The back up man, p.1
The Back Up Man, page 1
About the Author
Phoebe Luckhurst was born in London and brought up in Glasgow. She is a Senior Commissioning Editor at The Sunday Times Magazine, and has written features and interviews for the Guardian, Sunday Times Style, Elle, ES Magazine, Grazia, the Telegraph and Vogue. Phoebe has had the theme tune to The OC stuck in her head since 2003 and once almost spent her student loan on a micro-pig. She no longer shops online when drunk.
The Lock In was her debut novel, and her second, The Back Up Man, will be published in 2023.
By the same author
The Lock In
Phoebe Luckhurst
* * *
THE BACK UP MAN
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
To Sam, always
1
Connor had many good qualities – height, intelligence, a maestro’s appreciation of Gogglebox – but Anya had to admit, in the four years they’d been together, a sense of poetry had never been one of them.
Year in, year out, anniversaries, birthdays and Valentine’s Days had been marked with a box of Lindor balls and a jaunty, all-caps text (‘TWO YEARS OF US!’ marked passion of a sort, she supposed). The first time he told her he loved her – on the sofa, while they were eating spaghetti bolognese – he caveated it with a hasty, ‘I think.’ At the time, she’d decided he was simply overcome by the occasion.
So, in many ways, she ought not to have been surprised that were he to dump her, he’d do it in the parking bay of a Shell garage on their way home from Sunday lunch at his mother’s.
‘I’m sorry, OK. Really,’ Connor had said weakly, as the tears started to crystallize on Anya’s eyelashes. It was dark outside, and the spectral lighting and nauseous, petroleum odour of the Shell garage made everything feel even more nightmarish. ‘It’s been on my mind for a while, and I woke up this morning and decided I couldn’t put it off any longer, but we were going to my mum’s. I knew she’d be annoyed if we cancelled, and that she’d have bought enough food for both of us … so I had to wait until after that. I couldn’t do that to her.’
‘To her?!’ Anya had whispered incredulously, but Connor hadn’t seemed to notice.
And so she had watched the rain drip slowly down the windscreen as Connor drove them home to the flat to thrash out the miserable details. As soon as he turned the key in the lock it had begun: the whys (I just don’t want this anymore), the whens (I don’t know – a while I suppose) and the hows (well, no – we can’t both stay here). Anya asked them each over and over: voice small, robotic and disbelieving, until Connor’s wretched, whispered answers finally silenced her. Eventually, she just stopped dumb, chewing her thumbnail as she watched him pack a suitcase – the expensive one, with the built-in phone charger that they’d always shared on trips away.
‘I’ll go to Duncan’s.’ He was rolling his clothes neatly – like he always did – and the orderly, space-efficient way in which he was leaving her stung.
‘How—’
‘I’m so sorry, I really am.’ He didn’t look up but sounded so uncomfortable that she felt fleetingly sorry for him. ‘I didn’t mean … well, I’ve …’
He gave up and slid a roll-on deodorant inside his Asics trainers, then continued to fold his boxers, neck reddening in the awkward silence. Sooner than she’d hoped, he was standing in the doorway of the flat, suitcase beside him.
‘When will you—’
‘I’ll give you a few days.’ He seemed determined to avoid a real conversation – a back and forth with any consequences or conclusions – although her face must have said something that resonated, because he relented. ‘A week, then. To get yourself sorted.’ His eyes were watery, and he was fidgeting with his stubble, and she felt a pressure in her chest.
‘Connor—’
‘If you … if you could just let me know as soon as you’ve found somewhere to stay. Well, that would be great.’ The flat was his, and he’d soon be reclaiming it. ‘Oh, and Anya …’ her heart crumpled now at the sound of him saying her name, ‘I think we should … well, I don’t think we should text. For a little while. Unless it’s about where you’re staying, of course.’ He was staring at a space about half a metre to the left of her. ‘I just think it would be easier for both of us.’
Nothing felt easy now, but he was already turning clumsily on his heel, running the suitcase over his toes in his panic to make his getaway. He paused on the top step.
‘I’m sorry, Anya.’
