Bricking It (23 page)

Maybe that’s because we’ve gone twenty grand over budget and had to max out both our credit cards, but I also think it’s because I really don’t want to let the place go! I look at all the work we’ve done, all the beautiful things we’ve put into the place and I keep picturing myself living there, amongst all that finery. Every time I start to daydream about making breakfast in the kitchen, or drifting off to sleep looking at the stars through the enormous bedroom windows, I have to stop myself before it hurts too much.

Your story doesn’t help either. Now I know how important the house was to you, the idea of selling it to a complete stranger fills me with a deep unease. There’s so much
history
here. A majority of it X-rated I’ll grant you, but it’s our
family
history nonetheless.

But what choice do I have? We have to sell the place. There’s that mortgage and credit cards to pay off, and I can’t just turn down the prospect of dumping a huge lump sum into my bank account.

Why did you have to have such a colourful past, Grandma?

And why do I have to be the kind of person who gets attached to things that she really bloody
shouldn’t
?

We had a meeting with our estate agent, Grant, the other day about the best way to sell the place. I thought we’d just sling it on Rightmove and wait for the offers to roll in, but he thinks it’s better to sell the house at an auction.

‘None of us have any real idea what this place is worth,’ he told Danny and I over his large pink tie, as we sat in his office pretending to understand what he was on about. ‘We know it’ll go for about six hundred thousand, but for all we know it could be worth way more than that. The best way to sell the place is to let the market decide what it’s worth. And I’d sell it on-site, rather than at an auction house. It doesn’t happen much, but this is a unique property, so let’s sell it in a unique way. We can really make it a grand event. Advertise the auction for about two months to build interest, I reckon. That way we should get plenty of potential players on the day.’

‘Cost?’ I replied. I’ve been at this game long enough now for that to always be the first thing out of my mouth.

Grant rocked his hand back and forth. ‘The auctioneer will want two and a half per cent of the selling price, but you’ll stand to make ten to fifteen per cent more on the house in total, I’d say.’

I don’t think Danny and I were a hundred per cent sold on the idea, but after discussing it with Fred and Mitchell, we agreed to go ahead with it. It’s funny how these two men have become so much more than people we’ve employed to help us renovate the farmhouse. I value their opinions as much as I value my own, and they both think the auction is a great idea.

‘It’s a
wondrous
way to encourage the more discerning, and aesthetically astute buyer,’ Mitchell said. ‘Grant’s idea of an jubilant occasion fills me with delightful anticipation.’

‘You’ll make a fucking packet,’ Fred said.

Good enough for me.

The auction date is set for – and I can hardly believe this – 14 February.

‘People will remember when it is!’ Grant told us. ‘And it’s a chocolate box kind of place. You never know, if romance is in the air, we might get an even higher price!’

Which is hard to argue with. It still makes me feel a bit uncomfortable though, for some reason.

Gerard was delighted with the date, of course.
Great Locations
wants to come back to film on the day of the auction, and you can just imagine how his eyes lit up when I told him it would be happening on Valentine’s Day.

‘What a perfect end to the story!’ he said happily over the phone from his office in London. ‘And with the whole fascinating history of the place, it’ll make such great television.’

‘Oh no, you’re not mentioning my grandmother’s past, thank you very much,’ I told him.

‘What? But it’ll make great television!’ Gerard repeated, in the tone of a small boy who’s just been told he has to come in for his tea and can no longer play in the makeshift fort he’s just built with his snotty compatriots.

‘I don’t care if it’s BAFTA-worthy Gerard, I’m not having my grandma’s past as a brothel madam revealed on live television! If nothing else, it might damage our chances of selling the bloody house!’

There was a moment of silence on the other end before Gerard reluctantly agreed with me. ‘It could throw a spanner in the works, couldn’t it?’

‘You think so? I can just see Grant showing someone around the bedroom: “And this is the original mantelpiece. I believe they used to tie the clients up right here when they inserted the love beads.” I don’t think it’d go down too well, do you?’

