Do You Really Want to Yurt Me?

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As Luna ran upstairs to her room, Izzy spied the letter she’d tucked behind the fruit bowl, away from little girl eyes. Every time she caught a glimpse of it she shrank a little, knowing the longer she ignored it, the worse things might be. Or better. There was always a possibility.

She looked around her at the cottage, its patches of peeling plaster, its lack of central heating, the damp that seemed to permeate the whole house even though summer had well and truly arrived.

It hadn’t even occurred to her to sell it as, apart from a small savings account, this was all she had left of her mum (and dad), but how on earth could she have known it was going to be like this?

She should’ve sold it the second she found out about it and moved to Bristol instead. Tantalizingly close, just across the mouth of the Severn River, and yet, oh so far.

She’d been so busy the past few months. Packing up what she could afford to bring on the plane. Selling or Craigslisting the rest. Answering the barrage of emails from Emily as best she could. Wishing Nr Cardiff was Nr-er to Bristol, or that Cardiff wasn’t so insanely far away from London. Why couldn’t her parents have had an affair in Brighton? Bloomsbury. Paris, even. They’d both been artistic types. What was the allure of Nr Cardiff?

The romance of penury? The fact it was so cold that bed was the only place to get cosy? The mould?

Who knew? Her mother’s tastes had always eluded her, and too late Izzy had realized the millions of questions she should have asked her before she’d died. At least her father had thought of her in his will. She’d done her best to make the flint stone cottage seem the tiniest bit like their simple but perfect beach house they’d left behind in Hawaii, all the while trying to ignore the growing fear that the mould she smelt (and saw) was toxic.

That. And, of course, The Other Thing. She nudged the letter out from between the bowl and the wall, eyes glued as it fell open, the name of the hospital and the department in bright blue lettering at the top of the page, glowing like a neon sign.

Oncology Department

She could hear Emily’s voice in her head, ‘Deal with it. Now!’

Bonzer batted at her chest. It was like he knew.

Izzy shoved the letter in the pocket of her cut-off jeans. She’d look at it later.

‘Wait. What? Who?’ Emily was properly regretting taking Callum’s call. His love life was definitely not an emergency. The fact he wanted her to move out, however, was.

‘A boy-friend.’ Callum said it really slowly, as if she were a thicko. Then, ‘He’s called Ernesto. He’s Spanish.’ Callum made a trill of his tongue wrapped up with a click of the fingers and an Olé!

‘Bueno,’ she said flatly, then, ‘I thought you were in Vienna today.’

‘Yes indeed. We met at the Regenbogen parade. He’s a musician. That’s why we need your room. So he can set up his studio.’

Puta madre. Trust Callum to have his ‘some enchanted evening’ with Barcelona’s answer to Moby. If she’d gone on his Euro Pride Tour with him as requested, she’d very likely not be in this mess. On the flipside, if she’d gone she’d no doubt be in some sort of other mess. Her mother had recently friended her on Facebook and Twitter, marking a dramatic curtailment to her already half-assed #lovinglife presence on social media. Which is why she’d stayed home and done double shifts. Yesterday, after her mother ‘waved’, she’d taken an ironic panorama of the dim sum across the street to a sign outside the hospital warning people about viral gastroenteritis. Her mother had rung immediately and told her not to bother, there was a better place down the road with far better dumplings.

All that genius … wasted.

‘You’ll like him,’ Callum gushed. ‘I can’t wait for you two to meet.’

As he yammered on about the perfect place in Soho to eat because he thought meeting at the flat would be awkward all things considered, she shook the phone, praying something, anything, would magically change the fact that Callum was dumping her by FaceTime. Why couldn’t he have text-dumped her like a normal person? Not that it was really dumping seeing as they were only friends, but … even so …

Sigh. She should’ve answered more of those WhatsApp things from the girls. Then she’d have gained some ‘bitch about Callum’ credits.

She stomped down the road to her appointment. How was she going to find somewhere new to live by the end of the month?

There was always her parents’ place. The basement ‘granny flat’ was kept in pristine condition for her inevitable return to care for them in their dotage like a good little spinster daughter.

‘You’ll really like him, Emms. Ernesto’s …’ Callum went all doe-eyed. Gross. Men over six foot tall should never go dewy over anyone or anything. Except, perhaps, puppies. She gave out the odd free card for puppies. Even though she’d never want one herself, obviously. It would die of loneliness. A bit like her, she supposed.

‘Emms? A little feedback would be nice.’ Callum was openly plaintive.

She tried to rustle up some enthusiasm but couldn’t. Instead she decided to rub in just how completely unfair this all was. ‘Soo … you need me out by the end of July? If I’m working and packing, how much time does that leave us for Brighton?’

Callum put on his apology face. It needed work. ‘About Brighton … Ernesto’s never been and with only the one room booked—’

She made a screeching noise. ‘No. Please. I get it.’ Emily didn’t need Callum to spell it out. Boyfriend trumped flatmate. Ex-flatmate. Whatever.

‘You okay, Emms?’

Oh, now he cared.

‘Brilliant. I’m on my way to a meeting. Better go.

‘Emmzzzz. C’mon, baby. I know there’s some hurt going on in there.’

‘What do you want me to say? That I’m devastated? Okay, I’m devastated - happy?’

‘Emmmmzzz.’

This was becoming plain irritating.

‘What? You’ve met me. I’m not going to cry. I don’t have feelings.’ She had loads of feelings. She just didn’t want to show them. ‘I’ll leave my boa for you on the kitchen table. Make good use of it.’

Callum began protesting and placating and everything else that she found freaking annoying. Bloody overemotional gay man. Why had she ever thought he was the ying to her Cristina Yang? And still he jabbered on.

Maybe she’d go and see Izzy.

Emily thought about their last text exchange.

Emz! Reeeeeeks of mould in here. There’re big, dark stains on the ceilings.

Thought it was the dog.

Bonzer has his moments, but he’s not pooping on the ceiling … yet! Any chance you could come out with a Petri dish or something sometime? It’d be a shame to die before … you know … it’s time to die. Love to Callum. xx

A shudder ran down Emily’s spine. Euuurgh. Wales. Thank god ‘gay time’ moved at an exponential rate of knots and the standard two-year relationship could be boiled down to a fortnight. She would stay in one of the on-call rooms. Callum’s whole ‘I’ve met the love of my life’ thing would blow over soon enough.

‘Got another call coming in. Have a great time! Kisses to Ernesto!’ No one in their right mind would’ve thought she sounded sincere.