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JENNY COLGAN
Talking to Addison
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
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Copyright © Jenny Colgan 2000
Jenny Colgan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780006531777
EBook Edition © APRIL 2013 ISBN: 9780007393923 Version: 2016-01-19
This book is dedicated with love
to my truly fantastic and long-suffering parents – Mum, sorry I didn’t take my accountancy exams, Dad, sorry about all the swearing.
Contents
A famous arctic explorer once said that polar expeditions were the most successful form of having a bad time humans had ever devised. Of course, he’d probably never answered an ad for a flatshare with a bunch of complete strangers. Although if it hadn’t been for them I would never have met Addison. Hmm. Which, when I think of it, is kind of like saying, OK, I lost all my fingers and toes to frostbite, but I met some very sweet penguins along the way…
Thirty-six hours after I moved in to 12a Wendle Close, Harlesden, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. Tiptoeing around someone else’s home is weird enough, particularly if it’s just after a late night and you can’t remember their name or where they keep the Sugar Puffs or, say, you’re a cat burglar. Tiptoeing around your own is discomfiting to say the least. But here I was, creeping into my own house and closing my bedroom door extremely quietly, heart pounding, after my very first quick jaunt to the shops, to make friends with my newsagent and see what flavours of Skips he had.
If I pressed my head against the thin wood veneer of the door I could just about hear my new best friends in the nearby ghastly open-plan Formica kitchenette.
‘Well, I think we need a special long-term rota too. For cleaning the shower curtain and the drawers. And washing the skirting boards.’
‘That’s a great idea, Carol,’ came another voice, deep with awe. ‘Maybe we could do one big job every Saturday night and make an event of it. We could even get takeaway pizza!’
‘And don’t forget the nets!’ screeched the unfortunately named Farah, who was about two foot tall and was always being mistaken for a monkey, or Martin Amis. ‘I’ll get my coloured pencils out and start drawing it up. This is going to be such fun!’
They all mewed.
‘Didn’t I just hear Holly coming in?’ asked Laura, who was stolid and sat down a lot. ‘That sounded like her bedroom door …’
Damn.
‘No!’ I attempted to telepathically send to them. ‘It must have been the wind. That … mysterious indoor wind.’
‘… Why don’t we