Chapter 3-2
592 Words
Rachel Yates lived in an identical box across the tiny hall of the converted top floor, and in disarray. Her kitchenette was covered in yellow sticky notes with cryptic messages like ‘unsalted butter wtf?’ and ‘JODIE’S PENCIL’ in chicken-scratch handwriting. She had more pink knickers drying on the radiator under the window, threw a cherry tomato at Darren’s head, and imperiously demanded if he knew how to make an omelette.
“I’m crap,” she said. “You’d better know.”
“Do I get some of it if I do make it?”
“A quarter.”
“A third, or you and your tomatoes can go fu…”
“Fine, Jesus.”
She rummaged in the fridge; Darren complimented the knicker-clad arse, and got another tomato bounced off his cheek for his efforts.
“Perv,” she said.
“You’re the one who invited a total stranger into your flat to make you dinner. In your knickers. What am I meant to think?”
“I’m being nice!” Rachel defended herself.
“You’re being a massive flirt,” Darren said.
“Please, the landlady told me you’re gay.”
“Bi,” Darren corrected and Rachel flushed. “Yeah. Check your research next time.”
She snorted and dumped an eggbox in his hands. “Get on with it.”
Rachel, it turned out, was twenty-two and a teaching assistant at the nearby primary school. She was originally from ‘Pompey’—or Portsmouth—but had moved away to get away from her childhood, just like Darren. She had a disturbing fetish for yellow sticky notes (seriously, they were everywhere; there was one on the light switch about a frog) and went running every morning, and spent the entire cooking time for the omelette trying to persuade Darren to join her tomorrow morning.
“I’ve been here a year,” Rachel said when Darren passed her a plate, and beckoned him to curl up on her sagging sofa, covered with fluffy afghans in varying colours. He sank into the nest and found it surprisingly comfortable. “My last neighbour died.”
“Lovely,” Darren said.
“Yeah, he hanged himself on the landing. Lovely thing to find first thing in the morning.” She pulled a face. “He was weird, though. Literally never spoke to him.”
“No knickers-related invasions?”
“Nope,” she said loftily. “Weird, bald guy. I swear he shaved everywhere. He wasn’t fuzzy like you,” and she prodded Darren’s ankle where his work trousers had ridden up enough to show a slip of skin and leg hair above his sock. “You that hairy all over?”
“Not anymore,” Darren shrugged. “The boyfriend complained.”
“Is he here too?”
“Nah. Cambridge.”
“…He’s from Cambridge?”
“No, he’s at Cambridge. The university.”
“Jesus Christ, your boyfriend got into Cambridge?” She gaped, then frowned suspiciously. “Wait. Are you a student?”
“Nope,” Darren shook his head. “Didn’t want to go. I work for the police.”
“A copper?”
“Crime scenes,” Darren corrected. “I dust everything with a tiny paintbrush.”
“Messy.”
“Mm.”
Rachel eyed him over a forkful of egg. “You should come out on Friday night. With us.”
“Who’s us?”
“Me and some of the girls from work,” Rachel said. “Jodie would love you. Are you mixed-race or Jewish or something? The hair’s kinda crazy.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Jodie’s a massive equal rights freak,” Rachel said. “I mean, if you’re bi, she will like literally talk your ear off about how she hates biphobia.”
“My grandfather’s Iranian. Or was. He’s a bit dead now.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” Darren said. “Very dead.”
“I meant the Iranian thing. You’re having me on.”
“I’m not,” Darren said. “Never met him, mind. He died when Mother was a kid.”
“What’s your mum called?”
“Alison.” Darren smirked, and Rachel scowled. “Akbar, before she got married. Her mum was from Wexford.”
Rachel huffed. “Oh, my God, Irish-Iranian-Englishman. Jodie’s going to love you,” she insisted. “Come out with us Friday. You can’t have something else on, you only just got here.”
Darren rolled his eyes, but the remark stuck. For the first time, he didn’t. Rachel was right; he had no plans for the weekend, because weekends had always meant Jayden, and now they didn’t. Darren was going to have to fill up his weekends with something else. He’d have to start looking into sports clubs or something.
Until then, maybe baiting a hairy-armpitted nutjob who probably had a degree in black studies or something like that would fill up this first one.
“All right,” he said. “But I make no promises for my behaviour.”
- Writer
