Chapter Text
SIMON
I'm really bad at creative writing.
Penny says I don't actually need to be that creative about it. I can just be straight-forward, she says, and honest, and the good people will come. I ask her if she'll write the advert for me and she says no, but when I nag her about it and fail to make any progress over an entire weekend she caves and agrees. I have to go and buy her some chocolate and crisps, but I'd say that's a fair exchange. I really want crisps too, so it's a win-win, really. I'm good at wearing her down like that. If I just look pathetic enough, Penny will help me. I'm not proud of it, but...it works.
Anyway, it's her fault I even have to do this. She's the one moving out. She's the one sodding off to America to travel with her new boyfriend. (Not Micah. They broke up last year. This one's called Shepard.) We've lived together for a year since school finished and you know what, I thought we had a good thing going here. Clearly not. I mean, I'm sure I can be difficult to live with. I'm not the tidiest person on the planet. I'm also a bit annoying (I must be, because she's always turning the telly up when I'm trying to speak over it).
This is Penny's fault. She should help me. What if I get landed with a complete arse?
I just need to find someone who can split the rent with me and pay the electric bill and not go absolutely ballistic if they trip over a stray sock every once in a while. (I do tidy up sometimes. When Penny makes me.) (All right, so this person needs to be tidier than me.) (That's not hard.) I work at the café and also study occasionally, so it's not like I'm around all the time. They'll have plenty of privacy. I also don't play loud music or the drums or cook anything smelly.
I'm a pretty good flatmate. I could be worse.
I just know things could be much, much worse than they are with Penny and I don't want her to move out. But I can't start that argument again. We've rowed about it a hundred times and the end result stays the same. Penny's leaving for at least six months, and I'm going to be stuck here without her. I mean, I know we have phones and the internet and video chat and all that, but it won't be the same.
Stupid Shepard. Stupid America. Stupid continents.
Why can't she date a British boy? We're not that bad. (Just a bit untidy.)
PENELOPE
Three weeks. Three weeks.
I'm leaving for New York in three weeks and Simon hasn't even got a flatmate sorted yet! How has he survived for this long when he's so utterly hopeless?
If I hadn't already booked tickets and planned the accommodation I'd postpone. Really, I would. At the rate he's going, Simon won't last three hours without me, let alone six months. But I've been looking forward to this trip for so long and I haven't seen Shep since January. I need to go. Plus, to be quite honest, after wrangling with the Embassy for a tourist visa this summer, I never want to do it again. Shep can come here next time. (And stay.) (But we haven't had that conversation yet.)
I've already done an advert for Simon and had it posted in the local paper. I knew he wouldn't get it done and I panic-drafted three or four different versions. Simon Needs a Flatmate 1.0 should be in tonight's classifieds, and if that doesn't yield results, I've got another advert ready to post in a local Facebook group. (Simon's not on Facebook. He says it involves too much writing.)
I picked up a copy of the paper at the newsagent's on the way home, but haven't had chance to look through it yet. There's housework (flatwork?) to be done first, then Shep's calling me on Skype during his lunch break. Surely Simon can manage reading the newspaper when I've done all of the hard work.
I didn't tell him what I put in the advert. But it's too late now. He'll just have to live with it.
He'll have to live without me.
WANTED: ONE FLATMATE
Want to live in central London with all amenities paid for?
Want to enjoy peace, quiet and excellent company?
We can't promise you that, but we can promise you:
1 bedroom, shared bathroom & living space,
internet, phone line, hot water & electricity.
Successful applicant will be employed or in full-time study.
Also neat, tidy and prepared to deal with odd hours.
Please contact Penny for rent & bills (sorry, amenities aren't actually paid for).
Tel: ___________ / Email: pennyfindsaflatmate@PROVIDERUNSPECIFIED
SIMON
The advert is borderline offensive. Penny knows that; she wrote it. She's smirking at me over the top of a cup of tea and I hope the look I'm firing back is sufficiently unimpressed.
"You make me sound like a right pillock," I say. "They need to be neat and tidy? Honestly, Penny. I'm not that bad. Also, you buggered up the e-mail address."
She has to climb over a stack of three month-old magazines to reach the sofa. Her eyebrows rise as she completes the obstacle course, as though it's proof enough of how much hard work I am.
"It's more about their person, Simon. They need to be neat and tidy in and of themselves. Isn't that what you want?"
I'm in a full-on sulk with the newspaper scrunched up in my lap. Why'd she have to try and make it funny? Now we're going to get all sorts of weirdos applying. And what's with the mention of "odd hours"? I sometimes stay up late playing Call of Duty, and I guess if I stay at the café until nine on Saturday that's pretty odd. Most blokes my age don't work at a café on Saturday nights. (I'm not really into partying.) (I'm not really into any situation involving large numbers of other people.)
