervous because, despite it being a Saturday, I was waiting to hear from Carl. He’d had a meeting at the BBC yesterday, and I wanted to find out how it had gone. Hence the breakfast with Stuart and Barney to take my mind off it.
I walked into Fika, where Stuart and Barney were already sitting at a table, sipping on coffee. Fika was one of those fantastic cafe/coffee shops that Brighton and Hove did incredibly well and always seemed to be in demand, no matter how many suddenly popped up. Stuart was in a pair of beige chinos and an old polo shirt with his language school logo on, and a pair of slightly battered brown boat shoes. Barney was dressed in a pair of smart navy trousers, dark leather shoes, a crisp white shirt, and over that he had on a light linen jacket. Barney always dressed up just in case he met his future wife coming out of a local Tesco Express. ‘You never know!’ he always said. I had to admire his optimism and perhaps he had a point, and when I looked down at my own ensemble of old jeans that were probably due a wash, white T-shirt with a small hole in the left shoulder, faded blue Oxford shirt I’d had for years and scuffed Adidas trainers, it was clear I definitely didn’t look my best. I also hadn’t shaved in weeks and so had quite a healthy beard that was veering very dangerously close to being more salt than pepper. If I met someone new right now, they would probably imagine I had fallen upon hard times. There was definitely a fine line between ‘bohemian writer’ aesthetic and just ‘scruffy old bastard’.
‘Morning, boys,’ I said, walking across and sitting down.
‘Ah, Joseph!’ said Barney. ‘Morning, sir.’
‘Morning, mate, coffee?’ said Stuart.
‘It’s all right, I’ll get it. I’m starving. What’s good?’ I asked.
Stuart ran me through the menu quickly and suggested a few things, and I ended up getting a flat white and a fried chicken breakfast sandwich. We all took a few minutes to order before we settled down into conversation. I really wanted to tell them aboutHouse Sharedbecause it was the first time I’d written something and not spent hours talking to Freya about it, and I was desperate to share it with someone other than Carl. When something lived solely in your head for months and months, it needed to get out from time to time.
‘I just finished my latest sitcom and sent it off to my agent,’ I said.
‘Well done, mate,’ said Stuart. ‘Is this the one about the couple sharing a house after they separate?’
‘The one based on you and Freya?’ chipped in Barney.
‘Well, yes, and that’s the sticking point. I still haven’t told Freya about it.’
‘Ouch,’ said Barney.
‘Definitely a bit of a sticky wicket,’ said Stuart.
‘We prefer “tricky sitch” actually,’ I said, and Stuart and Barney both looked confused so I continued. ‘Anyway, I just don’t know how to bring it up and I’m worried Freya will put the kibosh on the whole thing, and I need this. It’s literally all I have.’
‘What do you think she’ll say when you tell her?’ said Stuart as our food and my coffee arrived, and it smelled incredible. I hadn’t eaten much the night before, and it was already later than I would usually eat breakfast, and my stomach was growling. I took a bite of the chicken breakfast burger before having a sip of my flat white.
‘Honestly,’ I said to Stuart, ‘I literally have no idea. She might be fine with it, or she might hate my guts, force me to stop writing it, and never speak to me again.’
‘A bit overdramatic, don’t you think?’ said Barney, who had just taken a bite of his sandwich and had some runny egg sliding down his chin. ‘It’s just a TV show.’
‘But it’s a TV show about us, which I didn’t ask for her permission to write. The thing is, well, Freya and I slept together—’
