Chapter 1
Clara and James - Number 12
Chapter 1
The three bed semi-detached house stood like every other on the street, identical enough to disappear into the row. The red stock brick had been dulled under years of London weather, the bay window painted a deliberate white. They had bought it the year before, when the couple who lived there split and the husband moved back to his mothers house somewhere further along the road. By then the suburbs had begun to feel more sensible than the small, isolated cottage they had once imagined - somewhere quiet and distant, out of reach and meant only for the two of them.
On his way down the street, he had passed a for sale sign outside a house further along the row, stepping over chalk drawings the neighbours children had left scattered across the pavement. The evening had already begun to settle.
An elderly neighbour coming the other way had recognised him, slowing slightly as they approached, giving a small nod
“Evening, James”
James returned the nod and continued towards his house, briefly aware of the quiet watch the old man seemed to keep over the street.
Inside, the house still felt new. The hallway was narrow and clean, the walls freshly painted carrying something synthetic beneath the air. He stood by the staircase throwing his scarf over the bannister, hooking his jacket among the others, damp from the weather and quietly stacked his shoes neatly beneath the bench.
The living room sat at the front of the house, brighter than the hallway behind it as the sun bled through the front windows. The furniture had been chosen carefully, measured to fit: a cream sofa, a chestnut coffee table, bookshelves built to hold a lifetime and French doors closing the space into something intimate. She lay stretched across the sofa, laptop balanced on her lap, typing while the television chattered quietly in the background. Boxes were stacked in the corner, waiting for a weekend or evening when they would finally be opened.
In the kitchen at the back, he stood at the sink, rinsing a mug beneath the tap. The room was narrow, worn by the previous owners, but the surfaces remained mostly clear as the backdoor let in what remained of the light. He scrubbed at the coffee stains, more than necessary.
He glanced towards the front of the house, where the television carried faintly, then turned back to the sink.
He dried his hands on the tea towel and carried two mugs through. She shifted slightly to make space without looking up, her fingers still moving across the keyboard. He sat at the other end, placing one mug down on the table before taking a sip from the other. He winced, then leaned back, resting his head against the cushion whilst the television continued on between them.
“Your back early” she asked, glancing up.
“Shit game.”
“Yeah,” she said, after a moment.
For a while, neither of them spoke. She continued typing, the soft rhythm of the keys filling the room, while he sat with his eyes half-closed, drifting somewhere between the television and the thought of dinner.
As the credits rolled from a recording of a classic movie and gay way to the next programme, she finished her sentence, saved the document, and closed the laptop. She set it aside and leaned back into the sofa, settling into the same position as him.
“What do you want for tea?” he asked, not turning.
“No clue”, she said.
The room fell quiet again. He nodded slightly, eyes still on the screen and reached for the remote, muting it as the advert began - a habit more than a decision. Outside, a car passed, its headlights briefly washing across the ceiling.
“I fucking hate that advert” she said, chuckling quietly as she shifted over
She rested her head against his shoulder. He adjusted without thinking. They stayed like that, listening to the low hum of the television, the creak of the house and the faint laughter spilling from the house next door..
When the adverts ended, he unmuted the television and sat up.
“I’ll put something on.”
She nodded. “Whatever's easiest”
He stood and went through to the kitchen, carrying his cold, half-drunk tea. She remained on the sofa for a moment longer, watching the tv screen without really seeing it, then followed.
In the kitchen, he moved with the ease of repetition, opening cupboards without looking, taking things out and putting others back. She sat herself on the counter watching him flow through the space. Cooking came naturally to him, she preferred to stay out of the way.
They ate there as they often did, she sat on the counter, him opposite, leaning against the worktop. Something made from what was left in the fridge. A shared glass of tap water, a few jokes and passing comments, nothing that needed holding onto.
Afterwards, she washed while he dried, passing plates and cups back and forth, quiet and efficient. A process they had developed over the years of shared kitchens.
By the time they finished, the last of the daylight had gone.The kitchen was lit only by the overhead light, yellow and contained. They moved upstairs without much thought, already slipping into the shape of the next day.
