Finding Home Page 11

  Inside, I explain to Mum that I had a viewing in the area and there wasn’t time to go in to the office. I put the bundle of letters and the lighter in my knicker drawer and begin the preparations for my night out. I have a long soak in the tub, shave my legs and pluck my eyebrows, and then have to unpack a number of my boxes looking for an elusive handbag to go with an outfit that I ultimately reject. When I do finally emerge from my bedroom wearing jeans, a V-neck jumper and Ugg boots, Mum asks me where I’m going. Sheepishly, I admit that I’m going out for a drink with a man.

  If I’m expecting moral support, none is forthcoming. Mum looks askance at my outfit. ‘You don’t look like you’re making much of an effort,’ she says. We argue about it for a few minutes. I end up changing into a vintage red 50s dress I bought at Camden Market. From the moment I leave the house, I begin to worry that it now looks like I made an effort.

  By the time I reach the car park of the White Swan, my heart is thrumming. But having told Mum what I’m doing, it’s too late to turn back.

  I’m officially on the rebound.

  The air is freezing and I hug my pink scarf and wool coat around me. Inside, the pub is warm and inviting; a cosy wood fire burns in one corner and there’s a homely smell of gravy and spicy mulled wine. The bar is draped with a garland of holly and evergreens hung with little Santa and reindeer ornaments. It’s an unwelcome reminder that Christmas is less than a month away. Almost three weeks have gone by since the phone call came in about Rosemont Hall. Tick tock.

  I’m afraid to look around in case David Waters is already there; or equally, in case he’s not. At the same time, I don’t want to be blindsided, so I take a cursory walk through the pub, and when there’s no sign of him, make a beeline for the bar. I order a glass of mulled wine and a bag of crisps.

  The bartender hands me an overflowing glass at the same time a hand touches my arm. I jump, and the wine sloshes down the front of my coat. ‘Oh!’ I blurt out, ‘Uhh… hi David.’

  His boyish face looks concerned, his green eyes wide. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  The bartender hands me a towel and I dab at the wet spot. ‘No problem.’ I force a smile. ‘Let me start again by buying you a new one,’ he says with a grin. ‘Do you want to find a table?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He orders our drinks and I head off to find somewhere to sit. All the tables are taken, and the only seat available is a chintz love-seat next to the fire that a canoodling couple are in the process of vacating. It seems much too cosy and romantic for the occasion, but as my heels are rubbing in two places, I hover over the couple until they giggle off into the sunset. I’ve just sat down and taken off my coat when David comes over with our drinks and a plate of sticky toffee pudding with two spoons. He takes one look at the seating arrangements and the sweetheart neckline of my dress, and it’s clear that, for him at least, the seating arrangements are just fine.

  ‘I took the liberty of ordering the house speciality,’ he says, indicating the pudding. ‘That is, if you want to try it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Despite the fact that I’ve already had a hefty supper, the spongy cake and oozy syrup makes my mouth water. Although David Waters could not possibly have known, sticky toffee pudding is my absolute favourite – especially when eating it is a reprieve from making small talk. I take a generous gulp of the steaming mulled wine, all the while conscious that our hips are touching on the sofa.

  ‘You look fantastic, by the way,’ he says. ‘Even with a garnish of mulled wine.’ He holds up his pint of beer. ‘Here’s to lucky meetings.’

  I clink my glass against his. We chat a bit about the cold weather and the local area. As I draw first blood on the sticky toffee pudding, he tells me about his job (he used to be in construction and worked his way up to quantity surveying), his flat (two streets away from the Grand Pier in Weston-super-Mare), and his dog (a yellow Labrador puppy called Stevie). He’s polite enough to ask me only a few yes or no questions that I can grunt an answer to in between bites (Q: Did you just move here? A: Uh-huh; Q: And you’re enjoying your job at Tetherington Bowen Knowles? A: Yuh-huh). Before I know it, only a pathetic little mound of sponge cake with a few spoon streaks of syrup remains on the plate. I set down my spoon, embarrassed.

  ‘Please, finish it,’ he winks at me. ‘We can get another one if you want.’

  ‘No really. I ate earlier. My mum cooked—’ Too late, I catch myself.