And then Connor was away, suitcase wheels grinding on the staircase, avoiding her gaze so carefully that persisting in watching him leave her seemed pointless. She closed the door weakly, slumped against it and slid towards the floor, tears welling in her eyes.
When she heard the sound of footsteps, her breath caught and at an insistent knock, she scrambled to her feet. But it was only Georgie, her arms outstretched. Her sister’s hair was pulled up into a low bun and her eyebrows looked as perfect as they always did.
‘Sorry, I was too quick,’ she mumbled into Anya’s cheek, ‘I bumped into him at the bottom of the stairwell.’
Anya leapt out of their embrace like she’d been electrocuted. ‘What did you say?’ It had been minutes and she was already desperate for news.
‘Well, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know, but we didn’t stand there for ages talking about it,’ Georgie mumbled, as she settled on the sofa in the living room, which felt empty and echoey, even though Connor had only taken the PS4. ‘I told him there were plenty more fish in the sea.’
A pause.
‘That’s what you’re supposed to say to me, Georgie.’ Anya wrapped her arms around her knees. She was sitting on the floor but felt like she had vertigo.
‘Ah, shit. Right. Yes.’
Mercifully, her sister had brought gin and, inexplicably, a multi-plug extension socket.
‘I panicked.’ Georgie pulled it out of her bag and placed it on the coffee table where they both stared at it for a moment. ‘It was on display near the checkout and then I thought maybe he’d have taken all the plugs.’
‘Why would he do that. How would he do that?’ Anya could tell she was about to cry properly. Georgie was cool-headed and practical; if Connor’s departure had sent her into a tailspin, what could it do to Anya? What might she buy at the supermarket? Thousands of batteries? A life’s supply of bayonet lightbulbs?
‘I don’t know why – he always brought the adaptors when we went on holiday – look, just have it, OK?’ Georgie pressed the multi-plug into Anya’s palms. ‘And let’s get a gin down you.’
Her sister had summoned the cavalry. Anya was several shots deep when Paddy arrived bearing his own supplies: three oven pizzas and a bottle of tequila. Georgie buzzed him in as Anya, on a break from sobbing, was staring at the wall and muttering, ‘I just can’t believe he’s done this.’
When Paddy appeared in the doorway, he clocked the Gordon’s and shook his head gravely.
‘I knew we’d end up with too many spirits.’
Tossing his grey coat on the back of the squishy armchair – Paddy always looked put together, even in a crisis – he placed the tequila on the table, then helped himself to a gulp of Georgie’s drink. She opened her mouth in outrage.
‘All right, all right, I’ll get myself one’ – he placed the glass back on the table in front of her and headed towards the kitchen – ‘then I want the whole story.’ He waved the pizza. ‘I got one ham and pineapple and two pepperonis, by the way.’
Anya tried to say thank you, but it came out as a croak, and Georgie squeezed her hand. When Paddy reappeared a few minutes later, he was holding a slender plastic cup on which was printed the name of the recruitment firm where Anya worked, the office where she and Connor had met four and a half years ago. At least he now worked somewhere else, so she wouldn’t have to see him in the office, doing an edgy two-step in the tiny kitchenette (‘Do you mind if I just—?’) and waiting while the other one finished up with the milk, although this was of limited comfort.
‘Did he take all the glasses?’
Paddy sounded off-hand, but Anya blinked with alarm.
‘What?’
‘There are only a few in the cupboard …’
Anya sensed Paddy and Georgie exchange a glance as she stood up and – feeling the gin swilling in her legs – pitched out of the room and into the kitchen. A quick examination confirmed all their glasses and, more importantly, all of her cookbooks were accounted for. Relieved, she returned to the others.
‘He didn’t take any of the glasses,’ – she was breathing heavily – ‘I think we just don’t have very many.’
‘Well,’ Paddy started, with another meaningful look at Georgie, ‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.’ He was sitting in the armchair now and Anya picked her way unsteadily back towards the sofa, where she wrapped her arms around her legs again and felt another lurch of the stomach at all the Connor-less life stretching out ahead of her.
