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Chapter 3

Louise

By the time I get to the last property on my list, my expectations are pretty low. I’ve learned that ‘perfectly located’ and ‘neat and tidy’ are the most blatantly abused terms in the shared accommodation ads on the internet, and I’ve established that many of the bedrooms advertised barely qualify as such, because surely fitting a bed that one has enough room to actually walk around is a basic requirement. Even more irritating is the fact that I’ve been scrutinised from head to toe every time, with possible flatmates assessing if I’m worthy of their tiny, badly located, less-than-clean abodes.

According to the ad, this apartment comes with a resident thirty-year-old male. To be honest, sharing with a man isn’t my preference. I only made this appointment as a backup if all the others failed to deliver, which they have, so here I am.

A few minutes later, I have been buzzed in, taken the stairs to the second floor, and am being greeted by Joe, the thirty-year-old male in question. He’s average height, and his gaze is open and friendly, a nice change from the critical and frankly suspicious receptions I’ve had so far today.

‘Hi. I’m Louise.’

‘Dublin?’ he enquires.

Despite myself I’m impressed. ‘That didn’t take you long.’

He grins. ‘My mother’s from Howth. She’s been in Australia more than thirty years, but she sounds like she arrived yesterday. I have cousins and aunts and uncles there — the Flynns. Don’t suppose you know them?’

‘Err … No.’

I’m smiling, a welcome surprise at the end of such a frustrating afternoon. I like Joe in that certain way that comes purely from instinct and is rarely wrong. Something about him feels familiar, as though he’s someone I already know, not someone I’m meeting for the first time. Maybe it’s the Irish in him, that classic combination of dark hair, clear skin and warm eyes he must have inherited from his mother.

‘Let me show you around.’

The apartment, from what I can see, appears to be genuinely ‘neat and tidy’, and the bedroom he leads me to, while not large, is big enough, and has a generous rectangular window framing an outlook of red rooftops and gum trees.

‘I can remove the bed if you have your own,’ he offers.

‘I don’t. I have no furniture at all, so this is great.’

‘The lease is a minimum six months.’

‘That’s fine …’

‘You work in the city?’

‘At the Sydney City Art Gallery.’ My chin rises of its own accord. ‘I’m a conservator.’

Despite my best efforts, the defensiveness is always there; it seems I can’t adopt a nonchalant tone, like everyone else does, when I say what I do for a living. It’s as though my brain doesn’t believe I’ve managed to get this far.

His smile is wry. ‘A conservator and a writer. Interesting combination.’

So he’s a writer. What kind? Novelist? Journalist? Copywriter?

He moves on before I can ask.

The kitchen is small but clean and renovated, the balcony is surprisingly spacious — I can see myself spending time out here — and the living area has two beige sofas, a flat-screen TV, a bookshelf that covers an entire wall yet still overflows, and a square dining table with four matching chairs. The bathroom, like the kitchen, is small and freshly renovated. Would it be awkward sharing this bathroom, putting my toiletries next to his, waiting for my turn to shower in the mornings?

‘I don’t take long showers,’ he supplies, reading my mind as proficiently as he read my accent earlier on.

We leave the bathroom and hover where we started off, in the small hallway. The tour is evidently complete.

He smiles a crooked smile. ‘So, are you interested?’

‘Yes, yes I am.’

I already know that I can live here with him, that we’re compatible, and that we won’t grate on each other. And this is really jumping ahead, but I am quite sure that if I move in here, Joe and I will become friends.

‘Would you like an application form?’ he asks.

‘Yes, please.’

I leave clutching the form. Outside, a bus swings by, proving that there is indeed public transport on hand. I pause to look up at the building, with its clean blonde brick, and my eyes pick out Joe’s apartment on the second floor. There’s the balcony, the outdoor table and chairs, some healthy plants, and a slice of the hot late afternoon sun. It’s perfect. And Joe seems like the perfect flatmate.

‘Just email me a copy of the completed form and I’ll ring you to confirm when you can move in,’ he said before I left.

He seems as sure of me as I am of him. With any luck, I’ll be able to check out of my current accommodation — a budget motel on the corner of two extremely noisy streets — in a couple of days.

