Something Much Bigger Than That

Rachael Blyth writes:

With the cost of a single room in London now reaching the realms of the utterly unaffordable, increasing numbers of tenants are being forced to rent just half a room, with a 71% rise in searches for shared bedrooms reported over the past two years.

Several years ago, while (barely) working as an actor, I accepted a live-in bar job at a busy Soho pub, lured by the proximity of West End life.

The fact that I’d be sharing a small room with another girl struck me as romantic – a tad Moulin Rouge with only a hint of EastEnders.

Aware of my hermit-like tendencies, I saw the interruption of my private space as an interesting experiment rather than the miserable economic necessity it was.

Soho’s sex and sleaze formed a huge part of the attraction, and in terms of filth I certainly wasn’t let down.

The room was disgusting, filled with the remnants of all those gap year boys-on-tour who’d occupied it before me.

My roommate, Viktoria, who drank pints for breakfast, was a riot grrrl turned pacifist.

She seemed pretty unfazed by the mice, the cockroaches, the gross stuff growing in the fridge an inch away from my nose. I hoped her nonchalance would be contagious.

We spent long days smoking on our roof terrace and admiring the Soho skyline. Viktoria would order drinks to be sent up from the bar in the dumbwaiter.

Our boyfriends came to visit, and sleeping over they too practised the art of nonchalance. Sex was hush-hush but not hidden, and if friends came round they’d sleep on the floor, insulated by a cosy cloud of Rentokil cockroach spray and cigarette smoke.

We once heard that a nearby West End landlord had been sacked by the brewery for allowing his staff to sleep on the floor while porn was being filmed in the rooms they were meant to be sharing.

In comparison, we felt blessed. When it came to each other and our Brewer Street abode, Viktoria and I had lucked out.

Of course, it wasn’t all bohemian bliss behind the Piccadilly lights.

Despite our miraculously low rent, like everyone else I knew both Viktoria and I were up to our eyeballs in debt.

Every change of landlord threatened to unhinge our entire existence, and the thought of being able to ever afford a room of our own remained an impossibility. Unlike our friends, we had no deposit to act as a springboard into the rental market.

I started to avoid phonecalls from my mother for fear of the dreaded d-word (“drifting”, for the non-acquainted).

In fact, when my parents came to visit I was too embarrassed to let them see my room. Sometimes, listening to the sordid racket in the alleyway below I felt nothing short of completely screwed.

After a year or so, the guy living upstairs moved out and Viktoria was offered his room. We both breathed a sigh of relief and returned to our private worlds.

I bought an armchair and a little desk to fill the newly empty space where Viktoria’s bed had been. I took down posters and put up framed prints. My boyfriend came round more often.

Shortly afterwards, my room was broken into and burgled – that roof terrace hadn’t been so secure after all. No longer feeling safe and unable to face the rental market, I left London shortly after.

For those of us who never had any intention of climbing the graduate career ladder, seeking out alternative living arrangements has been the only feasible way to sustain life in the city for much longer than these recent trends would suggest.

But London is closing in on everyone now, not just the least wealthy.

But fear not, there is life outside London, off the ladder, if you look for it.

As for me, I quit acting and started teaching yoga. And after a brief foray into normality, I’m scoping out the shared life again.

Looking back, it seems that of all my gurus, Viktoria has been the finest of them all. It’s not the stranger who is suffocating you, it’s something much bigger than that.