Conditional Love (7 page)

My shoulders slumped as the dire prognosis continued. Colin was on a roll. On and on he droned. I found myself zoning out and only catching the worst of it: money pit… lethal electrics… good money after bad…

‘You could throw thousands of pounds at it,’ he concluded, ‘and not see a return. My advice? Sell up and buy a little town house closer to the city centre. Brand new, easy maintenance. Perfect for a career girl like yourself.’

He reached under his clipboard, pulled out a
Prestige Properties
brochure, and thrust it into my hand.

‘This little development is much more your style. Don’t waste your time with this place. Nothing worth salvaging. Someone will buy it for the location, flatten it and stick two or three houses on a plot this size,’ he said airily.

Nothing worth salvaging! I was sure Great Aunt Jane would have had something to say about that. I was torn between wanting to cry and punching his lights out.

‘But my great aunt lived here for years, it was her home, her pride and joy,’ I stammered.

‘Different generation,’ he sniffed, dismissively. ‘I’d be happy to handle the sale for you, of course.’ He added his business card to my pile of bedtime reading.

‘Of course,’ I replied, reading it and half expecting to see Colin Hanley, Snake oil salesman, and Freddie Mercury Impersonator alongside his other profession.

‘Thank you for your insightful advice,’ I said through gritted teeth as I showed him out.

Flatten it? I’d only been after a few renovation ideas.

Tina Turner’s ‘Simply the best’ blared out as he reversed the car off the drive and sped away.

What an insensitive, rude, boorish, oily man! And what a waste of an afternoon.

eight

Emma was squashed on one end of the sofa, while Jess, spark out, took up all the rest. Every so often Jess would stir as Emma tried to throw a Malteser into her open mouth.

Jess couldn’t handle alcohol at lunchtime. It had taken Emma and me quite some time to wrestle her away from her unfinished pint of cider and her new pensioner friends, who she had been entertaining with her version of ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’. One or two of the old men had even had a tear in their eyes.

‘We should go out tonight,’ said Emma, ‘it’s ages since we’ve been anywhere.’

Floppy and comfy in the armchair and drained from the excursion to Woodby, I ignored her. She didn’t want to go out really. She only said it because she felt she should. Because like me, Emma was thirty-two and single. Because she worked on her own in a little studio bashing away at precious metals all day and she knew she would never meet a man unless she made an effort.

I flicked through the TV channels, trying to find something to distract her, and settled
Grand Designs
. I loved this show.

‘It’s Saturday night,’ she persisted. ‘Come on, it’s only seven o’clock. Let’s crack open a bottle, put some music on and get tarted up. We could be in town for eight.’

‘Haven’t you forgotten someone?’ I nodded in Jess’s direction as she gave a gentle snuffle. Emma grabbed another Malteser, squinted, took aim and fired. ‘Goal! And the crowd go wild,’ she chanted.

Jess’s eyes popped open and she sat up, munching away as if being woken with a mouthful of chocolate was the most normal thing in the world.

‘Are we going out tonight?’ she asked.

I rolled my eyes. Not another Piper sister intent on disrupting my sedate Saturday night telly with a glass of wine and a bag of unhealthy snacks. I loved going out with them both, I did really. We always had fun. Although it usually descended into ‘Clash of the Titians’ once the two redheads clapped eyes on a man they both fancied. Then it was gloves off, game on.

I grimaced. ‘Not tonight. I don’t think I’m ready to put myself back on the market yet.’

Marc hadn’t called despite the glimmer of interest he had displayed when he popped round the other night. This was a good thing, I told myself. Surely it was better if he
didn’t
want to get back together simply because of the financial benefits? But just in case, I didn’t want to scupper my chances by making myself unavailable. I would stay in, in case he called. Besides, I fancied doing a bit of sketching.

Emma huffed and puffed for a bit, then, ‘Can I be blunt?’

I met Jess’s eyes and we snorted. Emma was never knowingly backward in coming forward.

‘When was the last time you went out?’ she continued.

‘Marc and I went out all the time!’ I protested.

‘I mean
out
out. Not last orders at the bar when he finally turns up after being God knows where all night.’