"You shouldn't have made it funny," I moan. I'm aware I'm being unbearable. It's my other strategy when I want to get Penny to do something and the usual look of helplessness doesn't work. "Read those first two lines out loud, Penny. We're full-on going to get people who think bills and rent are free. This is London. The bloody air we breathe is taxable. Only mad people are going to call us - that is one hundred percent what's going to happen."
She crosses her arms and huffs. I out-huff her, just because I can. It's one of the few things I'm definitely good at.
"Plus," I say "You failed to mention one very important thing."
"What?" she says. She looks genuinely confused. "What did I forget?"
No way am I saying it. She's the clever one - top of the class, Queen of Watford - she can figure it out herself.
A moment later: "Magic? I could hardly mention magic in the ad, Simon. We really would look loopy."
I roll my eyes. She's magicked my wings off every day this week and I'm supposed to be learning how to do it myself. She figured out this spell using a 90s pop song: Flying without wings. It's a bit hit and miss, to be honest. I don't think Westlife are that popular anymore. When I do it by myself my wings wiggle a bit, but that's it. Penny gets them to disappear completely. (I don't tell her how good it feels.) (I also don't tell her I tried to fly after she'd cast it on me the first time, just to see how literal the spell was.) (I fell down the stairs.)
I'm worried that my new flatmate will see my wings. And my tail, though that can at least be stuffed down a trouser leg and be excused as an unspecified deformity. But my wings...there's no explaining that. The cosplay excuse would only work once. When I try to cast them away it only works some of the time...and you just know, after a long night on the sofa watching Peaky Blinders, the flatmate'll come in at some unreasonably reasonable hour of the morning to make breakfast and there I'll be...two arms, two legs and two red, rubbery wings.
"You should've mentioned the magic thing," I say. "Used a code or something. So only other mages apply."
Penny's still huffing like a champion. "I'll meet them all myself. I'll bloody well interview them, Jonathan Ross-style, if that's what you want. I'll make sure the one that gets through my strict vetting process is made of magic. Happy?"
I shrug. I don't want to look too pleased, even though I'd definitely like her to meet them and not me. She still needs to know how ticked off I am. This is all her fault.
"Simon," she says. I turn my head to look at her. She looks irritated. "This is happening. You accept that, don't you? I'm moving out. This time next week it'll hopefully all be sorted, and we'll know exactly who's moving in. You're going to have to meet them and be nice to them and for Merlin's sake, you'll have to tidy up before they get here. Do you understand?"
I nod glumly.
Penny. Please don't go.
PENELOPE
He's so lost and hopeless. I fully expect to get a text message a week into my trip announcing the death of Simon Snow, former Chosen One, maker of sandwiches and an absolutely tragic figure, whichever way you slice it.
It'll be fine. We'll find him somebody half-decent. Somebody who can balance him. There must be one person in the whole of London who can keep him together. I offered the room to Agatha but she's not coming back from California this year as planned. She still wants nothing to do with us or magic or anything remotely mageish. (Sometimes, I think she had the right idea.) (I'd never say that out loud.)
Simon defeated the Humdrum. Simon gave himself wings and a tail whilst doing battle with the Humdrum, and now they won't go away. Not properly. They always pop up at inconvenient moments. (We were watching Titanic last night and just when the ship's snapping in half, wham! Red wing: 1. Penny's face: 0.) He lost most of his magic in that fight, but "most" in Simon Snow terms just means he's left with a normal amount, like the rest of us. He still can't use it properly, despite eight years of Watford schooling. There was that moment, when we were facing down the Humdrum, when the Mage tried to steal it from him...he tried to suck it out of his chest. I don't think Simon's really dealt with that part of the fight, yet. I try to talk to him about it but he closes up.
The Mage died. We think the Humdrum killed him. Or the Humdrum's magic. Or lack of magic. All right, so we still don't understand why the Mage died. But he did. My mum's in charge of Watford now, and Simon's got a less alarming amount of magic inside him, and yes, he's winged...but he's also working, studying and becoming vaguely independent. So it all turned out fine, didn't it?
And it's all right if I try to have a bit of life for myself now, isn't it? With a boyfriend and a holiday and a...
A break.
That's all this is. I'll come back and if Simon's truly miserable, I'll move right back in. (That's another conversation Shep and I will have. But not today.)
I mustn't feel guilty. I should feel excited. I mean, we might find someone brilliant - someone Simon really gets on with. Bring him out of his shell a bit, cultivate interests and hobbies in him that aren't directly connected to the television and/or bread.
It's going to be fine. It's going to be great.
Oh, my mobile's ringing. I don't recognise the number.
I grin at Simon. He's looking worried.
"I think we have our first applicant!" I say, standing up. I'd do a little dance but it's so messy in here, I'd only trip over.