‘No, I guess not.’

Gerard and crew will still be out in force on the day of the auction, though. And he’s promised to mention that it’s happening in the shows running up to it. That should drum up even more potential business with any luck.

I am both hopeful of getting a good price, and terrified that no one will want to buy it.

Then again, I am terrified of getting a good price, and hopeful that no one will want to buy it.

My emotions are confused, to say the least.

So now the waiting begins.

This is likely to be
excruciating
.

I’ve spent virtually every minute of every day at Daley Farmhouse for the past few months. How the hell am I supposed to just go back to a normal life now the thing is finished, but knowing won’t be sold until early next year?

It’ll be like ending a relationship knowing you still have to see them one more time to swap DVDs and get your clothes back.

I can go back to work a bit early, I guess. I’m sure the headmaster will be delighted to get me back in the classroom, given the horror stories I’ve had related to me by email about the poor substitute teacher they’ve had in for me. I just don’t think I’m mentally prepared to take on that lot again, though. I now officially have until the start of March off, and I think I’m going to take every last day of it – even if it does mean feeling somewhat aimless until the auction comes around.

Maybe I’ll download the Rightmove app to my iPad. There are bound to be some nice fixer-uppers in the local area. I might be able to find something more constructive to do with all that money I’m hopefully going to earn than just dump it in the bank account and watch what the interest rate does.

One way or the other though, Grandma, the story of Daley Farmhouse is going to take another turn come Valentine’s Day. Someone else will get to sit in that bath, and look at those stars very soon.

I have to say I envy them so much it almost brings tears to my eyes. Maybe if you were still alive you’d feel much the same way.

That damn house has a way of working its way underneath your skin, doesn’t it? That’s why you couldn’t let go of it all those years ago, and that’s why it’s going to kill me to have to do it now.

Thank you, Grandma.

Thank you for giving me the chance to rebuild your brothel, and my own life with it.

I think it speaks volumes about how odd my life has become that the last sentence doesn’t sound weird to me in the slightest.

God bless,

Hayley

PROPERTY AUCTION NOTICE

Monday, 8 December

Whitlow & Cressida Auction House are pleased to announce a unique opportunity to purchase at auction a newly renovated Victorian cottage in the heart of the Hampshire countryside.

The Daley Farmhouse is a three-bedroom, two-bathroom detached property, sitting on over an acre of land. It has recently been completely modernised, and boasts a brand new extension, bespoke kitchen and bathroom facilities, and brand-new décor throughout.

The garden is landscaped to provide an idyllic backdrop to this wonderful, historic property – close to a tranquil English village, but within easy distance of major transport links.

Auction to take place during a very special event held at the farmhouse on Saturday, 14 February.

To register your interest, please contact Grant Evanshaw at Winters Estate Agents, or call into Whitlow & Cressida’s offices.

DANNY

February – Auction Day

£173,765.97 spent

V
alentine’s Day is usually a day to be feared and dreaded – when you’re single, anyway. But I can safely say that I have never been more nervous in the run up to 14 February than I am this year – even when I was eight and made Carla Peterson that card and had to give it to her at her birthday party.

I’m hoping the auction of Daley Farmhouse goes better than that did. Carla looked at the card for a few moments, before yakking up her fifth bowl of jelly and ice cream all over it. My timing was off that day, to say the least.

Thankfully, I won’t actually have much to do today. The business of holding the auction is being handled by Grant, our bombastic estate agent and his auctioneer colleague, an equally bombastic woman called Camilla. If the two of them had a baby, the nursing staff would all need cochlea implants after the delivery.

No, all I have to do is turn up, try not to look stupid, and hope and pray that the house sells for the right money.

