Chapter Text
James Maguire was somewhat used to rejection. At work, sometimes his advertising pitch ideas were met with blank stares, or worse, dissected to shreds by his boss. And at the pub where he and his colleagues would go on a Thursday evening after work, on the rare occasion he attempted to flirt with someone halfway attractive, he was often met with either confusion or a kind of polite pity. That was fine. Expected, even. He learned to anticipate it.
But he hadn’t anticipated the rejection that came over lukewarm takeaway curry on a Tuesday night when he walked into his house share that evening.
“You alright, mate? Picked up a chicken tikka and a lamb bhuna for us,” James said as he stepped into the kitchen, catching sight of Tom lounging on the sofa watching TV.
“You legend,” Tom grinned. “Thanks, James.”
James set the takeaway bag on the counter. Tom stood to help portion it out while James shrugged off his scarf and neatly tucked his shoes into the closet, picking up Tom’s scattered shoes and putting them away too.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, actually,” James started as he unzipped his jacket. “The landlord rang today asking if we were cool with renewing the lease. I was going to tell him we’re good for another six months, but figured I’d just check with you first though, just in case. He needs to know by the end of the week.”
Tom froze mid-scoop, plate in one hand, spoon in the other. “Ah… right.”
James turned. “What?”
Tom set the plate down slowly. “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you about that.”
James raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. They grabbed their plates and sat down in front of the television, switching it on to an episode of EastEnders, though neither of them were really watching it.
Tom glanced over, fidgeting with his fork. “William asked me to move in with him.”
James paused mid-bite. “He did?”
Tom gave a cautious nod. “Yeah. We found a place we like in Limavady. It’s got a good-sized garden and a little kitchen island. It's nice.”
James swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden knot forming in his stomach. “That’s brilliant, Tom. I mean it. Will’s great. You two seem solid.”
Tom looked relieved. “Thanks, mate. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”
James smiled, even if it felt a little tight. “No, seriously. I’m happy for you. That’s a big step.”
James put his plate down on the coffee table and leaned over to give Tom a hug. But even as he meant every word, James was already calculating rent in his head. Bills. Council tax. The cold reality was that the rented house was just too expensive for one salary, and unless he could find a new housemate in the next three days or suddenly began selling his organs on the internet, he needed to find somewhere else to live. Fast.
They pulled apart.
“I really appreciate that, James. But what about you…?”
James waved him off. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll sort myself out. If worse comes to worst, I’ll crash on Michelle’s sofa for a bit.” He paused. “God, help me.”
Tom laughed, visibly reassured.
He forced another smile and turned back to the telly. Peggy Mitchell was shouting at someone from behind the bar in the Queen Vic.
He exhaled quietly. Shoulders tense.
Everything was fine.
Or it would be, just as soon as he figured out where the hell he was going to live.
The next evening, James found himself wedged between Orla and Erin on Michelle’s sofa. It squealed every time someone shifted on it.
Michelle was in her kitchen pouring wine like she was trying to summon a hangover. It was only Wednesday. She filled two wine glasses and two mugs to the brim with red wine, tilting the bottle until the last drop dribbled dramatically into her own glass before handing them out.
“Jesus, Michelle, you’re going to spill that,” James muttered, eyeing the wobbling glass with concern.
“Don’t be such a wet wipe, James.”
“How come Orla and I get wine in mugs?”
“I’ve only got two wine glasses, dicko. I’m not made of money!” she tutted. “That’s the English for you, so ungrateful.”
Erin took a sip from her wine glass before continuing her full-body retelling of her workday, arms flailing dangerously close to James’ mug of wine.
“...And then she looked at me dead in the eye, right in the middle of silent reading time, and said, “Miss, did you get dressed in the dark today?” Erin declared, scandalised.
Michelle snorted. “Christ.”
“She’s twelve, Michelle. Twelve! And this was just today. Yesterday she asked me if I knew eyeliner was meant to be symmetrical.”
“Wait, did you get dressed in the dark, Erin?” Orla questioned. “Because if so, you did a cracker job to be fair like.”
“In all fairness, Erin,” Michelle chimed in, eyeing up her outfit. “You could ease up on the corduroy. Brown corduroy at that. You look like a librarian.”
“Hey,” she said defensively. “I like this skirt.”
James glanced at the skirt. It stopped mid-thigh. Corduroy or not, he liked it too. He chose not to say anything.
Erin threw her hands up dramatically. “I’m twenty-four years old. Why do I have a nemesis who’s half my age? It’s like she’s made it her life mission to make my life miserable.”
James set his glass down on the table and gave a tired smile. “Well, if we’re playing misery Top Trumps…”
Erin raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you think you have a more miserable story than being publicly humiliated by a twelve-year-old?”
James leaned back and crossed his arms. “Tom’s moving out, which means I’m going to be homeless unless I find somewhere to live soon.”
