Free 31 Dream Street by Lisa Jewell Page B

explanation at some point. ‘Gus.’
    ‘Gus?’
    ‘Gus left me some money. In his will.’
    Ruby’s eyes widened. ‘No! How much?’
    ‘A few thousand. Not that much. Not really enough to be buying sofas from the Conran Shop. But I just… I don’t know…’
    ‘You wanted them?’
    ‘Yes, I wanted them.’
    ‘Oh, Tobes,’ Ruby rested a hand on his knee. ‘That’s OK. That’s what normal people do all the time. It’s called extravagance . Embrace it.’
    Toby smiled. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you like them, then?’
    ‘I love them.’
    ‘Good,’ he said.
    ‘But, really,’ she said, ‘how much did Gus leave you? Exactly?’
    ‘I’m not telling you!’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because I don’t want anyone else to know.’
    ‘I won’t tell anyone else.’
    ‘How do I know that?’
    ‘Because I promise and I swear.’
    ‘No,’ he said adamantly, folding his arms.
    ‘Oh, Toby. I can’t believe you don’t trust me by now.’
    ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just…’
    ‘That you don’t trust me. God, Tobes, as if I’d steal your money.’
    ‘I’m not saying you’d steal it.’
    ‘Yeah, well, whatever. I’ll find out somehow. You know me.’
    Toby smirked. He’d lived with Ruby for fifteen years, but he wasn’t entirely sure he did know her. He knew what she sounded like when she was having sex. He knew what colour her nipples were. He knew her moods and her patterns. But did he know her ?
    ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s happening with Paul Fox? He hasn’t been around for a while.’
    Ruby shrugged and fiddled with a piece of thread hanging off her jumper. ‘Not a lot. We had a bit of a row last week.’
    ‘Oh, right. What about?’
    ‘Oh, you know, Eliza .’
    ‘Well, really, I’m not sure what you expect. I mean, the man has a girlfriend, for God’s sake.’
    Ruby raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, God, Tobes, don’t start on me. I don’t need you telling me what to do.’
    ‘I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but, really, this thing you have going with Paul, it’s just so wrong on so many different levels. I don’t understand why you have to keep underselling yourself the entire time.’
    ‘You mean you want me to settle down with a nice boy?’
    ‘Well, yes. Isn’t that what you want?’
    ‘No. Not even slightly.’
    ‘But what’s going to happen to you?’
    ‘Happen?’
    ‘Yes. Where will you go? What will you do?’
    ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
    ‘I just mean…’ He was about to say, you’re thirty-one, you’re single, you’ve got no career and I’m about to kick you out of the only home you’ve known since you were sixteen. He was about to say, you’re free-falling and you’ve got no one to catch you. He was about to say, I don’t want you to end up like me . But he didn’t. Instead he smiled. ‘I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’
    ‘Well, don’t be,’ she said. ‘I’m absolutely fine. I can look after myself.’
    ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’

15
    According to Toby’s observations, Joanne’s current daily routine went something like this:
7.45 a.m.: Blow-dry hair in bedroom. Emerge with unusual hairstyle.
8.00 a.m.: Make weird coffee substitute chicory drink thing in kitchen. Take it into dining room. Drink it while reading the Mail and listening to Virgin FM.
8.30 a.m.: Leave house, wearing extraordinary combinations of clothing, sometimes wearing glasses, sometimes not.
6–11 p.m.: Return home, sometimes sober, sometimes drunk, always alone. Go straight to room (occasionally stopping to collect cutlery from kitchen if carrying a takeaway or a wine glass if carrying a bag from off-licence).
12–2 a.m.: Turn off TV set in room. Go to sleep (presumably).
    Yesterday, she had left for work wearing a black-and-white chequerboard miniskirt with a red polo neck and a pair of thick-soled leather boots with buckles. Her hair had been gelled back off her face and she was wearing a strange lipstick the colour of sediment.