Page 58 of Five Gold Rings
‘Toastie sandwiches are things you eat together, on a winter’s day, when you’re hungover. Cheese toasties dipped in tomato soup. Those are the things that make a home.’
I think back to my mum who used to overload our toasties so the cheese went everywhere and stuck to the machine in yellow sticky cobwebs.
‘Well, I will use it wisely. I’m a huge fan of cheese,’ Joe says, still looking around this room.
‘Don’t ask about the bed,’ I plead.
‘I thought it was some sort of trendy art installation myself. Should I ask about all the open gifts? Were you looking for something? I did that once. I thought I wrapped up the scissors,’ he tells me.
‘I was hungry,’ I reply.
‘So was I. I may have eaten some of your Aunt Bea’s shortbread. I apologise.’
‘Aunt Bea will be fine without,’ I say blankly.
‘Who was the olive oil set for? Just so I can think about them when I use them?’ Joe asks, a pained expression on his face as he tries to dig me out of my heartbreak hole.
‘Uncle Arthur.’
‘And what do we know about Uncle Arthur?’
‘He grabs my arse when I hug him.’
Joe flares his nostrils. ‘Fuck him then.’ He sits there for a moment, thoughtful, but then puts his hand into his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper. He rubs his thumb along the paper.
‘What’s that then?’ I signal.
‘I… I didn’t know if you wanted to read it. It was a note I found stuck on the fridge. It has your name on it.’
I don’t recognise the note but flinch to see Chris’s handwriting on the front as he holds it up to me. ‘Have you read it?’
He shakes his head.
'Can you read it out for me?’ I say, frozen, with tears in my eyes.
Joe nods silently and opens it up.
Joe
‘She seems nice?’ I tell Eve as we walk up the stairs to her flat, having met Mrs Milkov from downstairs. Eve clutches onto the brightly coloured foil box present she gifted her, expressionless, silent, like she’s walking towards the place of a former haunting, waiting for ghosts to jump out at her again. She’s been like this all morning since I told her about her brother’s call, and so when she asked to come here for a moment, I agreed mainly out of guilt. I’m not that desperate for an olive oil set but, before I extricate myself fully from my crush, I still need to be her friend through all of this. To let her know that even if this isn’t love, I still care.
‘I water her plants when she goes away.’
‘That’s a nice thing to do.’
‘She makes me talk to them, too.’
‘What do you say to them?’ I ask, as she fumbles around in her bag for her keys.
‘I compliment them. Don’t you look green today?’
I smile but follow close behind her on those stairs. ‘Do you think she woke up and wished them all Merry Christmas, too?’
Eve doesn’t reply but stares at the red front door in front of her, a wicker heart hanging on it, placing her fingers on the gingham ribbon to straighten it. Oh, Eve. She’s so quiet. Too quiet. She was silent in the car, too, deep in thought, and not even my Christmas playlist could help. And then Mrs Milkov showed her that ring. That really quite awful ring.
‘Welcome to Chez Eve. I’m sorry about the mess,’ she mumbles as she places Mrs Milkov’s gift under the tree, switching on the Christmas tree lights.
I’ve never imagined where Eve lived but I guess if pushed I’d picture somewhere homely with a sense of calm and order. Maybe a cute simple Scandi style lamp – she looked like the sort who would read with big woolly socks on, totally Hygge style. What lies before me, though, resembles a really graphic crime scene. Somebody mugged this room off properly. It’s filled with a lot of opened presents that look like a wild dog has had a go at them. I can’t quite imagine how hard it is to come back here.