Owen opens his bedroom door to Philippe. 

‘You sure you’re ok?’ asks Philippe. 

‘Sure.’ 

‘Cause when you said yeah not bad, how’re you, just now, it didn’t sound like you meant it. And I know people just say it so they have something to say but it sounded more like you were saying it ‘cause you wanted me to hear you didn’t mean it. So, that’s what I heard. Let me get you a cuppa. How d’you like it?’ 

It’s New Year’s Eve and Owen and Philippe barely know each other. 

‘Milk, one sugar, thanks’ Owen says.

‘Don’t move. I’ll bring it through.’  

‘The red milk,’ Owen calls from his doorway, ‘the Earl Grey. It’s in my cupboard, top shelf. The purple box.’ He hears cupboards. ‘Mine’s the small one. Top left.’ The sink rattling. ‘There should be some water in the filter. Inside the fridge door. Maybe use that…’ He goes back into his room and shuts his door. He waits for Philippe with one hand on the door and one on the handle. Then he steps away. He worries that Philippe will see the mess his room is in but when he looks around, it’s still tidy from when he cleaned it three days ago. Then he worries that Philippe will wonder why he keeps his room so clean when he never has any visitors. 

He’s still standing when Philippe opens the door with his shoulder. 

‘There we are.’

‘I’m actually off in a bit...’ says Owen. ‘So…’ A few times round the block, he thinks, if it isn’t too cold. Maybe wait in that all-night cafe, Ghanaian or Nigerian, he’s passed a few times but never been in.

‘This is nice,’ says Philippe, taking in the room. ‘Tidier than mine, anyway.’ The furniture is the same in all the rooms but he nods at it. There are blotches on the wall where the previous tenant had put up postcards. 

‘It’s not always like this,’ Owen says. He blows on the tea in quick, impatient bursts, brings it tentatively to his lips, and then blows it some more. 

‘You’ve got to try though, haven’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ Owen tries to drink again. It’s somewhat less than scalding and he can force it down. It’s nice having something warm to hold. The flat’s cold and cheap and twitching with silverfish. ‘What time’s your thing?’ 

‘They said whenever. I’ve been here two weeks and my room’s already a state. But I cook most nights, or try to...make the effort.’ Philippe trails off and Owen watches him rotate his mug. Owen says it was impressive; he could never find the time and energy himself; he lived on coffee and pasta and peanut butter sandwiches; he wouldn’t know where to begin. 

‘You know,’ says Philippe, tapping very lightly on his mug, ‘in most bedsits, people live side by side and don’t give a shit about each other.’ 

Owen nods. He knows.  

‘It’s bullshit,’ says Philippe, looking him straight in the eye. ‘So this’ - he lifts his mug - ‘this actually means something. It means...we can be two people who give a shit about each other. Y’know?’

‘That’s a nice idea.’

‘It’s not an idea.’

‘Mm.’ Owen pretends to drink from his already empty cup. ‘Sorry, mate. I need to get going.’

‘Yeah.’ 

‘It was really nice of you, though, to check in on me. You didn’t need to. I appreciate it. And you’re right - everything you said is...just...bang on.’

‘It’s just how it should be,’ Philippe says, no longer looking at Owen and addressing the familiar furniture. ‘Anyway, have a good one’, he says in his kitchen voice.

Owen stays standing, waiting for the sound of Philippe’s door. But there’s no relief, only a feeling that he’s forgotten something. He’d lie down and try to remember what it is if he hadn’t already said he’s somewhere to be. So he throws on a raincoat and races out of the door like he’s got somewhere to be. 

 

***

 

Philippe opens his door to Owen an hour later. 

‘I never asked how you were,’ says Owen. His face is flushed from the cold. At the cafe he had watched people enjoying each other’s company and wondered why that couldn’t happen for him. 

‘Oh right’, says Philippe, ‘I’m just getting ready to go out but...fancy a drink?’ He tosses the half-dried clothes on his chair onto the floor. Philippe sits on the bed and reaches across to turn down the DAB radio on the windowsill - which is reminding everyone it’s New Year’s Eve. He cracks the lid off a pear cider on the edge of the desk and hands it to Owen, then swigs from his half-empty. ‘You came all the way back here just to ask that?’

‘It’s not that far,’ Owen answers.

‘It couldn’t wait ‘til tomorrow?’

Philippe settles against the wall. He looks thrown, like he’s been asked a question he’s never had to think about before: but how are you, really? For a moment, he almost looks excited to see what his answer’s going to be. 

‘Well, I guess I’m…’ Philippe stops to check his phone; lets it drop. ‘You know, it’s…it’s, uh…’ Picking at the label, stumbling over wrong answers surfacing, face dropping - ‘...it’s not that…’ - muffled cracks of fireworks punctuating the pauses - then adds, shrugging, relieved to have hit on the answer he was looking for, ‘No point complaining about it, is there? That’s what I think.’ 

‘Mm.’

They finish their drinks and Philippe opens two more. 

‘But you’re alright, though?’ Owen asks. ‘Now, I mean?’

‘Yeah, I’m alright now.’ 

They drink quietly, saying little over the radio on the windowsill, radios in cars revving outside, down-up-downstairs, apartment doors slamming, car doors slamming, horns, whistling, screaming, shouting, hooting, chanting, fireworks and Philippe’s mobile purring in the folds of his duvet. And then it’s midnight. They clink their empties and think of resolutions they would share if they were asked to, and those that they wouldn’t. 

‘Are you hungry?’ asks Philippe as they’re getting up. ‘I can fix you something. Anything you want. I’m gonna be a chef.’ 

Owen grabs his coat. 

‘You’re alright, thanks.’  

‘I cook every night, pretty much. Teaching myself.’ 

‘That’s cool.’

‘How about boeuf bourguignon?’ 

‘Really, I’m fine.’

In the hallway, Philippe pads his coat pockets.

‘You could come to this thing too, if you like. It’s just some mates from work, they won’t mind.’

‘I should get back to-’ 

‘Well, don’t be a stranger.’   

‘Definitely.’ 

After the front door closes, Owen listens to Philippe’s footsteps on the stairwell, fast, heavy, jumping the last few steps on each turn, and then the second downstairs door, heavier, definitive. He takes a beer from the fridge and goes into his room. He sits with it unopened and looks around. It’s changed; someone else’s been in it. The carpet has an unfamiliar shape and his door is unlocked.