“That’s too much,” I said, not knowing if it was or not. “Thirty per cent and you cover the brochure costs.”
He placed two fingers against his sticky lips and tapped as if in deep thought. I sighed. I was an ardent shopper, and I knew the negotiation tactics he was attempting to employ.
He removed the fingers from his lips and held out his hand. “Deal,” he said. I was reluctant to take his hand but thought it rude not to, so afterwards I discretely wiped the stickiness away.
“Fantastic,” Joe added. I wasn’t sure it was a word I’d use. We needed Ronan’s permission before any of it happened.
“What price do you think you could achieve?” I asked.
We were back to the sticky lip fingering, the staring, walking around, and deep breaths.
“That photograph should fetch around fifteen hundred to two thousand pounds. The painting? A little more. I’d like to think we could get about five thousand for that. We have to remember, this is an unknown artist, but we have the fact she’s dead, so there will be no more,” he said.
Again, I had no idea if that was a good estimation or not, but I tried not to show any excitement, the photograph was only A4 sized, and the ones back at the house were larger.
“I’m going to need to check my diary, but if we’re to proceed, I’ll need those other paintings and photographs for framing, and maybe cleaning…” he rambled on, turning his attention back to Joe. “Two weeks good for you?” he asked, and I was finally brought back into the conversation.
“You’re asking if you could have ten of those in two weeks?” I repeated to be sure that was what he had said.
“Yes, two weeks. Then we’ll organise the opening for a month after. I’ll confirm available dates,” he said.
I nodded, trying to appear like I knew what was going on. “That sounds fine. I look forward to hearing from you.”
After asking for a receipt and receiving a surprised look from Dave, Joe and I left the two pictures with him and, with the receipt, started to walk to a taxi rank.
“Well, that went great. Can you believe that shit is worth that kind of money?” Joe asked as we arrived.
We climbed into a cab and gave an address for an Italian restaurant we liked. A bottle of prosecco and some lunch was required.
“Maybe we should have touted the pictures around. He seemed too keen,” I said.
“Yes, but how many pictures are there? You said there were loads, so we sell this lot, and that might create a massive demand for Ronan to be able to sell them direct.”
Joe wasn’t just a pretty face. “I’ll email him all that when we get the dates,” I said.
“Surely you’ll see him before that, won’t you?”
“I don’t know. He’s not the easiest of person to work with, to be honest, and he’s so up and down at the moment. I think he needs to take some time to grieve for his loss before tackling the mess that estate is in.”
It was a massive cop-out, I knew, but it was an excuse I was sticking with, and I was actually proud of myself for coming up with it off the cuff. The truth was that I had no idea what to do. I liked Ronan, more than just a friend, and that was never going to be reciprocated. Perhaps I needed to get used to that before I returned.
“Anyway, you’ll never guess what I discovered last night,” I said, and then went on to tell Joe about Pat the cat and Danny being made redundant.
“Oh my God, you could have starved Pat if Mrs Dingle hadn’t fed him. And there’s not much I can do with the rent—it’s what the owner wants to charge. Why are you so concerned about him all of a sudden?”
“I’m not. I feel bad about Pat and who wouldn’t feel bad for someone about to lose their job?”
“Not me. Now, over lunch I have some amazing properties for you to look at. I forgot to email the details to you.”
“You’re not that much of an arsehole, so stop pretending to be,” I said.
Joe laughed as we left the taxi, and we walked arm in arm into the bistro.
We celebrated with a bottle of prosecco and ate a lovely lunch of seared prawns in a lemon and garlic sauce—delicious and messy. Joe then brought up his emails on his phone to show me two properties he’d found in Kent. I found it tough to read all the details on such a small screen, but I loved both.
“Can you make appointments to view them?” I asked.
“Of course. They’re being sold by someone I know, so I’m hoping that connection will go in our favour. She knows that I’ll be aware of the exact value and what she’s earning out of it.”
“Lovely. I’m quite keen to find somewhere permanent and get my things out of storage. Those fees are building up.”
“I can organise that tomorrow if you like. It’s the only free day I have for a couple of weeks.”
I nodded as I took a mouthful of prawn. As much as I’d loved the flat, I was keen to have my own place, to settle and start to rebuild my life.
Later that evening, I texted Maggie and asked for an email address for Ronan. I told her that it had been a success at the gallery and that I’d speak to her soon. She replied pretty quickly, and I wondered if Ronan had been with her when she received my text. I wasn’t sure she’d know his email address off the top of her head.
I typed up all that had happened, keeping it straight to the point. I did ask how he was, and I left it that he would confirm if he wanted to go ahead and that perhaps he might like to select the photographs and paintings. I was happy to receive them if he wanted to courier them down. I went to bed waiting for a reply from him.
Chapter Sixteen
Joe texted me to say he was outside. It was a rare day that he drove a car even though he had two stored in a garage that he paid an extortionate rent on around the corner. That day he’d brought the mini. I loved the little red car. It was a classic Mini Cooper, and he’d had a plan to race it through Italy once. The door creaked when I opened it, and I slid onto the hard leather seat, then leaned over and gave Joe a kiss to his cheek.
