Conditional Love (8 page)

I didn’t think I’d ever heard my mum say a good word about him and now I was beginning to understand her annoyance. Perhaps letting a man like that into my life would be a mistake, however brief our meeting? Who knows what would happen afterwards, I might never get rid of him.

I gazed at the grave. The mound of earth still looked fresh. I felt like I should say something. What was the protocol of talking to the deceased? There was no one around to hear me, but it felt weird speaking normally. I decided to simply think a message and assumed it would be just as valid as saying it out loud.

I wish I’d met you properly, before now. Then maybe all this will stuff wouldn’t be so confusing. I’m in a right pickle, you know! My friends are no help and no one can agree on what I should do next. The only thing I’m definitely sure of is that that horrible estate agent is not getting his hands on your little house.

My tea was cooling and I took a big slurp. The bungalow keys sat on my bedside table. Usually on a Sunday morning, I Skyped my mum. I hadn’t called her for three weeks; I hadn’t worked out how much to say about the will yet and was convinced that she would be able to tell something had happened and would instantly wheedle it out of me.

Jess had declared that meeting my dad would cause too much trouble and Emma was so sick of me going on about it that I dared not mention it at all.

Why was it when you read about people inheriting property and money from a distant relative, it always seemed like they’d won the jackpot? Now it had happened to me, it felt more like a millstone round my neck.

Oh heck, I’d started the morning feeling as carefree as a spring lamb and now I felt more like a weary old piece of mutton.

I needed a second opinion. Technically, the estate agent had given me that, but I hadn’t liked what he said so it didn’t count.

I gave my radio alarm a whack to make it play some mindless pop music to distract me. A news programme came on instead and I groaned automatically.

‘Yes, there’s a housing deficit, and yes, we need more houses at affordable prices,’ said a male voice, ‘but the Government needs to accept that giving planning approval for all these social housing projects is like putting a sticking plaster on a broken leg.’

Normally, the words ‘crisis’ and ‘Government’ were enough to have me reaching for the dial, but my new preoccupation with houses meant that I was actually quite interested, so I kept still and listened.

‘The architecture of our city is being sacrificed for the sake of short-term solutions. These tiny new houses may be cheap but they are poorly designed.’ He had a nice smooth voice, youngish, professional, and definitely clever. But what struck me most was his passion.

‘They won’t stand the test of time like our Victorian terraces, which have been providing accommodation for over a hundred years. In ten years’ time…’

‘Ha, take that Mr Smarm-Face Estate Agent,’ I said, remembering the brochures I’d had foisted on me.

‘Thank you, Nick Cromwell,’ interrupted the radio presenter. ‘Can I turn to you, Malcolm Shaw from the City’s Housing Department? How do you respond to the claims that these new houses are not fit for purpose?’

‘Our housing policy is clear: to provide clean modern accommodation for the people of this city,’ droned the councillor. I could almost see him thumping the desk for emphasis like a politician. ‘To allow them to get a foothold on the property ladder in a difficult market.’

Was it just me, or had he ignored the question? I frowned at the radio.

‘You’re not answering the question, Mr Shaw,’ interrupted the nice man.

I cheered him on silently.

Mr Shaw gave a derisory laugh. ‘I’m sure Mr Cromwell is well-intentioned if not well-informed but–’

‘WHAT?’ Mr Cromwell was becoming more passionate by the second.

‘Yeah, fighting talk,’ I said, enjoying the verbal insults from the safety of my own bed.

The housing councillor continued, ignoring his adversary. ‘But not everyone can afford the luxury of an architect-designed home.’

‘Wrong,’ said Nick Cromwell forcefully. ‘Architecture should be for everyone, not just the wealthy.’

These words were spat through gritted teeth and I gave the man a round of applause.

‘Er, that’s all we have time for. My thanks to Nottingham architect Nick Cromwell, and City Housing Councillor Malcolm Shaw.’

I was a strong believer in fate. Things happened for a reason in my book. Which is why I scrabbled around for a pen and paper and scrawled the name Nick Cromwell before I forgot it. He sounded exactly the kind of man to give me my second, second opinion.

ten

‘Who’s moved third gear?’ I muttered, yanking the gear stick backwards and forwards as the car laboured up the hill and out of town.

