The cat didn't come with the flat.
We saw this place on a sunny day. I remarked that it was just down the road and around the corner from the first place we’d seen together, and this was probably the twentieth. I always wanted that first place. I realise now though, I’d wanted it for myself, not for us.
I’ve always lived in places with the same three numbers – two, three and eight. Flat 3, number 28. Flat 28. Flat 3, number 8. And then the house we rented together was number 23, which I thought was a good sign, even if it wasn’t quite where I wanted to be.
This place didn’t have any of those numbers. It was a 5 and a 1. For that reason alone, I was hesitant going in – also, the fact that this place was about 70 over our agreed budget. I used to wonder why, despite that, you were so determined to see it. And why you fought so hard for it, over the phone to the agents we’d both come to know so well. The agents who would eventually find a place for just me, some months later.
A private entrance, that was the dream. A shed by the front door and a fully wired outhouse, at the bottom of the enormous garden. The latter would be your office, you explained. I’d have the spare room – that was fine by me. It had its own bathroom, and my anxious tummy would appreciate that. I liked the large window, I could see my desk fitting perfectly underneath it. I took a photo of a fluffy cat on the bed. It winked at me. It knew.
I made the joke when the agent found me in the child’s bedroom, as I was mentally turning it into my office – ‘does the cat come with the place?’ We both laughed, politely.
The kitchen was a modern design, and a little dark. It was semi-open plan, just a step and a duck from the living room, and had no windows. I briefly felt sad when I looked at the sink, tucked into a corner, thinking I’d have liked to wash dishes while looking out at the garden. I don’t want for much, I thought. I like washing dishes, and didn’t mind letting them pile up on the countertop over the course of the day, while you’d always insist on washing your pots and pans immediately after cooking – you’d soap and scrub everything of yours, drain and dry, while your hot meal sat on the side. Nothing of mine.
We both liked the shape of the bedroom. We admired the glass doors that opened onto the patio. You said we could repaint the living room accents, if I wasn’t keen on the green. ‘Not lilac, though.’
I wanted to see if we could create more light by knocking a window through the wall beside the fireplace. You said we could look into it.
We both had the same thought, I realised some time later. ‘If we just get in here, and set up this part of our life together, it’ll be fine’. But my version of the thought was a reassurance, a place to reach and a level to unlock where I could feel safe and secure, and any anxiety I had about not being enough for you, not bringing anything to the metaphorical table, would finally disappear. Your version was just a marker of time. You would do this for now, and in a couple of years we’d sell the place and, what? Go our separate ways? The five-year plan you’d unfolded over dinner on our first anniversary hadn’t been mentioned for some time – maybe you’d lost it amongst the boxes when you moved down to the seaside.
The right person lives here now. A sort of family friend, funnily enough. As soon as I found out she’d bought the place, months after our offer was rescinded, and after many people viewed it and were told it was back on the market after the couple who had wanted it split up very unexpectedly, I knew I had to see it again. It’s so bizarre how you only see a place a couple of times at most before signing up for a whole chapter of a lifetime living in it, parting with more money than you could ever have to hand, being trusted with a lie dressed up as a loan. I don’t know what I hoped seeing it again would do for me. I don’t think it was a matter of closure, but more of a challenge to myself. I check in with my mind quite a lot, still, all these months later. Am I moving on happily? Does it really matter how many people I take to bed, or shag on a sofa? Am I still grieving the hope for a life I never had? Was the grass really that green or did it go brown in the sun?
She said she spotted it on the agents’ website in early July. She viewed it just a week after our purchase was awkwardly and abruptly halted. As we had coffee, she looked around the place and explained a few piles of mess – the fridge freezer had to be taken out, the floor is being levelled, she’s yet to decide on a colour for that pale green wall, the same one I’d disliked.
I looked around the garden, and wondered where the cat was now. I hope she got the sprawling outdoor space we’d wanted for her. I didn’t care that much though, which surprised me. For a while I was the one who cared the most.
She told me she’s happier than ever now she’s here. It felt comfortable and home-like the moment she moved in, and she’s excited to make it her own. I can feel her buzzing quietly as she sits beside me with her coffee, her eyes occasionally roaming over the paint samples scattered across the table. She reminds me that she has a housewarming party next weekend, and I’m very much invited to come along with my folks. I had every intention of going but didn’t in the end. I’m glad the parents went though, and got to see the place. The place they’d no doubt have spent a few weeks of their lives helping us put together and decorate, visited fairly regularly for coffees and to drop off leftovers, check in on the cat when we were in London for work or somewhere further away on an adventure. It would have been a significant period of their lives too, and they’d have loved it. Now they’re looking forward to helping me move alone, and insisting that they can do half the work that needs doing in the garden, I needn’t call anyone or spend any money.
I don’t know if I’ll get a cat. I can’t be sure who I’ll let in. The Hermit card keeps peeking out from its lonely pulpit, inviting me to join. I may do, for a while.
Thanks for reading.
G. x
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