“What? Why?” Michelle asked, suddenly alert.
“He’s moving in with William into a new love nest just for the two of them. It’s got a kitchen island and everything.” He paused, then added, “Which is great for them, obviously, but I can’t afford the place on my own.
Erin’s expression shifted. “Wait, so what are you going to do?”
James gave a bleak little laugh. “Honestly? I’m not really sure yet.”
Orla suddenly perked up. “Why don’t you move into the dead old fella’s flat?”
James blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You know,” she said, gesturing vaguely upwards, “the clown above Erin.”
“Orla, are you having a stroke?” Michelle asked.
“No! Erin said the other day that the old fella in the flat above her died. I remember because she mentioned that he had an extensive collection of clown dolls in the window.”
James turned to Erin. “Clown dolls? That sounds fucking terrifying.”
“Oh! Your man Clive?” Michelle exclaimed. “Clown Clive!”
“Aye, R.I.P. Clive,” Erin lifted her glass up to toast him. “He was a good man. A bit too into clowns but a good man all the same.”
Orla and Michelle joined in and raised their glass.
James watched on, wondering what was happening. He hesitated before asking, “...So, is his flat available to rent?”
“Oi, dicko, don’t be disrespectful!” Michelle barked.
“I’m sorry, I had no idea you were so close with Clown Clive,” James said sarcastically.
Michelle just narrowed her eyes at him.
Orla nodded, her wine gum halfway to her mouth. “I saw the To Let sign in the letting agent’s window the other day while walking back from step aerobics. It’s definitely available.”
James raised an eyebrow. “And presumably not full of cursed clown memorabilia?”
“No more than usual,” Erin said brightly. “It’s a decent flat. Top floor, one bedroom but it’s sizable, open plan design. And the other lady who lives in the building below me, Maura, is nice enough. Although she asks me every single week when bin day is. Like, God, Maura. It’s Thursday. It’s always Thursday.”
James tilted his head. “Honestly… that could work.”
Then, glancing at Erin, “Would it be weird? Me living directly above you?”
She shook her head far too fast, a bit too eagerly. “No! Not at all. I think it’d be… grand, actually.”
She caught his eye and smiled. He smiled back, clearing his throat before he could say something stupid.
“I’ll… look into it tomorrow. If it’s not been snapped up already.”
Michelle tipped back the last of her glass. “Good luck to the pair of you.
James frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She smirked. “You living above and below each other? James, you’re going to hear Erin having full-blown cack attacks on the reg.”
Erin was about to protest, but Michelle steamrolled on. “...And Erin, brace yourself. You’ll hear James sobbing through the ceiling every time he watches any film ever.”
There was a pause before Orla added, completely serious, “Just remember to leave milk out for Clown Clive. Spirits hate being ignored.”
Everyone turned to look at her.
She nodded solemnly and popped another wine gum in her mouth.
It had all happened kind of fast. One minute they were joking about it over drinks, and the next, James had actually gone and checked out the flat listing and viewed the place.
He said he liked the layout: one bedroom, decent-sized kitchen, a living room big enough for a proper TV set-up. The price was fair, it had off-road parking for his car, and the location was perfect. Fifteen minutes walk from the city centre, less than ten from Michelle’s place, and, most importantly, just one flight of stairs from her own door.
Not that Erin was particularly excited about that. Obviously. But part of her couldn’t help noticing how strange it felt, knowing he would be just upstairs now in such close proximity. It was convenient, she told herself. A nice coincidence. Friendly, that’s all.
She told herself that having James as a neighbour would be handy. They could hang out occasionally to watch trash telly after a long day of being insulted by twelve-year-olds. Or when she wanted to move a piece of heavy furniture, she could ask him to help. Or when she fancied a Chinese, she could invite him round. Takeaways like that were always better when you had two people because you could order more and have more variety on your plate. Genius plan.
“This is class,” Orla said, grinning. “It’s like we’re doing that scene from Friends but with a mattress.”
“I told you we should’ve turned it vertically first when turning the corner of the stairs,” Erin grunted, her food slipping slightly on the step.
“I would have,” James called down from the top of the stairs, voice muffled by the mattress he was mostly pinned under, “if it wouldn’t take out the bloody light fixture.”
“Oh yeah, perfect,” Michelle chimed in from the landing, sipping a Red Bull casually. “Bit of shattered glass in the eyeballs really finishes off a moving day.”
“You’re not even helping!” Clare hissed, clinging to the corner of the mattress desperately.
“Catch yourself on, Clare. I’ve actually been the most helpful.”
“And how exactly have you come to that conclusion?” Clare challenged.
“I think you’re all forgetting that I’m the one who secured the moving van,” Michelle said, gesturing vaguely out the window. “And do you have any idea of the lengths I went to to get that van? You’re welcome, James.”