The right money is
more
money than I can comprehend to be honest. The reserve price on the farmhouse is a cool £600,000. This, to me, is an idiotic amount of money. I’m sure anyone living in London would laugh in my face if I were to tell them that, as it probably buys you a small cardboard box next to the fishmongers there, but in the sleepy Hampshire countryside, it’s a decent price for a three-bedroom detached, even a relatively small one like ours.

If it goes for that kind of cash, I will be rich. Like, proper, proper
well off
. Not rich enough to retire, but certainly rich enough to not have to worry about my finances for a good ten years if I’m careful with it.

The flip side is that if it doesn’t sell, Hayley and I will be stuck with a renovated farmhouse, an unpaid mortgage and a load of credit card debt.

This is one of those boom or bust days. The type that can easily lead to a stomach ulcer.

As I peer out of my bedroom window at the overcast weather, I half contemplate rolling over and going back to sleep. Hayley could just text me when the whole ordeal is over, and let me know whether I have to sell one of my kidneys or not. That probably wouldn’t go down too well, though. Not least because I would quite literally be the only person not there who has had any involvement in the renovation. Fred and the crew are coming along, as are Sally and her team. Gerard and the BBC are filming the entire debacle, and even my parents, fresh back from their ridiculously long cruise around the world, have decided to turn up to make everyone sick with how tanned they are.

Hayley promised not to tell Dad about his mother’s morally grey past – right up until Dad told her he thought that the renovation had aged her a good five years. Then the gloves were off. The expression on Dad’s face was priceless when he discovered that his suntan had been funded by extensive and well-managed prostitution. Mum, strangely enough, didn’t seem all that surprised by the revelation. ‘I always knew there was more to Genevieve than met the eye,’ she said. ‘She always used to terrify me when I first met your dad, and now I know why.’

Of course Mischa will be there too, right alongside her boss Mitchell.

I’m not quite sure how I feel about that, to be honest. I haven’t seen her for the past few weeks. We’ve been on a few dates in the past two months, mostly consisting of her talking at me again. I took her ice skating because I thought that might end the endless stream of architectural-based anecdotes, but no, even when she’s gliding around on ice, Mischa can quite easily bore you with her detailed description of the new health-centre entrance she’s working on right now. Ice, you see, looks very similar to the brushed aluminium roof her and Mitchell are designing for the project. I would have skated over my own neck, if it weren’t physically impossible
.

I really should stop seeing her. I have nothing in common with the girl other than bricks and mortar. I’m also fairly dubious about her attitude to Baz and Spider’s romantic involvement. That look on her face disturbs me.

But what can I say? She’s the most incredible-looking woman I have ever met, and I am completely in thrall to those looks. I’m hoping that eventually she’ll get bored of being boring, and we can move on from the architecture to any other subject of conversation. Next time I go out with her I’m going to ask her what she thinks of Brussel sprouts. If she says they remind her of the chicken coop she built for her Uncle Yuri back in Slovenia I’m walking out, gorgeous looks and perky breasts be damned.

When I arrive at Daley Farmhouse, the place is already alive with people. The auction isn’t due to start until 11 a.m., but the house is swarming with prospective buyers as I look at my watch to find it’s only 9 o’clock. Grant has certainly done his job in drumming up interest. There must be fifteen to twenty different groups of people here today.

My heart leaps. Surely one of these buggers is going to put a hand in their pocket?

I find Hayley standing with Gerard near where Pete the cameraman is busy filming some of those interested parties as they scour the outside of the house. I hope they’re paying careful attention to the pointing.

‘Morning,’ I say to them both. ‘Lovely day for it.’

‘Not really.’ Hayley looks decidedly unhappy. In fact, I’d go so far as to say she looks royally miserable.

‘Cheer up, sis. You’re about to become rich!’

‘Yeah. Rich.’ There is no enthusiasm in her voice whatsoever. I had hoped that as the big day came nearer she might lose some of the attachment she’s built up for this place, but nothing could be further from the truth. After the morose conversation I had on the phone with her yesterday, and the expression on her face today, it looks like things have only gotten worse.