  ‘So, you’re living with your parents then?’

  ‘Just until I get settled.’ I wash down the pudding with the rest of the mulled wine. ‘I decided to move here a bit suddenly, you could say. My job in London didn’t work out, and here I am.’

  He looks at me intently. ‘What happened?’

  I’ve been anticipating the question. I’ve already decided that I’m not going to tell him anything at all: about Simon, or ‘Ashley’, or the thrown mobile, or my job teaching English– all of which are now ancient history.

  ‘I thought it was time to try something different,’ I say simply. ‘And as for the job at Tetherington Bowen Knowles, I was just at the right place at the right time.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Before I can change my order to a glass of water, David is up and halfway to the bar. He’s smartly dressed in a beige leather jacket, black jeans, and leather shoes. His blonde hair is slightly tousled on top, and his build is athletic. As the wine begins to take hold, vaguely, I wonder what he has in mind for the evening, and why the prospect of whatever that is so far hasn’t filled me with terror. After all, he seems normal, and he is attractive in a boy-next-door sense. I don’t think we’ll be having a deep and meaningful conversation about metaphysical poets, or Mary Wollstonecroft, or houses as characters in fiction, or anything intellectual anytime soon, but maybe that isn’t a bad thing.

  He returns to the table and hands me a new glass of wine. I take one sip and set down the glass. We still have business to discuss. ‘How did you get on with your estimating this afternoon?’ I ask.

  A flash of disappointment crosses his face. ‘I gave my notes to my secretary to type up. I’ve got pages and pages.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. After you left, I met the housekeeper, Mrs Bradford. She took me to see the East Wing.’

  ‘Quite the wreck, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Too bad they couldn’t afford a bulldozer to clear everything away.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, a little affronted. ‘The East Wing was once the grand ballroom. Maybe someone will want to rebuild it someday.’

  He starts to laugh, then sees my face and stops. ‘Um, maybe,’ he says, like he’s lying to a child.

  I take another sip of my wine and tell him briefly about Mrs Bradford, the magpie’s nest and the ruckus over my finding the gold cigarette lighter. ‘She seems a little unbalanced by everything that’s happening,’ I say. ‘I suppose she was hit hard by Arabella’s death, and the fact that she has to move out. She’s pretty old – I feel bad for her.’ I stare down at the dark liquid in my glass. ‘Anyway, the lighter was engraved “To H from A.” I found some old letters between Henry and Arabella too. The house is like a time capsule.’ I sigh. ‘Mrs Bradford must have a lot of fascinating information about the family – but I doubt she’ll tell me. The fact that I’m an estate agent seems to have got us off on the wrong foot.’

  He gives me a puzzled look. ‘Why are you so interested? It’s just a house – and somebody else’s family history.’

  ‘I know. It’s hard to explain. When I first saw the house, it just seemed special somehow. Like I’d stepped into the pages of a novel. I believe that there can be a strong connection between people and properties. A person can belong to a house just like a house belongs to a person.’ I give a little laugh. ‘That’s what I felt about Rosemont Hall. As soon as I saw it, I knew that it was my responsibility to help save it.’

  ‘Save it?’ He looks at me like I’m a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

  ‘Find
a buyer for the house who’ll fix it up and restore it to its original glory – bring it back to life – not convert it into something else.’ I smile at him. ‘And that’s why I need your help. Anything you can put in your report about the basic structure being sound – like you said – would be helpful.’

  He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m not asking you to lie… It’s just that Hexagon doesn’t have the best track record for dealing with old properties.’

  ‘Well, restoring old properties is expensive and time-consuming. It’s easier to build from scratch.’

  ‘Then let them build from scratch – somewhere else,’ I say. ‘Before I started learning about Rosemont Hall, I didn’t realise how many old properties there are out there that are at risk. Historic buildings that are worth preserving. It might sound preachy and sentimental, but I want to make a difference.’ I lean a little closer to him. ‘We can make a difference.’

  If David Waters is impressed by my poetic activism, he doesn’t let on. ‘I hope that’s not the only reason you’re here.’ He picks up my glass and puts it in my hand.