“No one asked you to sleep with Sean the electrician, Michelle,” Erin said wryly.
“No, you’re right,” Michelle smirked. “I did that because Sean’s a total ride,” she winked. “Him having a van we could borrow was just a bonus.”
James made a face like he had just drank sour milk. Erin couldn’t help but snort at the sight of his disgusted face.
“Don’t know why you’re pulling that face, fucko. I’ve saved you fifty quid there.”
“Yeah, thanks, Michelle. Appreciate it,” James said, deadpan.
They finally managed to tilt, pivot, and swear enough to wrestle the mattress up the final flight and into James’ new flat. The second it hit the floor of the bedroom, Erin flopped dramatically on top of it.
“Well, that’s me done,” she exhaled.
Erin wrinkled her nose as she took in the smell of James’ new bedroom. The air hung heavy with that unmistakable old man smell, musty curtains, and stale smoke. It clung to the walls and seeped into the carpet like a stubborn ghost.
She hoped it would vanish soon, for his sake. Maybe after a few good cleanings, some fresh air, and a few candles, perhaps. Until then, she would just have to breathe through it and maybe bring over a few air fresheners, just in case James didn’t notice.
James collapsed beside her on the mattress, his breath ragged. “Me too, I’m cream crackered after that.”
His thigh brushed against hers. Just the tiniest bit. Heat prickled along her leg.
“You what?” Orla questioned, puzzled.
“Cream crackered. It means knackered,” James explained.
“So why not just say ‘I’m knackered’ then?”
“It’s just a saying, Orla.”
“That’s the English for you,” Michelle said from the doorway. “Weird sayings. No logic.”
Erin pushed herself upright and wiped her forehead. “We’re never doing that again. You’re officially banned from ever moving again, James.”
James looked around the flat. Boxes were stacked like a Jenga tower. The sofa in three pieces on the floor in the living room. A random lamp was balanced on the windowsill.
“You planning on keeping me here forever, then?” he smirked.
The words were casual. Teasing. Erin didn’t rise to it.
Instead, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. He looked happy. Tired, sweaty, a little bewildered by the mess, but genuinely happy.
“Thanks, by the way,” he added softly, just for her. “For helping.”
She glanced sideways at him, trying to sound flippant. “Well, I couldn’t let you move into Clown Clive’s haunted flat alone, could I?”
She watched him rub the back of his arm whilst he laughed. It was a sheepish little motion which she found way more attractive than was reasonable. He looked good. It wasn’t like she hadn’t noticed before, but he’d grown into himself quietly. Less of a gangly, awkward teen now and more… sure of himself and handsome.
Before she could spiral too much, Erin’s head turned after hearing a loud crash echoing from the kitchen.
“Oops,” came Orla’s voice, faintly.
Erin raised her brows at James. “Uh oh.”
James rolled his eyes and let out a little laugh. “Let’s go see which of my five possessions she’s managed to destroy.”
By the time evening rolled around, James’ flat looked halfway between a crime scene and an episode of 60 Minute Makeover, but one where Claire Sweeney had walked off halfway through. There were boxes still scattered everywhere, some open, some taped shut, all labelled in James’ neat handwriting. The sofa was set up in the living room, and they had somehow managed to piece together the flat-pack metal bed frame without killing each other. The new TV had proudly lugged home from Dixons this morning was precariously perched on a fold-up chair because he didn’t own a TV stand.
Erin was buzzing. The others treated tonight’s little flat-warming as another excuse for a few drinks, but for her, it felt like the start of something. A new chapter.
Because James was now living upstairs.
Upstairs. From her.
She tried to act normal about it, just casual, but inside, she was practically vibrating. Every time she remembered he was only a flight of stairs away, her brain played a little fanfare.
Erin sat cross-legged on the floor with a plastic cup of lukewarm rosé in one hand and her back resting against a box labelled TOWELS in blocky capital letters. James was beside her, slouched against the BOOKS box, knees up, one arm resting casually across them. Every time she shifted, her shoulder brushed his. Completely accidental. Except maybe not entirely.
She watched him laughing at something Orla had just said about the ghost of Clown Clive still watching them. He looked happy and relaxed. Slightly flushed from the cheap wine and the exhaustion of the move. His T-shirt lifted slightly each time he laughed, revealing a narrow flash of skin at his waist. Erin caught herself staring and quickly sipped her drink.
Michelle had claimed the best seat in the flat in the middle of the three-person sofa. Her thumbs were tapping away on her Nokia whilst she had her legs draped across Clare like she owned the place. Clare looked somewhat resigned but didn’t move, which probably meant she didn’t mind that much. Or maybe she’d just given up resisting Michelle years ago like the rest of them.
“If this man doesn’t start picking up my very obvious hints about coming over tonight, I swear to God,” Michelle muttered, mostly to her phone.