Walking down the street, towards the bus stop, I acknowledge one misgiving. I wish he wasn’t a writer. There’s also the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the living area, evidence that he not only writes but reads extensively, too.

Writing, books, words. Everywhere.

It’s the only fault I can find. In every other way, Joe and his apartment are ideal.

Four days later I’m standing outside Joe’s door with all my worldly belongings: a suitcase, resting by my legs, and a sports bag, still weighing heavily on my shoulder.

‘Is that all you have?’ he asks, looking surprised.

I’m sweating and red in the face from exertion. ‘Compact but deceivingly heavy.’

‘Here.’ He lifts the bag away from my aching shoulder. ‘You should have buzzed me to come down and help.’

The thought had occurred to me, particularly after struggling up the first flight of stairs, but it felt presumptuous, so I’d persevered. Now, with my head lolling to one side from the strain of the bag, I wonder at my own stupidity.

Joe has also taken charge of the suitcase, choosing to lift and carry it rather than use the wheels. Being small and slight, I don’t have much natural strength, and it’s one thing about men that fascinates me, the inherent and seemingly effortless power to lift and lug and, on occasion, strike out. I follow him, closely watching as he exerts his strength.

‘Thanks.’

‘Next time, please ask,’ he says, depositing my bags on the bed and casting me a look that suggests he has already worked out that asking for help is difficult for me.

‘Okay,’ I reply in a voice that sounds oddly meek and not like me at all.

He hesitates by the door, and I notice then what he’s wearing: a grey T-shirt that looks as though it’s been washed many times, teamed with well-worn jeans. Are these his writing clothes? When does he write? Monday to Friday? Nine to five? Maybe he’s one of those writers who stay up all night and go about like the walking dead during the daylight hours. I guess I’ll soon find out.

‘Can I make you a tea or coffee?’

‘No, thanks,’ I smile.

He closes the door behind him, and I’m left alone in my new room. I sit on the bed, and try to restore my equilibrium. As my face cools down and my heart stops racing, I breathe in the room around me, its serenity and cleanness and space. The cream walls, the soft wool carpet, the daylight streaming through the window, all bring a deal of gratefulness, because another kind of room is never very far from the fore of my mind: a fifth-floor room with dull walls, stained old-fashioned carpet, and a small window that always — for safety’s sake — remained locked. A room, already too small for one, which had to mould and stretch itself to accommodate two. I was about six or seven when my mother left Simon’s bed and moved into mine. There wasn’t enough space — or money, for that matter — for two beds, so I slept on a thin mattress on the floor. Every room since has been luxurious by comparison. The various places in Dublin after Simon died. The bedsit in London. The loft-style apartment in New York, paid for by the gallery. This place, with its double bed and clean, pure light.

Slowly, I begin to unpack, placing underwear and socks neatly into drawers, hanging jackets and skirts and trousers for work. T-shirts, shorts and jeans, my hanging-around clothes, folded on shelves. A few textbooks, a crystal paperweight (a graduation gift from Emma), and some stationery for the desk. There’s too much storage space: hangers, shelves and drawers that I cannot fill. Obviously this room is used to being inhabited by someone with more possessions — more substance — than me.

I leave my most treasured items until last. The picture frame: her beguiling smile, the tilt of her head, the sun glinting on her copper-brown hair. Though the photograph is slightly out of focus, I like it more than any of the others because it catches her in a moment when she seems genuinely happy. I place the frame on the bedside dresser, the same place it has been in London, New York and everywhere else.

Then there’s the box, which contains more photographs, a few personal letters dated before I was born, a notebook with shopping and other lists in her sloping handwriting. Though it goes everywhere with me, I don’t open the box very often. Even when I was young and knew nothing at all about conservation, I somehow understood that the more frequently I opened it and fingered through its contents, the more fragile and insubstantial those contents would become. This is all I have of her, and I have used all my skills, my knowledge, my expertise, to keep everything in pristine condition.

Of course the photograph in the picture frame is the exception. Constantly displaying that moment of happiness and exposing it to UV light has faded and yellowed the colours. I know I should store it away, or at least rotate it with the other photographs, but I can’t. Something about it gives me hope. It was just a random moment in a hard, disappointing life. An illusion, if anything. Nevertheless, it suggests that a happy ending was within her grasp.