Jess bit her lip and looked at me in sympathy. ‘It’s true, babes. You did pretty much put your life on hold for him. Dressed up and ready to go out, sitting on that sofa with your lipgloss on for hours. Just waiting.’

I saw myself for a moment through their eyes. It did sound a bit pathetic, but at the time it seemed the right thing to do. Perhaps that’s why he thought I was boring, whereas I thought I was being accommodating and flexible. Next time I had a boyfriend (or got Marc back) I would have to be less accessible.

‘You’re gorgeous, Soph,’ said Emma. ‘And you can do a million times better than waiting in for a booty call from him. You should be paraded round and shown off.’

‘Oh, gerroff,’ I interrupted, shovelling a handful of Maltesers into my mouth. ‘You’re making me sound like a prize racehorse.’

‘You need to get back in the saddle…’

‘So now I’m the jockey!’

Jess yawned. ‘Are we deffo not going out, then?’

Emma stared at me.

‘Er, no,’ I answered, picking up my sketch pad.

‘OK.’ Jess plumped up a cushion, stretched her legs out on her sister’s lap and closed her eyes.

‘And if you ask me –’ Emma added.

‘I’m not!’ Grabbing the remote, I turned the volume up on
Grand Designs
several notches, hoping she’d take the hint.

Emma huffed and tutted for a good ninety seconds, while I attempted to apply myself to my sketch.

‘That takes me back, seeing you draw,’ she sighed. ‘Pass me the remote control.’

I slid it across the carpet.

I knew why she was sighing; she was thinking back to our teenage years, when our heads were full of dreams and plans. So young and optimistic about life.

‘At college, you used to have a sketchpad permanently glued to your hand, remember?’

I nodded fondly.

‘And the show homes!’ she groaned. ‘Every weekend, you used to drag me round looking at colours and furniture, then you’d sketch little ideas in your pad.’

She was right. I had been pretty obsessed with interior design at the time. I used to spend all my spare cash on
House Beautiful
.

‘When did you start playing it so safe, Sophie Stone?’ Emma eased her feet out of her Converses and wriggled her toes, trying not to disturb Jess.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Back then you had dreams. You were going to go to London, remember?’

‘Course I remember,’ I muttered darkly.

‘You were going to work on the glossy home mags, doing interiors styling for photo shoots. The job at
The Herald
was only ever a stop gap, you said, the first rung on the media ladder.’

The hairs on the back of my neck prepared themselves for a good bristle. My face felt hot and my lips were doing a passable impression of a cat’s bum.

‘Yeah, a stop gap, until I had a reality check and found out how hard that was going to be.’

Getting a job in classified advertising when I left college had seemed like a dream job. My optimistic young self assumed that if I worked hard, it would only be a matter of months before promotion to the editorial department followed. I would cut my teeth on the property pages, styling Nottinghamshire’s most glamorous homes, then swan off to London, possessions in a spotted hanky on a stick like Dick Whittington, after being head-hunted by
Homes and Gardens
.

Unsurprisingly, the road to the big city had not been paved with gold. Once at
The Herald
, I had researched styling jobs in London and found to my horror that they were a) generally unpaid to begin with and b) looking for graduates.

While Emma was at university, jealous of my monthly payslips and place in the world of work, I was stuck in an office, selling second-hand bikes and unwanted baby rabbits, and managing my own finances, green with envy at her bohemian, carefree lifestyle which was paid for by Bank of Mum and Dad. My mum, by contrast, had packed a case as soon as I turned eighteen and emigrated to Spain to pursue a singing career in a club, covering everything from Abba to Olivia Newton-John.

‘But you used to be so creative and full of ideas. Now you just drift along, bored with work.’ She flicked a disapproving look my way and then started picking a scab off her knuckle.

I didn’t particularly want to be reminded of my current position on the ladder of success, thank you very much. Promotion had beckoned, eventually, but rather than to the sexy editorial department on the top floor, I had moved to display advertising. Now my clients were retailers and restaurants with bigger budgets, but when you’d done one closing down sale, you’d done them all.

My creative juices had well and truly dried up years ago, along with my special Staedler drawing pens.

‘Dreams are all well and good.’ Especially when you’ve got parents to bankroll them, I added to myself, uncharitably. ‘But they don’t pay the rent, do they?’