  ‘Of course not.’ I take a big sip of wine. While he hasn’t actually agreed to help me with regards to Rosemont Hall, right now, David Waters is my best ally. And he’s made it clear that he’s keen on me. I stare at the fire for a minute as thoughts of Simon rise to the fore and recede again. I’m enjoying the long-forgotten feeling of having a man fancy me. And he is attractive…

  ‘So, why are you single,’ I ask boldly. ‘I mean, you are single, aren’t you?’

  He laughs and leans towards me. ‘Yes I am. I guess you could say, I’m looking for the right girl. You?’

  ‘I’m recently… unattached.’

  ‘Ahh, I see.’

  He punctuates his understanding by putting his hand on my thigh. I don’t remove it. My insides feel like treacle tart.

  As I down the second glass of wine, things become pleasantly vague. ‘I’m a lightweight when it comes to alcohol,’ I hear myself saying. ‘As Dorothy Parker says: “One martini, two at the most, three I’m under the table; four I’m under the host.”’

  ‘Dorothy who?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  He leans in and kisses me. At first I’m startled, and his mouth tastes like beer. Then I worry – it’s been so long since I’ve been kissed properly that maybe I won’t measure up. And then I stop thinking and allow myself to relax. Just like riding a bike, you never really forget how. The room swims when we finally come up for air. ‘I don’t think I can drive home,’ I say—

  ‘Do you want to go home?’

  ‘With you?’

  He laughs. ‘You said it, I didn’t.’

  ‘I guess I did.’

  I put on my coat and scarf and he walks me out to his car – a red VW Golf. We drive for what seems like a long time. I try not to think about anything at all other than the warmth of the heater on my feet. When the car stops, he leads the way up a flight of stairs, and inside a strange flat where a little yellow dog is sleeping in a basket by the balcony door. I gulp down a glass of water and go to the bathroom to freshen up. I decide to dispense with all of the ‘will I, won’t I?’ arguments with myself and cut to the chase. I take off my dress, and leave it hung up on the hook behind the door.

  When I return to the main room, David’s eyes widen when he sees me. I think he says something quaint like: ‘Wow, you look amazing’. My hands wander over an unfamiliar body, and his skin smells different than I’m used to. The gooey feeling is becoming more like numbness. Part of me wants to go and another part of me wants to stay, and a little echoing voice keeps repeating over and over like a ticker tape: Rebound Man. Rebound Man…

  *

  Late in the night, I open my eyes in a panic, until I remember where I am. I stare into the darkness and listen to the snores coming from the pillow next to me. Isn’t it exciting? – I try to convince myself. After all, it isn’t every day that I have sex for the first time with someone who is not my boyfriend of seven years. Ex-boyfriend. Failing that, I try to muster up some guilt, but I don’t feel that either. All I know is that my head is throbbing from the wine and I really need to pee.

  A luminous alarm clock glows on the bedside table: it’s five o’clock in the morning. I think about inventing an exercise regime, or a penchant for sunrises – anything to justify getting out of bed right now, assembling my scattered clothing, and going home where everything is safe and familiar. But I have a vague recollection of David promising to cook me his special ‘full English’. Leaving while he’s still asleep would surely be rude.

  I gingerly remove the duvet and swing out of bed. The outline of the bedroom door is just visible from the light of the clock. The cold air tickles my naked skin as I cross the room and open the door. There’s a slight gurgle from the bed behind me. I stand still without breathing until the snoring resumes.

  In the hallway, I fumble for a light switch. The brightness hits me like a physical force. The hall serves largely as a repository for sporting equipment. I squeeze past a surfboard, a cricket bat and a set of dumb-bells. There are a number of framed photos up on the wall: David Waters with a group of mates on skis; David Waters in diving gear holding up a dead shark; David Waters playing five-a-side football. He’s obviously a sports fanatic – another characteristic that we don’t share. There are several doors off the hallway, one of which has an old-fashioned picture of a little boy peeing into a pot. I lock myself in the bathroom, use the loo, and stagger against the sink. The wine is reasserting itself. My heartbeat pounds in my skull, and the four yellow walls begin to spin. I steady myself and stare at a framed photo on the wall above the towel rack: David Waters and a short red-haired man with glasses. They’re both wearing white collared shirts and hideous checked trousers. Between them, they’re hefting up a golf trophy.