“Sean again?” Clare asked, squashed beneath her.
“Aye,” Michelle said with a smug little grin. “He’s texted saying he’s just fixed a fuse box and his hands are still tingling. Shall I text him back, ‘I’m feeling tingly too, but not in my hands’? Or is that too much?”
Erin made a face. “Lovely.”
“I’m hoping he will catch my drift soon, so if I suddenly have to leave, you’ll know why,” Michelle’s eyebrows waggled suggestively.
“Hard not to catch your drift with that message,” James muttered under his breath.
“No, don’t leave, stay here. Let’s hang out,” Clare groaned loudly. “I came all the way from Strabane for this.”
“It’s a twenty-minute drive, Clare, calm down.” Michelle waved her off. “And anyway, we do hang out. We see each other at the pub every fucking weekend.”
Over by the fireplace, Orla had gone full séance. She was kneeling like she was at a shrine, pick ’n’ mix in her lap as some kind of peace offering.
“If you’re with us, Clive,” she stage-whispered toward the ceiling, “give us a sign. Make the kettle boil. Or move a spoon.”
“There is no kettle,” James said flatly. “That's part of the problem.”
Erin turned to him. “Still?”
He looked sheepish. “I mean, I’ve got a colander. And one mug.”
“What are you planning to do with that?”
“Starve, apparently.”
Earlier, James had handed Orla a twenty-pound note with the innocent hope that she’d bring back “a few drinks.” She had returned with a two-litre bottle of Vimto, a litre bottle of off-brand vodka, two bottles of questionably cheap rosé, and several sleeves of plastic cups.
“And the change?” James had asked.
“I spent it wisely,” Orla said, revealing what looked like a kilogram bag of pick 'n’ mix.
Now back on the floor, Erin leaned toward James just slightly. She wasn’t even pretending not to enjoy the casual warmth between them. It was nice and comfortable. She liked the way he gave her his full attention whenever she spoke.
“So,” she said, casually. “Are you looking forward to living alone?”
James tilted his head, considering. “I think so. It’s weird, but good-weird. I’ve never actually had a place all to myself before.”
“You nervous?”
“Not really. Should I be?”
“Only if you believe in clown ghosts.”
“Not you too,” he groaned, nudging her shoulder.
“Well, I’m just saying,” she said, pretending to be serious, “if you ever start to feel a bit scared and need someone brave to protect you, I’m just downstairs. Day or night.”
James smiled. It was full of warmth. “That’s comforting.”
Erin smiled back and sipped her wine. She wasn’t trying to be flirty. Not exactly.
“Living alone is class, honestly,” she added. “Your own space without anyone else there to judge you. You can eat cereal for dinner, watch whatever you want on telly, walk around your flat naked…”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you do in your flat?”
“No!” she said quickly. “I just meant you could do that. If you wanted to. Which I’m sure you don’t. Obviously.”
She took a very quick sip of wine to hide the blush crawling up her neck. She was mentally kicking herself for giving James such a vivid idea of what she got up to downstairs.
James laughed. “Well, I’ll need plates and glasses and cutlery before I start living the dream.”
“How come you don’t have anything?”
“When I moved into the house share with Tom, I didn’t need to buy anything because he had already got everything. Now he’s left and I’m completely useless!”
“So let me get this right,” she put her hand against his chest. “You bought a television, but not anything you need to, you know, cook and eat and essentially keep you alive?”
He shrugged. “That’s right.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I have my priorities.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fully suppress her smile. “Well, I’ve got plates. And cutlery. And food, shockingly. If you want, you could come to mine for dinner tomorrow. I’ll make something with actual ingredients.”
James looked interested. “Yeah?”
“Of course. We can’t have you dying of starvation, can we? Plus two deaths in this flat in a short space of time would look really suspicious, wouldn’t it?” she joked.
He gave her a look, half amused, half something softer. “Thanks, Erin.”
Before she could say anything else, Michelle suddenly jumped to her feet like she’d been launched.
“Right! I’m off. Sean has just texted saying he’s got a bottle of red, a Chinese, and wants to come over to mine.”
“You’re not seriously leaving?” Clare whined. “I came all the way…”
“...from Strabane, yes, we’ve heard,” Erin chimed..
“Don’t have a cack attack, Clare. I’ll see you this weekend at the pub, and then the weekend after that for your birthday do, won’t I?” Michelle said.
“I suppose so,” Clare replied.
Michelle shrugged on her jacket and touched up her lipstick, which she had in her pocket, checking herself out using a compact mirror also in her pocket.
“Enjoy your haunted drinks party. I’m off to get a different kind of spirit inside me.”
Orla gasped. “Like... possession?”
“No, Orla. Some di- ”
“Okay, thank you, Michelle,” James cut in, wincing.
Erin laughed into her drink, her shoulder still brushing lightly against James’.