Flippin’ heck, she was like a dog with a bone. ‘You don’t mention styling or interiors any more. What happened to the Sophie who was going to be the next Linda Barker?’

A childhood spent in less than perfect bedsits had rendered me infatuated with TV home makeover shows in the nineties. I used to be able to spot a Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen colour scheme at fifty paces. Mind you, so could everyone else. Not a fan of neutrals, if I remember, old Laurence.

Emma sucked in her breath sharply and I glanced at the TV just in time to see this week’s
Grand Design
s’ cliffhanger as a huge steel beam smashed into the sheet of glass which formed the front wall of the house. Kevin McCloud grimaced to camera and the film cut to the ads.

‘There, finished.’ I held my pad up to her. It was a plan of the bungalow, drawn from memory. I’d included as much detail as I could remember, the layout, doorways and windows.

Emma shook her head incredulously. ‘That’s amazing. And that’s why I get so cross. You should do something with that talent. What’s the sktech for, anyway?’

I shrugged, not really sure how to put my sentiments into words. Stepping into a world in which my father co-existed had shaken me to my core. I was going over and over that little house in my brain. Somehow I felt that if I could get it down on paper, neat and orderly, my thoughts would follow suit.

‘Hey!’ said Emma, sitting up straight and dislodging Jess’s feet. ‘Apply to
Grand Designs
and do something with the bungalow. Then we can all be on telly!’

‘No thanks.’ I shuddered. ‘I want a home of my own, not five minutes of fame. Besides, it always goes wrong on TV. Then Kevin McCloud comes on gloating and says, ‘What did you expect, you’re an Avon lady, not a builder, and where’s your contingency budget?’’’

I stood up, stretching and yawning, secretly pleased with Emma’s praise. ‘Glass of wine?’

Jess sat up instantly. ‘Ooh, rosé please.

nine

It was Sunday morning in March. A gale was rattling the old sash window in my bedroom and I hefted the duvet up over my ears. The gap in my curtains was just wide enough to inform me that despite its bluster, the day was bright and sunny, but I had nothing pressing to get up for.

It was heavenly in my cosy cocoon. I wished someone would bring me a cup of tea and then my lie-in would be perfect. Perhaps if I pretended to cough and choke violently, Jess would dash in, her face lined with worry? ‘Tea,’ I would croak, giving her a wild-eyed look and she would make me one, in my favourite mug.

Sighing at the futility of my daydream, I flung back the covers, hurried into my dressing gown and pulled back the curtains.

The big trees which lined our road, unremarkable for most of the year, were decorated with white blossom, although the wind was doing its best to ruin it for them; the air was full of swirling petals and it looked lovely, but the poor trees would be bald by noon.

I resisted the urge to burst into a chorus of ‘Morning has broken’, but the sentiment was there.

Ahh. This was more like it. Back in bed, propped up with pillows and a morning cuppa, I snuggled down and let my eyes wander. My bedroom was my favourite room in the flat. A small oasis of taste in a desert of grot. I’d gone for a vintage look: cream-painted metal bedstead, antique rose print curtains and bed linen all bought cheaply from Ikea, and a triple mirror on a dressing table, both of which I’d rescued from a skip and restored.

The curtains wouldn’t look out of place in Great Aunt Jane’s bungalow, I realised.

Two weeks had gone past since I’d visited Woodby and I still had the keys.

‘Mr Whelan is on annual leave at the moment,’ his receptionist had informed me when I called to arrange their return. ‘There’s no rush with the keys.’

Which meant I still had access to the bungalow and the bungalow still had access to my every waking moment. And there were lots of them. Undisturbed sleep was eluding me at the moment.

After much hesitation, she had also told me where the old lady was buried.

I had trudged round a large cemetery several miles out of Woodby until I found her newly-dug grave, and had placed a large bouquet of roses amongst the other floral tributes. Relief had washed over me as I tidied up all the flowers, picked out the dead ones and re-arranged them neatly. Great Aunt Jane had obviously been popular, there must have been eight bouquets and wreaths around her plot. I was glad she had had loved ones to mourn her. I flicked through the hand-written cards to see if my father had sent some and found nothing.

A knot of fury punched at my chest. He knew she had passed away. My father was one of her few living relatives and he hadn’t acknowledged her funeral.