Page 17 of The Good Part
With a buzz and a click, the front door opens before I can offer reassurances about not stealing his stamps. Racing up the stairs two at a time, I pause at the door to flat three – my home for two and a half years. On the floor by the door are a pair of small Wellington boots, a child’s bike, and a mat with ‘Welcome to the Mad House’ written in twirling, cheerful font. I press a hand against the door, as though this proximity to my old life might have some talismanic, calming property. It does not.
Mr Finkley is waiting on the landing above, peering down at me. My first impression is that he hasn’t changed. He has the same angular face, the same gravity-defying hair.
‘I remember you. You gave me the plants.’Plants?
‘Who lives here?’ I ask, pointing at the door to flat three.
‘A couple with a loud child.’ He narrows his eyes at the door. When I slump back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, he asks, ‘Are you all right?’
‘This is going to sound crazy,’ I say, ‘but yesterday I was twenty-six and living in this flat, then this morning I woke up somewhere else and I’m sixteen years older.’
Mr Finkley nods, as though this is a perfectly normal explanation for why I’m here. He opens his front door and says, ‘You’d better come in then. I don’t have any coffee or tea to offer you, though.’
Mr Finkley’s front room is a riot of greenery. There are plantseverywhere. Ceramic pots pepper every surface, hanging baskets overflow with leaves, and there are tendrils of foliage climbing the door frames. Hidden within this jungle are boxes and boxes of junk, piled high around dusty brown furniture. The air smells of wet laundry, moth-eaten carpets, and garden centre.
‘I can offer you water or ham or both,’ he says, moving a plant from the sofa to take a seat opposite me, then picking up a cup, which looks and smells suspiciously like coffee.
‘I’m good, thank you. You have a lot of plants,’ I observe. When I’m nervous, I’m prone to stating the obvious.
‘You started my collection. Don’t you remember?’
‘Me? I’m terrible with plants, and no, I don’t remember anything, that’s kind of why I’m here.’
We sit in silence for a moment. I’m not sure how I expect Mr Finkley of all people to be able to help me, but there is something comforting about sitting with someone who looks and sounds the same as I remember them, someone who is not looking at me like I’m completely deranged.
He frowns. ‘So, you’ve lost a few years.’
I nod. ‘There has to be a logical explanation, but it feels like I jumped ahead somehow,’ I tell him.
‘There’s not always a logical explanation. Some things don’t make sense, like wormholes and nanotechnology.’ He pauses, raising his index finger in the air and peering at me over his coffee cup with unblinking eyes. ‘Did you ask for this? Did you wish your life away?’ His tone is so serious that I find myself bursting into tears.
‘Yes, I think I did,’ I say, and then I’m howling, tears streaming down my face. ‘But I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want to be old, I just wanted to eat croissants and to stop going on terrible dates.’
Mr Finkley stands up and for a moment I’m worried he’s going to try to hug me, but he simply hands me a box of tissues. All the tissues in the proffered box look to have been used and replaced, but I take it to be tactful, then subtly wipe my tear-stained cheeks on my sleeve.
‘Quite the predicament.’ Mr Finkley sighs, drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair as he waits for me to stop crying. ‘And this future life you’ve found yourself in. What does it look like? Is it any good?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to think about it. There’s a good-looking man, two children, lots of nice shoes.’ I shake my head, aware how foolish I sound.
‘Doesn’t sound too bad then – if you like that sort of thing. Wouldn’t be for me. I don’t tend to like children or shoes.’ Mr Finkley stands, picks up a small, rusty watering can and starts to water his hanging baskets. Only now do I notice he’s not wearing shoes or socks.
‘But if this is real, then I’ve missedyearsof my life. I don’t know my children or the man I’m married to, or even who my friends are now. Plus, not to sound vain, I’m sure ageing isn’t so bad when it creeps up on you gradually, but it’s terrifying when it happens all at once.’ I pause to wrap both my palms around the back of my neck, which is aching with tension. ‘The worst part is, no one’s going to believe me if I tell them what’s happened. Frankly, I’m amazed you believe me.’
‘Did I say I believe you?’ Mr Finkley asks, raising a grey, wispy eyebrow at me. ‘If I’ve learnt anything in life, it’s that it’s best to keep an open mind and a closed toilet seat.’
‘So, what would you do, if you were me?’ I ask, rubbing my face between my palms.
‘You didn’t like your old life.’ He shrugs. ‘I’d enjoy the upgrade. If you can’t get off the bus, you might as well enjoy the ride. I saw that on a poster in the prison library.’
‘Did youworkin a prison?’ I ask nervously.
‘No, spent a few nights in the clink.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘It was mainly a misunderstanding.’ He pauses again, takes off his glasses and wipes them on the corner of his shirt. ‘I’d give anything to be forty-two again. The places I would go.’ He points to a dusty map of the world, propped up against the mantelpiece.
‘You like to travel, Mr Finkley?’
‘In my youth, I went everywhere. Not any more.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘Too many people watching. All this face recognition technology – it’s how the shape-shifting reptiles get you.’
Riiiiight.Mr Finkley’s eyes dart around the room, as though, even now, someone might be listening in on our conversation. Maybe I shouldn’t be seeking life advice from a man with a criminal record and paranoid tendencies.
