Felicity had booked the locksmith for eleven, but the way things were going, she was beginning to wonder if she wouldn’t have to call him off. She hadn’t even given any thought to what would happen if Vince didn’t go out. How could she have the locks changed right in front of him? Picture the scene. It simply wasn’t going to happen.
Vince was wandering round the flat, hungover from the night before. Felicity made him coffee and a bacon sandwich.
‘Nice day for Christmas shopping,’ she said brightly, glancing at the clear sky.
Vince lolled back on the sofa, feet on the coffee table. ‘Not sure I fancy it.’ He took a bite of his bacon sandwich, then made a face. ‘I’ve told you I don’t like it when you don’t cut the fat off. My mum always cuts it off. I don’t like bits of stringy fat.’ He pulled a piece from his mouth and set it on the side of the plate, then wiped his fingers on the side of his boxers and took a swig of coffee.
‘Up to you,’ said Felicity casually. ‘But it’s your last chance. You know what your mum’ll be like if you don’t get her something, specially if we have to be round hers Christmas Day.’ The little piling up of deceits was not pleasant, but she had to get him out of the house. She thought about everything Leo said. She had to do this to save her own life. ‘Go on – get it out of the way, then you can meet up with Ossie and Quills and watch the football round The Kempton. I’ll pop down later.’
‘Yeah, maybe. I’ll see.’
Felicity was worried that she’d said too much, been too pushy. Vince didn’t react well to pushy. She picked up his empty plate. ‘Anyway, there’s fifty on the side in the kitchen. You can pay me back later.’ Leaving the money out for him, avoiding the business of directly handing it over, was part of the game. She glanced at her watch. Ten past ten.
Vince drained his mug of coffee, got up, stretched, and scratched himself under his T-shirt. ‘I’m off for a shower.’
She listened to the water splashing in the bathroom, counting the minutes.
Vince emerged, showered and dressed, at twenty to eleven. Felicity was sitting making up a to-do list. She glanced up. ‘You off?’
‘I don’t fancy shopping on my own. You come too. You know the kind of thing Denise’ll like.’
‘Vince, I’ve got a million things I need to do. Working all week, the chores really pile up.’
He gazed moodily around, then dropped onto the sofa and picked up yesterday’s Standard. He flipped through it for a few minutes, while Felicity pretended to concentrate on her list. Then he got up and sauntered into the kitchen. She knew he was pocketing the fifty. How much of that would go on a present for Denise, and how much of it down the boozer?
‘Right, I’m off,’ said Vince. ‘I’ll see you later down the pub?’
‘Yeah, most likely,’ said Felicity. She looked up and smiled. ‘Bye, Vince.’
An hour later, the locksmith had been and gone, and Felicity had two bright new sets of keys.
She found some black bin liners in the kitchen cupboard and went round the house, stuffing in Vince’s possessions. They were pitifully few. She paused in the act of folding up one of his shirts. He was thirty-three, with almost nothing to show for his life. If she discarded him, he would probably go from bad to worse. When Vince said she was all he had, it was just about true. She stared at the shirt for a few seconds, then thrust it into the bag, followed by his electric razor and toiletries.
When she had finished, she rang her friend Maureen.
‘Mo? It’s me. I need a favour. I need to come and stay with you tonight, if that’s OK. Just this one night.’ She explained about Vince, about changing the locks, about not wanting to be here when he came back and found out she’d kicked him out.
‘About time, girl,’ said Maureen. ‘Well done. I never liked to say it, but he is such a loser.’
‘You don’t have to tell me. I’ve known a long time. Too long.’
Twenty minutes later Felicity’s car pulled up outside Denise’s semi. She walked up the path and rang the bell.
It took Denise so long to come to the door that Felicity began to think perhaps she was out. Maybe she could leave Vince’s belongings up the side path near the bins, and pop a note through the letter box, scuttle away without confrontation. But eventually she heard the rattle of the chain being taken off. The door cracked open a few inches and Denise peered out. She had obviously just woken up. With her frowsed dark-orange hair and smudged eyeliner she looked strangely like Vivienne Westwood.
‘Hello, Fliss, darlin’!’ The enthusiasm was forced, but she opened the door wide to let Felicity in, clutching closed the front of her peach sateen kimono. Felicity stepped inside, bringing the bin bag with her.