Gas, Light

“It makes no sense Frankie,” Gina sighed, hands clasped into fists in her pockets. “I don’t even know what’s up and what’s down.”

There are facts. The roof has to be up. That is not up, Frankie. Up is not the same as down.

“I know I’m not an architect, Fran. I know I don’t see things like you…”

Architect or not, Gina could see that the thing in front of her was not any kind of plan. She turned the drawing on the table, trying to get it to look like a building. Not just a building; their house. Their dream house. With the open plan, the glass, the light, the air. The real fires and fake bricks. Room for the dog and space to entertain. Frankie liked entertaining. 

There was only one conclusion to reach; Frankie, her rock, her life, was losing the plot. 

But that couldn’t be right. Gina was the one who lost the plot; Frankie saved the day. That’s how they’d always done it. They knew how it worked. Their friends and family knew. Even the dog knew. But the evidence was right there. The plans for their dream home, inescapable.

Gina pushed out the curling edges of the paper and weighed the corners with books, hoping she’d missed something. No, nothing more to see.

Frankie had designed every house on the estate. It was always her plan, ever since Gina had known her. A beautiful, spacious community, filled with glass and light and wood. Every house the same but different. Streets lined with trees, streets with space for people to meet and talk. Frankie had planned it and dreamed it and talked of nothing else. And then, their special house, Gina’s reward for her patience and support. Their house was going to be Number One. 

The plan on the table was drawn out on the back of a roll of cheap wallpaper. She recognised it as one of the garish metallic designs sold in the local discount DIY shop. 

Onto the coarse and curling surface the outline of the house had been drawn in firm, childish lines with a bright orange crayon. The inside was divided into square rooms, each with a title in purple crayon; Bathroom, Bedroom, Lounge. Each room was filled with a collage of cuttings, scraps, pictures from magazines, bits of sweet wrapper and scribbles of black marker. Gina had seen plenty of architect’s drawings; this wasn’t one. 

“Don’t you think… isn’t it a bit? Well, I’m not an expert but…it doesn’t look like the others?”

“That’s right darling, you’re not an expert. And it doesn’t look like the others, because it’s ours. I’ve added all the special features you wanted, it's going to be unique.” 

“But, I don’t understand. I feel I’m missing something. I feel like I’m being dumb; am I being dumb, Frankie?”

Before her beloved could answer the door knocked; Gina remembered, Jan was expected. Jan would put everything right. Jan, the most practical, logical person they knew. Jan, who could build anything, fix anything, make a home from practically nothing. Jan was going to be the head of their construction team. Jan did not stand for any nonsense, and would soon take Frankie to task for wasting her time and treating the project like a joke. 

Gina stood back and watched while Jan approached the table, taking in the craziness; she waited for the gasp, the confusion, the firm hand that would get their home back on track. Laughter, even. 

“Beautiful, Fran. I love your vision, it’s exactly how I pictured it.”

Jan began to discuss features of the plan, pointing out the details, materials, problems and solutions.  

Gina felt her head spin, watching the scene down a long dark tunnel. What the actual hell? 

“You’re joking, right? This is all a big joke at my expense?” Her voice rose and cracked, tears swelling up. 

Frankie met eyes with Jan across the table. The look that was half concern and half warning. Tread careful mate, she’s going again. 

“Gee, maybe you need to go lie down. I think it’s been a bit of a day for you, hasn’t it? You’re feeling a bit over sensitive?” 

Stretched out on their bed, with closed eyes, she wondered if the plan had all been in her head. Sleep. A good night’s sleep always made it better. And when Frankie joined her in the early hours they wrapped around each other and found their comfortable places as they always did.  

The next morning Gina woke late and took her time getting up. The thing was still on the table when she entered the kitchen, but she kept clear. She glanced at the curled edges of coarse paper but couldn't face the crayon marks. 

Lunchtime, she knew there would be a meeting with the whole crew, crammed into their tiny flat. Perhaps Frankie could keep the joke going with Jan, but with the electricians, plumbers and carpenters, the game would be up. 

Jon was the first to look, nodding approval and making considered remarks. After that she knew she was defeated. Coming closer to the table, her confusion and hurt burst out all at once. 

“I don’t understand what you’re doing Fran. I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.” 

Frankie flushed, angry and embarrassed, held her hands up in defence and turned to the assembly;  “I’m so sorry guys, she hasn’t been well. Gee, you’ve not been well.” 

“I’m fine”, her whispered reply, “It’s you. This time it’s you.”

Frankie sighed and lowered her hands into her lap. “Yeah, sure, why don’t you just go mad again babe? Why don’t you just go off the rails and leave it to me to hold everything down? You wanted this goddamn house. I was happy for Number One to be just like all the others. I wasn’t bothered as long as I was with you. I don’t know what more you want from me.”

And then the dam was broken, Gina wept and dragged her duvet into the spare room, and stayed under the radar all the next day. 

That week, she talked about the house with her therapist. Judith said was it such a big deal if the plans weren’t exactly how Gina had pictured them? Could she do a little compromise, cope with a little change? 

Gina wanted to show her the picture on her phone. Of the orange and purple crayon and the cut out magazine bits. But Judith just smiled and repeated; was it really worth falling out over a few details? She suggested self sabotage was at work; exhausted, Gina agreed with her analysis and took her feelings home to nurse in private. 

Frankie had always helped Gina to understand herself, helped her come out of her shell, and recommended a great therapist. Judith had told her; her problems ran deep. She may need therapy for the rest of her life. 

Frankie said that was ok, if it helped, Gina should carry on; for as long as it took to get well.  

“I love that you’re away with the fairies, Gee. It’s one of the cutest things about you. But I need you down on the ground with the rest of us sometimes. I need you to join me in the real world.”

Time away, that was what Gina needed. It was clear she wasn't seeing things right. Just like all those other times. Judith was right. Frankie was right. As always.  

Retreating to mum's house, and speaking to Frankie only by text, she started to doubt what she'd seen. They couldn't all be in on the joke. Jan never joked. So maybe it was in her head, there was so much in there she didn’t understand. What was one more thing?

Gina grew lonely, and the texts from Frankie more insistent. Please come home Gee. Come home to the house I built for us. It’s everything you wanted, exactly like we planned. 

Built? It was finished? But it had only been five weeks, not nearly long enough to create that sparkling palace. The other houses took more than a year, and they were basic compared to Number One. 

But Frankie pushed on; texts turned to phone calls, every day, then twice a day, filled with excitement and promise. You won't be disappointed. Please. Come home. 

One sunny Sunday, Gina steeled herself to go back. Driving down the familiar streets, she felt a wave of panic. Holding her breath, she turned the corner into the new estate, roads still muddy from construction.

And there it was. Her perfect house. Their house. She breathed again. It looked exactly like she remembered. 

Thinly defined lines of orange converged at odd angles, a wireframe drawn by a toddler, annotated by teacher. Purple crayon signs declared bathroom, kitchen, master bedroom. Walls patched from brightly coloured scraps, translucent in places, magazine shiny in others. Black lines scrawled and scribbled across the floor and sloping roof. 

Gina didn’t stop at Number One. She kept on driving, past the other houses on the estate. Each one a wireframe of orange, the purple labels standing out against the pasted-together walls. It all looked so fragile. Nothing like the strong foundation she thought was there. How did she never see it before? This must be it, she thought. This must be what it's like to be gone. 

She didn't stop; on across the estate, out the other side of town, onto the ringroad, onto the motorway. Away from the fragile crayon houses and the people who had built them. The people who knew, now and always, that Gina was gone.