‘So, tell us then’ – Paddy took a swig of his gin, then leaned forward, palms pressed in prayer, voice low – ‘what happened?’
Haltingly, Anya filled them in on the details, stopping a few times to press her palms to her face to catch the dribbly tears, and Paddy and Georgie made noises in the right places. As she reached the end of the tale, she rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. It was wool and made them itch.
‘He’s been acting a bit weird recently. Quiet and grumpier than usual.’ She thought she caught a ghost of an expression on Paddy’s face. ‘But I thought it was just work. I know he hates his new boss …’ she trailed off with a defeated shrug.
‘Is there someone else?’ Georgie asked gingerly, and Anya wished that the theatrics of break-ups did not come with their own clichéd script.
‘I don’t know,’ her voice was thick with snot. ‘I asked, but if there is he didn’t admit to it. Maybe?’ She bit her thumbnail and watched them both from behind swimming eyes.
‘Oh, Anya.’ Paddy crunched down on a piece of ice and grimaced.
‘Who dumps someone like that after four years?’ Georgie started indignantly. ‘Four months maybe, but four years—’ She stopped abruptly when she clocked Paddy’s hard stare. There was a brief silence until he crunched on some more ice and winced again.
‘Ouch. Sorry. Hit a filling that time.’
Anya felt a tear roll down her cheek, and Georgie squeezed her hand again. Paddy gave her a sad smile.
‘Well, this settles it. They can call a substitute English teacher tomorrow. I’ll pull a sickie.’
‘Really?’ She blinked gratefully at him. Paddy was an English teacher at the school where he and Anya had met, which still felt ludicrous to her, although he was now two years into the job.
‘Of course.’ He took a sip. ‘You call in sick too. We can watch Attenborough all day.’
She managed a weak smile and Paddy nodded, satisfied.
‘And I need to find somewhere to live.’
Anya turned her head again in Paddy’s direction – it felt heavy – and asked, despite knowing the answer: ‘Can you boot Ivy out?’
Ivy was Paddy’s housemate, a loud Australian girl who cut her toenails at the kitchen table and used the word ‘funsies’. Despite these steep odds, Paddy was enormously fond of her.
‘No, I can’t, Anya,’ he said gently. ‘I like Ivy. And she signed a lease. We are betrothed.’
Anya slumped an inch further into the sofa, while Georgie stroked her soggy, woolly forearm. ‘How long has he given you to get things sorted?’
‘He said a few days, a week, maybe.’ She closed her eyes to steady herself. ‘He can’t stay at Duncan’s for long. He doesn’t even have a spare room.’
Anya was certain that they were all, at that moment, remembering the housewarming at Duncan’s that she’d dragged them to last year. Every spare surface of the flat had been covered with one of the following: an electric guitar; Rangers’ memorabilia; beer paraphernalia; and by the end of the evening, a sticky layer of beer itself. They didn’t remember much about his sofa – apart from the bit when a leery, beery bloke passed out on it, snoring wetly – but they couldn’t imagine it was comfortable for Connor.
‘I’ll ask around.’ Paddy frowned at his phone screen industriously. ‘I’m sure someone has a room you can move into until you get things sorted.’
Anya hugged her knees even tighter at the thought of someone’s bare, spare room being her new home.
‘I know where you could go’ – Georgie said flatly – ‘but you might not like it.’
‘Where?’ Paddy stopped jabbing at his phone screen.
‘Claire’s. She’s down on Hamilton Drive now – a big place, she earns enough. And she definitely has a spare room; she showed me last time I was round there.’ Georgie sounded apologetic about Claire’s abundance of square footage. ‘I’m sure she’d give it to you for mates’ rates, Anya.’
At this, Paddy snorted and Georgie shot him a glower.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Sorry. It’s just the idea of Claire having mates.’
Georgie ignored this. ‘Anya?’
With a long, steadying breath, Anya drew herself up in what she hoped – despite the snot and the soggy knitwear and the general emotional decay – was a dignified manner.
‘Georgie, I am not going to live with Claire. Frankly, I’d rather move back to Renfrew Street.’