My ability to make cars to do what I want diminished considerably when I was stressed.

After a meeting with my least-favourite client, I was most certainly stressed. I was also running late and sat with tense shoulders over the steering wheel. I worried at a bit of loose skin on my lip with my teeth until it tore off painfully, leaving the taste of blood in my mouth.

Oh doughballs, now I was going to turn up late looking like I’d been in a fight!

I
did
detest Frannie Cooper, owner of hair salon chain Fringe Benefits, but I had stopped short of coming to blows with the woman. She was a footballer’s wife who had thought that a little business would be fun and give her a handy excuse not to watch husband, Ryan, play.

I dreaded meetings with Frannie. She was unprofessional, ungrateful and unhinged, flying off the handle and swearing rudely if she didn’t like what she heard. She was so bad that even my boss, the Queen of Mean, didn’t like her. Today, Frannie had rejected all the ads that I had shown her for the next campaign, which as far as I was concerned were exactly what she had asked for. Frannie had demanded that Jason, our graphic designer, re-did them. I had no choice other than to agree and the boss was going to be furious.

So now I was late and it was raining. My curls turned into candyfloss when it rained.

A gentle bong from the dashboard alerted me to the fact that the car was running on emergency fuel. I groaned and scanned the street ahead for a petrol station.

I hated pool cars. When I got my own car, it would be spotlessly clean, free from the whiff of Brut and I would keep the tank topped up at all times.

At least stopping for petrol meant that I could buy a drink. Frannie never offered me so much as a glass of water, ever. I pulled onto to the forecourt and persuaded an old man to put the petrol in the car for me. I did know how, but it was such a faff and I was wearing suede shoes. It was bad enough trying to dodge the puddles, let alone steer clear of petrol splashes.

Ninety pence for a carton of Ribena from the chiller cabinet! What a rip off! I chose a multipack from the grocery aisle for a pound, paid up and left.

Four weeks had gone by since my first visit to Woodby. Despite the drizzle, this time the trip through the countryside was much more scenic. The fields were full of gangs of scampering lambs and the brown rectangles of mud had been replaced with something green.

I began to feel a bit fluttery as I approached the village. The architect would probably be at the bungalow by now. My blood pressure was sky high, my face was hot and I still had dried blood on my lip.

Nick Cromwell had sounded very formal on the phone. I had tried to explain the situation with Great Aunt Jane’s bungalow and how cross I was about the estate agent’s ideas. He hadn’t seemed very talkative and when I said I was a massive fan of
Grand Designs
, he’d interrupted me, suggesting we meet up at the bungalow to discuss it.

I might have made a mistake about him. He perhaps wasn’t as nice in real life as he’d come across on the radio.

My sketch book lay on the passenger seat, mocking me. Since that Saturday night, I’d done a few more scribbles. Just a few ideas, like putting an extension on the back and making it all open-plan. Nothing I could show a professional. Surprising how much I’d enjoyed sketching again, after all this time.

There was already a car on the drive taking up all the room. It was quite ordinary, grey and about five years old. Not the sort of thing Marc would go for. He didn’t look at anything without spoilers and twin exhaust pipes and preferably a souped-up engine.

Stop thinking about Marc and focus!

I pulled up on the grass verge and turned off the ignition. It was still raining, but luckily I had my umbrella with me. It was gorgeous, bright red with a black frill and a long old-fashioned handle. It made me look a bit Mary Poppins and it clashed with my green coat, but if it prevented my hair from turning to wire wool I didn’t care. The architect was already out of his car, waiting out of the rain under the porch, holding a rucksack. His face was hidden by the hood of his waterproof jacket, also grey. He looked big and bulky.

God, I was nervous. My stomach was churning and I desperately needed the loo. He could be a psycho. I wished I’d told someone else where I was going. Perhaps I should send Emma a text? I glanced at the clock. It wasn’t fair to leave him out in the rain any longer. I was already twenty minutes late.

Relax, you’re the client, it’s your prerogative.

Stuffing all my things into my bag and grabbing my umbrella I made a dash for the house.