Hayley Daley is in love with Daley Farmhouse. This can only end badly.

I suddenly make the decision to stand very close to my sister as the auction starts. There’s every chance she’ll try to do something to sabotage proceedings, and I need to be there to rugby tackle her to the ground, before she jumps in front of the auctioneer and tells everyone that the house used to be a brothel, and is home to at least three chainsaw-wielding poltergeists.

I see Mum and Dad emerge from the front door, combined looks of admiration on their faces. This fills my heart with a warm glow. For years I’ve seen my parents look at me with a mixture of disappointment, pity and frustration. Not now, though. Not now they’ve seen how well I can lay floorboards and paint a ceiling rose.

‘This really is a terrific house, kids,’ Mum says to us, beaming with pride.

‘Yeah, terrific.’ Dad’s expression is nearly as glum as Hayley’s. While he’s no doubt proud of our efforts, he’s also coming to terms with his mother being a brothel madam. I can imagine he probably wishes he never got off the cruise liner when it docked at Southampton.

‘Fred and the lads about?’ I ask Hayley.

‘Yep. They were in the kitchen last time I saw them. Trey and Weeble couldn’t make it, though.’

‘Oh, okay. I’ll just go and say hi.’

Hayley’s eyebrow arches. ‘Don’t you want to know where Mischa is? She’s in the garden with Mitchell. They’re both talking to Sally, I think.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Thanks,’ I tell her thinly. I haven’t discussed my misgivings about Mischa with her as yet. It’s a conversation I’ll need to have shortly – to stop the knowing looks and smug grins, if nothing else.

I have to manoeuvre around about six or seven people as I walk through the house to find Fred. I remember to smile broadly at each and every one of them, as one of them could be the person who lines my pockets in a couple of hours.

Baz and Spider are standing in the kitchen together. When they see me, they unconsciously move slightly further apart. I have to suppress a sigh as I get closer to them.

‘Morning, lads,’ I say, trying to sound as jovial as possible. ‘Where’s the boss?’

‘Gone for a piss,’ Baz tells me. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Yeah, you nervous?’ Spider asks.

‘A bit. Big day for all of us. Big day.’

‘Yeah. Big day,’ Baz parrots.

There’s a rather uncomfortable air to this conversation. An awkwardness that surely would not be present had I not stumbled upon them together upstairs. I feel as if I have to say something.

‘Are you two . . . you know . . .
okay
?’ I stage whisper.

Baz looks sheepish, Spider looks horrified. ‘Dunno. Ask him,’ Spider says in a frustrated tone, giving Baz a hard look.

‘I just ain’t sure we can make it work,’ Baz attempts to whisper back to Spider out of the corner of his mouth. Baz is not the kind of man who takes naturally to whispering though, given that he is fucking enormous. The whisper carries quite easily across the room. ‘If Fred found out, we’d be in real trouble.’

On the one hand, I think it’s great that these two look up to Fred as much as they do; on the other, I’m horrified that Baz is so scared of him finding out they’re gay that he’s willing to end the relationship.

‘If Fred found out what, lads?’ I hear the head builder say from behind me.

Oh dear.

This could be bad.

‘Nuthin’, Fred!’ Baz exclaims and moves even further away from Spider.

For a moment, for just a fleeting second, I see a look of extreme hurt on Spider’s face, before he covers it up with what must be skill born of years of practise.

Fred’s eyes narrow. ‘Nah. There’s something going on here. I can tell. You two have been well skittish around me for the past few weeks.’ Fred looks at me. ‘Usually when this one is around, as well. What’s gone on between the three of you? Come on, I want to know. If Danny’s gonna be working for me as well, I can’t have any friction with you lads, now can I?’

Oh fuck me. This is my fault.

Baz and Spider have managed to successfully keep their relationship hidden all this time, and here I come, messing the whole thing up for them just with my mere presence. I feel awful.