  Golf. I lean over the sink and splash water on my face. I’m now both hungover and fully awake. I don’t know why it never occurred to me that David Waters might be an avid golfer – after all, a lot of people are. Normally, that would be fine, but not in this case. Not when I need him on side for Rosemont Hall.

  I return to the bedroom where at least it’s warm. Heading towards the dim outline of the bed, I fail to spot the yellow dog that has entered the room and stretched itself across the centre of the floor. I sprawl across the room and end up flat on my face, setting off a cacophony of yelps. I feel hot stale breath, a cold nose, and a scratchy dog tongue on my back. I shriek. A light switches on.

  ‘Amy?’

  David jumps up and pulls the dog off me.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I lean over to pat the dog, but it growls – like it wants me to leave. I jerk my hand away.

  ‘Good.’ David gets out of bed and helps me up. ‘I forgot to mention that Stevie likes to sleep here.’

  ‘I understand,’ I say with an awkward laugh. ‘I’m just not having much luck with dogs lately. But there’s no harm done… I guess.’

  He kisses me again and lowers us both back onto the bed. But this time, I smile coyly and shake my head. ‘I need to get to work – do you mind if I have a shower?’

  ‘Do you have to leave so soon, babe?’

  I cringe inwardly at the generic term of endearment – something I imagine Simon might say to ‘Ashley’. ‘Yes I do,’ I say firmly. ‘But don’t get up, really, I’ll be fine in a taxi.’

  ‘Okay – there’s a number by the phone in the kitchen.’

  Although I’d planned to take a taxi anyway, he loses more points by not insisting that he drive me (nor has he repeated his offer of a cooked breakfast). I give him a perfunctory peck on the forehead, but he’s already nuzzling into the indentation of the pillow that smells like my shampoo, and drifting easily back into sleep.

  I return to the bathroom for a shower. The water alternates between freezing and boiling, and I get out more quickly than I got in.

  In the bedroom, I reassemble all of my clothes (minus my tights which I can’t find anywh
ere). I make my way to the kitchen (carefully avoiding the dog, which is glaring at me from its basket), find the number of the minicab which is written on a yellow sticky (I note with detached interest that there are two other yellow stickies by the phone with the numbers of ‘Susanna’ and ‘Valerie’ written on them with x’s and o’s), punch the number into my phone and let myself out of the flat.

  The morning is wet and overcast as I emerge onto a non-descript street of terraced houses. The wind gusts in my face and I can smell the seafront. I walk towards the esplanade and ring the taxi. My feet and head both hurt, but somehow as I sit on a bench staring out at the leaden-grey estuary, I feel surprisingly serene – like I’ve been in a train wreck and walked away a different person. David Waters may or may not be the proverbial ‘One’ – but regardless, I’ve fulfilled another leg in my post-Simon trinity: new job, new home, new man.

  When the taxi pulls up and I get inside, I’m shivering from the cold but smiling too. I take out my phone and scroll down through the list of contacts. I come to ‘Simon Work’ and ‘Simon Mobile’ and hit delete. I know the numbers by heart, of course, but eventually I’ll forget them. For once, I’m almost glad that there’s no going back.

  - 13 -

  Two hours later when I arrive at the office, everyone is grumbling – even Claire – but no one tells me the reason. Eventually, I discover by osmosis that Mr Bowen-Knowles (working from home) sent everyone (except me) an email saying that in view of poor sales in the last quarter, there will be no Christmas bonuses this year.

  ‘And here I was assuming I’d at least get enough for the airfare to the Maldives…’ Patricia complains. She takes a soggy mince pie from a box that someone brought in from Tesco and bites into it, leaving a smear of coral lipstick.

  ‘You haven’t sold anything in two months,’ Jonathan plays devil’s advocate.

  ‘What about you?’ Patricia says with her mouth full. ‘You wouldn’t have made bugger all if Claire hadn’t split the commission on those condos in Minehead.’ She swallows and takes another mince pie.