There was a brown and white dog on the driver’s seat, I noticed as I squeezed past the architect’s Golf. It looked at me as I went past and then went back to sleep. I tried to stay on my tiptoes to keep my suede heels out of the puddles and got my umbrella tangled in some thorny branches overhead in the process.

The architect was watching me struggle and I’m sure I detected a twist of a smile on his face.

Don’t come and rescue me, will you? Ignorant lump.

‘Hello, I’m Sophie Stone. Pleased to meet you,’ I called, shaking his hand and lowering my umbrella. I hoped he didn’t notice the water running off the tip of it onto his shoes like a hosepipe. Served him right for not helping me.

‘Nick Cromwell, likewise.’

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Clients eh?’

‘Indeed.’

I was referring to my client, who had made me late. My fault for not explaining, but he obviously thought I meant me. Surely that was his cue to say something polite like, ‘Not to worry’ or ‘I’ve only just arrived myself,’ not make me feel worse?

He lowered his hood. He had grey eyes behind slim trendy glasses and thick dark eyebrows. His short hair was almost black and a bit tufty. Serious-looking but not scary.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Is that your dog? Will it be all right in the car?’ I hated awkward silences and had a tendency to fill them with mindless small talk. Of course the dog would be all right, it wasn’t as if it was scorching hot or anything.

‘Yes and yes.’

‘I never really know what dogs are saying,’ I persisted.

He raised an eyebrow, quite understandably.

‘Well you know, body language-wise.’

I was rambling. He clearly didn’t do small talk and I clearly didn’t do coherent conversation. I turned to unlock the front door. The key stuck in the lock. I set my bag and umbrella down and twisted with both hands. My cheeks were pink and I could feel a prickle of heat under my armpits.

‘Actually, I find dogs easier to understand than people,’ he said, watching me struggle again.

‘Oh, right.’

What was that syndrome that Doc Martin off the telly had, calls a spade a spade? Asperger’s? How did I manage to choose a man who prefers dogs to humans for my second professional opinion?

I gave the door a hard shove and it opened. A pile of junk mail had wedged itself under the door. I picked up the letters and surreptitiously laid a hand on my face. As I thought. I was steaming hot and therefore probably purple with exertion.

‘Shall I take my shoes off?’ he asked, following me into the hall.

I waved a hand dismissively. ‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, glancing too late at his chunky-soled boots, which looked like they’d spent the day off-roading in a muddy bog.

I cringed as he left a trail of muddy footprints on the biscuit-coloured living room carpet, but it seemed churlish to change my mind and make him take them off.

Nick took off his coat and hung it neatly over the back of a chair. He wasn’t big and bulky, it had been all jacket. He was quite tall still, obviously, but slim. Methodically, he removed a clipboard and a pencil from his rucksack and turned his phone onto silent.

I bet he had been a straight ‘A’ student, never giving his parents a moment’s grief. He smiled properly for the first time, transforming his face. I smiled back, noticing how his hair was sticking up on top where his hood had been.

‘Can I offer you a drink?’ I asked automatically, before remembering where I was.

Please say no.

‘Yes, please.’

We both slurped away through straws at our cartons of Ribena, perched on the high-backed armchairs, teetering on the precipice of another awkward silence. I pulled my sketchpad out of my bag for wont of something to do, putting it on the coffee table between us.

Now we were here, I felt shy. This was a man who obviously saw himself as a champion of architectural heritage, driven to preserve our old buildings, their foibles and features for future generations. And I’d brought him to view a dreary 1930s bungalow with about as much character as a Big Brother contestant.

Sorry, Great Aunt Jane.

‘So,’ we both said at the same time, and then shared a polite laugh. I gestured for him to speak first.

‘You must be looking at a replacement scheme?’

‘Um?’ I shook my head, not sure what he meant. Windows maybe, or carpets?

He took another sip from his straw and stretched a leg forward to deposit his carton on the table, leaving another brown smear on the carpet.

‘Demolishing this old place and building a new one,’ he explained.

I watched in horror as his Ribena siphoned itself out of the carton and all over the cover of my sketchpad. I was only just starting to process his last statement when he lurched forward, cursing his clumsiness, and ripped the cover off the pad.