Renfrew Street was where she, Paddy and their friend Tasha had lived in their third year of university, in a flat that had infestations of mice, slugs and black mould (the holy trinity!). The building had later been condemned.
‘Right,’ Georgie said, soothingly. ‘Of course not. Ignore me.’
They stayed in the living room for hours. After Anya entered a sort of catatonia, Paddy stuck the telly on and he and Georgie had pantomimed enthusiasm for a trashy reality TV show about people who worked on cruise ships, while Anya blinked bewilderedly at the liveried staff and their high-seas dramas. At around 11 p.m., Georgie clapped her hands together with an air of finality.
‘Shall we go to bed? I have to be up for work.’
Anya had forgotten it was a Sunday. Things like this – dramatic, life-altering things – weren’t meant to happen on a Sunday. Sundays were for gentle, non-threatening emotions and familiarity, and considering leaving the house until you realize that would involve putting on a bra and a shoe with a proper sole.
‘Shotgun!’ Paddy.
‘What for?’ Georgie petted Anya’s head.
‘The bed. Obviously.’
‘Fine.’ Georgie rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll take the sofa.’ She had already produced an overnight bag and, from it, pyjamas, cleanser, moisturizer and a sleep mask, which she began to lay out on the sofa.
Wobbling slightly, Paddy gripped the top of the armchair. ‘God, I’m more pissed than I thought.’ He stretched out a hand towards Anya. ‘Come on, you.’
Anya raised a weak arm and Paddy rolled his eyes.
‘Oh, get up. You’re too heavy for me to lift anyway.’
After using her toothbrush – ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he’d asked, once it was already hanging out of his mouth – Paddy had fallen asleep straight away. As he snuffled lightly, Anya stared at the ceiling, gripping the mattress with one hand as the memories came back in furious, disordered snapshots.
Last Saturday, pushing a trolley through the aisles, bickering cheerfully over what to have for dinner; a long, searching kiss last Hogmanay; their most recent holiday to Tuscany, in the spring, holding hands over a candlelit table then walking back to the hotel, gripping one another, unsteady from the wine and the cobbled stone paths. They never even fought, not really, not like she knew plenty of other couples did. There was the odd huff, the odd snappy word, but mostly they saw eye to eye on everything. Had there been signs, and had she simply ignored them? She supposed they hadn’t spent as much time together recently; there had been a few Fridays and Saturdays when he’d made his excuses, and she’d ended up going out with Paddy instead. But that was normal, wasn’t it? After four years, wasn’t that the point? You were comfortable, settled, liberated to see your friends, safe in the knowledge that your relationship would carry on, untroubled.
Clearly not. ‘It’s been on my mind for a while,’ was what he’d said, gravely, staring through the windscreen as he turned the world on its axis. Anya wondered if he’d spent disquieted nights like this, staring at the ceiling while she slept unwittingly.
Paddy issued a firecracker of a snore and rolled on to his side, tugging most of the duvet with him and she came to, turned on to her side and stared miserably at the wall until dawn.
2
It had been humiliating having to text her cousin Claire and beg to move into her spare room. Or it would have been, so Anya had made Georgie do it.
Claire was a last resort, although she was disappointed at how quickly she had reached that point, just forty-eight hours after Connor had dragged the good suitcase out of the door. But of course, most of her friends had long since arranged themselves into couples sharing one-bedroom flats, with no room for a spare part. Some of them had even moved to the suburbs, talking about primary schools and green space and low crime rates (at least a few of them had the good grace to look abashed as they did so). Meanwhile, Paddy had Ivy, and Anya’s other best friend Tasha was in Vancouver, more than 4,000 miles away, which she hated but could not do anything about. Georgie, meanwhile, lived with Elspeth, a yoga teacher and nutritional therapist who, regrettably for the world at large, also had her own podcast. There had been a hopeful moment when Paddy remembered that his colleague Francesca’s nan was looking for a lodger at her place in Milngavie, but sadly, the nan in question had already found someone. And so Cold Claire was her only option.