Fred claps me on the shoulder. ‘Is there something you want to say, Dan? It sure looks like it.’

Baz and Spider both look at me in fear. I shake my head emphatically. ‘No, Fred. No problem here at all!’

‘Bollocks.’ He turns back to Baz and Spider. ‘Is this something to do with you two being gay?’

Now, you’ve no doubt experienced stunned silence before. This is something of an entire order above that. This is struck by lightning silence. Hit with a thermo-global nuclear warhead silence. There are caves five miles underground that are noisier than this kitchen right at this moment.

Fred breaks the silence with a chuckle. ‘Oh, come on, lads. You really think I don’t know? You’ve both been working for me for seven years.’

Spider now looks like he wants to cry. This is a very disconcerting thing to see, given the tattoos. ‘Are you gonna fire us?’ he asks in a tiny voice.

‘What?’ Fred bellows. He then stands between the two of them and puts his arms around both their shoulders. ‘Baz, you are the best bloody plasterer I’ve ever seen in my life, and you, Spider, I wouldn’t want anyone else anywhere near my woodwork. I don’t care if you’re gay or straight. You’re my lads, and that’s all that matters.’

Oh god, that’s
beautiful
. Really, really amazing.

Baz and Spider’s expressions change from ones of worry and doubt, to beaming smiles in an instant. ‘Cheers, boss,’ Baz says gratefully.

‘Yeah, you’re a diamond,’ Spider agrees, his voice tinged with relief.

‘Danny?’ Baz says, looking at me, his brow furrowed. ‘Are you gonna bloody cry?’

‘No!’ I insist, trying to stop my bottom lip from trembling.

‘He is!’ Spider remarks. ‘He’s gonna cry!’

‘You big poof!’ Baz exclaims.

What?

What?!

Fred looks a tiny bit disgusted. ‘Hold it together there, china. There’s strangers about.’

I’m speechless.

These are the people I’m going to be
working
with from now on? I don’t think my sanity will cope.

Baz moves towards me. ‘Give us a hug, you big poofter!’ he exclaims with an evil chuckle, and wraps both arms around me in the kind of bear hug you usually associate with professional wrestling.
Bad
professional wrestling.

A few minutes later I’m walking across the neat back lawn, trying to get away from Baz’s armpits as fast as my legs will carry me. I left the three of them in a highly amused state at my barely concealed emotional outburst. I’ll just have to hope that I haven’t earned a new nickname today. I don’t think I could take being called ‘Tiny Tears’ for the next decade.

Still, I’m delighted at Fred’s attitude towards Baz and Spider. I’ll take a little ribbing about my emotions, over seeing two of my friends in distress any day.

I stop dead in my tracks.
My two friends.
That’s how I see Baz and Spider now.

Blimey.

I
belong
.

Oh great, here come the waterworks again.

By the time I reach Mitchell and Mischa I’ve got the bottom lip back to a non-wobbly state. Just about.

‘Ah! The man of the hour!’ Mitchell cries in florid fashion as I near them.

‘Good morning, Daniel,’ Mischa says in a pleasant tone. ‘The house looks lovely, doesn’t it?’

I look back at the place. She’s not wrong. Even with the dull grey skies, Daley Farmhouse looks picture perfect. I have to blink the pound signs away as I turn back to them both.

‘An extremely good turnout, I’d say!’ Mitchell says in a happy voice. He’s already been paid for his services, so it’s nice to see him come along today, even though he doesn’t have anything invested in the house’s sale. I guess professional pride must come into it. I’m sure he wants the place to fetch as much money as possible, just to prove how good he is at his job.

I spend the next ten minutes chatting with the architect and his raven-haired assistant. The topics of conversation are mostly about the house, of course. If Mischa’s obsession with exterior and interior design is big, then Mitchell Hollingsbrooke’s is
colossal
.