Turning Forty (38 page)

‘As you can appreciate, this apartment has been finished to a very high standard having recently been renovated by the current owner. You could literally move in tomorrow and all you’d need to do is unpack your things.’

He’s not wrong. The entire flat: living spaces, kitchen, bedrooms and even the garden, all have had everything done that I could want. What’s more I can even imagine the kind of furniture that I’d have in here and where I’d put my TV. The whole flat has a good feel about it and as he waits for me in the kitchen and I give the place a second tour alone I can really picture myself living here: the designer kitchen where I’ll cook meals for some beautiful and intelligent woman I’ll meet through work; the living room where we’ll relax with a glass of wine afterwards and in which, sound-tracked no doubt by an Adele album, I’ll open up about my chequered relationship history; and finally the bedroom where as my new love and I enter I will make the joke: ‘. . . and this is where the magic happens.’ As potential futures go it’s not at all bad-looking which is why no one is more surprised than me when I find myself responding to the letting agent’s question: ‘So what do you think?’ with the words, ‘It’s great but not for me.’

‘So what kind of thing are you looking for exactly? Larger? Smaller? More modern?’

I shrug. ‘Over the last ten to fifteen years I’ve done a lot of moving. I suppose what I’m looking for is something that feels a bit more like a home. Does that make sense?’

‘Absolutely,’ he says earnestly but I can tell from the glassy look he’s giving me that he doesn’t get it. ‘I’ll have another look through our books this afternoon and if anything leaps out at me I’ll be sure to bring it to your attention.’

We don’t shake hands as we part (he’s not going to be caught out twice), and although I’m in the mood for a walk in the park followed by a read of the paper I force myself to return to the house and continue my property search, because now that I know what I don’t want (which apparently is the perfect flat in the perfect area) maybe it’s going to be a lot easier to work out what I
do
want.

At home I start the search all over again and print out a new list of potentials: a sleek modern two-bed with views of the park and close proximity to the Tube; a two-bed mews house a bit further out than I would have liked but which does have a garden; and: a huge one-bed mansion flat with massive windows, loads of original features and parquet flooring throughout.

I like the mansion flat most of all. It looks grand from the outside but worn and comfortable on the inside as though after years of trying too hard it has come to the conclusion it has nothing to prove any more. I call Robinson’s, the letting agent, but the call goes straight to voicemail and as I prepare to leave a message I realise that my heart’s already not in this flat. It’s pricier than I want it to be and further away from the Tube too, but the thing that really unseals the deal is the fact that it’s got one bedroom: buying it would be like saying to the world out loud: I’ve given up hope. This is as good as it gets.

Returning to the web I try changing the parameters of my search: different areas, price ranges and numbers of bedrooms but the more choice I get the less interested I am. None of these places looks right; none of them feels like they could be home.

After a while I really start to throw out the rule book. In a couple of weeks I’ll be a man with a lot of cash sitting in his bank account. I won’t have to live in London, I won’t even need to live in the UK if I don’t want to. The world is my oyster. On a whim I take a look at a couple of letting websites based in France, then Australia, the Netherlands, the USA and even some in the West Indies but as tantalising as some of these places are (especially the beachfront property overlooking Womans Bay in Barbados) they just don’t feel right. They’re not what I’m looking for to see me through the next chapter of my life.

And so I return to the UK. I try Brighton (because it’s by the sea); Manchester (because these days it’s where everything seems to be happening); Bath (because I quite fancy living in one of those white Georgian terraces) and even Edinburgh (because Lauren and I once went to a wedding there and loved it). But none of them does it for me, none of them has that spark, that special something I’m looking for.

Finally I do one last search. It’s a massive long shot and completely off the wall given that I’ve changed the search requirements from ‘rent’ to ‘buy’ but as I press return I think to myself, Well, what harm can it do?’ The results come back in an instant and at the top of the list is an entry that pulls me up short. I stare at the screen for a good five minutes, shaking my head and laughing to myself. It’s perfect. Absolutely 100 per cent perfect. It’s got everything I want and even though it’s quite clearly been messed about with (the front and back rooms have been knocked through, hardwood flooring has been laid in every room and the kitchen’s been extended), at its heart it still remains the same. And best of all, clearly visible in a number of shots of the garden is a shed. And not just any old shed but a vintage eight-foot by six-foot overlap softwood apex shed that I know for a fact has been lovingly maintained for its entire existence. Once I’ve composed myself I pick up my phone and dial the estate agent’s number.

‘Direct Move, Kings Heath, Karen Samson speaking,’ says a female voice with a delightfully chirpy Birmingham accent. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Hi, my name’s Mr Beckford. I’m enquiring about one of your properties: eighty-eight Hampton Street, Kings Heath.’

‘The recently developed three-bed semi?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Oh, that’s a lovely property. It’s only been on the market about a week. I took a couple there to see it only yesterday, it’s got such a wonderful finish on it. I was really impressed. One family owned it for the best part of forty years until they part-exchanged it with a developer earlier this year. It’s been completely modernised from top to bottom. When would you like an appointment to see it? All our slots are booked up today and Tuesday but I might be able to fit you in on Wednesday.’

‘I don’t want to make an appointment to see it. I want to buy it.’

The woman from Direct Move can’t quite believe her ears. ‘You want to buy it? I’m sorry, have I got the wrong end of the stick? Have you already had a viewing?’

‘Not in so many words.’

‘But you want to purchase the property without viewing it? Excuse me for asking,’ she says cautiously, ‘but is this some kind of a wind-up?’

It was a good question, especially given that some people would see it as a major step backwards to return to my home town. Even worse to cash in my pension, scrape together every last bit of money I’d made from the house sale and buy outright the home where I grew up. Not to mention doing so at the age of forty, without a partner in tow or a clue about how I was going to make a living for the next thirty-odd years. And yet I’m going to do it anyway.

‘I couldn’t be more serious,’ I tell the woman from Direct Move as I offer the full asking price and the name of my solicitor so she can confirm the details.

‘I don’t know what to say, Mr Beckford. In all my time in this business I’ve never had a buyer purchase one of our properties without at least one viewing in person. Are you sure you can’t be persuaded?’

‘No need, I’m already sold.’

‘Well, if you don’t mind me saying it certainly does seem to have made a lasting impression on you!’

‘What can I say? Some places just look like home.’

Epilogue

So after nearly five months of craziness that saw me fall in love with Ginny, move in with my parents, fall out of love with Ginny, become best mates with my all-time teen hero, fall in love with Rosa, move in with a bunch of students, get punched in the face by Gershwin, purchase my childhood home and have my wife begin divorce proceedings, what wisdom can I impart to those about to turn forty? Well, here it goes:

1. Waking up in bed alone on your fortieth birthday is far from the worst thing that can happen to you . . .

2. . . . but being punched in the face by your best mate is pretty near the top of the list.

3. Once you’re forty you no longer have to care what people think about you but it’s never a good idea to give them too much ammunition.

4. No matter what happens you should never, ever move back in with your parents. You both deserve better.

5. At forty you realise you’ve spent half your life trying to leave home and the other half trying to find somewhere to belong. Wanting to belong is good but it can bring out the crazy.

6. It turns out it’s true that forty’s not the end of the road, it really is just the beginning.

7. Self-imposed deadlines . . . who needs them?

Days left until I turn 50: 3627