“I love this car. You will leave it to me when you die, won’t you?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t plan on dying anytime soon, and since we’re the same age, there’s nothing to say you won’t go before me,” he said with a smirk and looking slightly distracted as he navigated into the London traffic.
From where we were, getting to the Blackwall Tunnel would be the longest part of the journey. It wasn’t miles in distance to hit Kent; it was just the volume of traffic on roads barely capable of containing it that slowed us up. Eventually, we hit the motorway, and the scenery started to change from prison-grey coloured buildings to green and brown fields.
“I think I’ve got Mum to agree to a home. I’ve found a wonderful one in Sevenoaks that I honestly believe she’ll love,” Joe said.
“How is she doing?” I felt guilty for not keeping up on her health.
“She’s deteriorating, but she still knows who I am. I just hope she has a heart attack or a massive stroke before the dementia gets too bad. I’d hate for her not to recognise me.”
I understood where he was coming from. My nan had dementia, and it used to kill my mum whenever we visited, and she’d have to explain who she was each time. I reached over and squeezed his hand.
“Where are we off to first?” I asked as I turned the heating up a little.
“The three-bed cottage in Halfmead. It’s not too far from a motorway, and you’re also close to the international station. You can go one way for London or the other to Paris and beyond,” he said, with a laugh. I wasn’t sure what was funny.
It was another half an hour before we turned into a country lane with high banks and trees either side. We continued down this lane slowly.
“It should, if the satnav is right, be on our left somewhere,” Joe said. “Here.” He slammed on the brakes causing me to jolt forward.
There was a low brick wall and on one column, before a wooden gate, was a small plaque with the house name. Joe must have had amazing eyes
, the plaque was so worn, even parked beside it, it wasn’t clear.
“Is someone going to meet us?” I asked.
“Yes, although I suspect they’re not here yet. We’re about ten minutes early. Go and open the gate,” he said.
“Won’t the owners be here?”
“No, it’s vacant. A probate sale.”
“No one died here, did they?” I asked.
“Not that I’m aware of, now get out and open the gate. If a tractor comes, I’ll be blocking the road.”
I opened the car door and looked out; I didn’t want to step in a puddle of mud. I tested the ground and finding it firm enough, I climbed from the car with a huff. Those low down seats weren’t that easy to get out of. I opened the wooden gate and waited until Joe drove in. I left it open and walked the driveway to the cottage. I stopped about halfway and looked. It was chocolate box and, from the outside anyway, perfect. The cottage was rendered cream with wooden sash windows that I knew would need replacing and a thatched roof. On top of the roof was the tradesman’s mark, a fox chasing a rabbit. The straw looked patchy in places and obviously due for renewal.
Joe climbed from the car. “What do you think?” he called out.
I sighed dreamily. “It’s lovely, Joe. Needs some work, but beautiful.”
I walked back to the car and opened the door to grab my jacket and put it on before we walked around the side of the property. To the rear, there was a stone patio and then lawn. The garden was large and contained a handful of fruit trees. Beyond the garden were acres and acres of farmland. To one side was more farmland and to the other, the garden of the neighbouring property, although the property itself was shielded by trees.
We peered through the kitchen window. “It’s a renovation project, obviously,” Joe said.
“Obviously,” I replied, staring at a range of units that must have dated from the nineteen-fifties. There was a dresser, painted white with duck egg blue doors, and I remembered a similar one standing in my nan’s kitchen.
I did love the size of the garden. Having lived in London all my life, garden space was at a premium, and although I had a garden when I lived in the marital home, it was more a courtyard. I stared down towards the bottom where the range of fruit trees stood, wondering if I’d need a ride on mower. Or maybe a gardener.
The sound of a car heading up the driveway prompted us to walk back to the front of the property. A woman in heels that immediately sunk into the ground climbed from a smart and impractical white sports car.
“Bollocks,” she said, then looked up and smiled at us. “Sorry, be with you in a mo.” She reached into the car and pulled out some wellies, slipped them on, and then joined us.
“Joe, and you must be Lizzie?” she said, reaching out with her hand.
I shook it and was pleased that she addressed me first. It was clear that although Joe and Judy, as she introduced herself as, knew each other professionally, they didn’t have a friendship. Joe in business mode always made me smile. Even his tone of voice was different.
“Did you manage to look out back?” she asked.
“Only briefly, we got here just a few minutes ago ourselves,” I replied.
“Let’s get in, shall we? Joe, did I explain it was a probate sale?” she asked, and then a conversation ensued between them about the complications of such things. All I knew was that it meant someone had died, and the ‘estate’ was selling the property.
Judy produced a large old-fashioned key, and after a little jiggle and a kick to the front door, it opened. We were in a fairly large square hallway with the most wonderful ceramic tiled floor. An open staircase was to one side, and there were three doors off.
“We have a downstairs loo, but, as you can guess, there’s a fair bit of renovation to do here. Joe told me that you’d be up for a project.” I wasn’t sure where Joe had gotten that information.
“We have a nice sized living room with open fire and through the end door, the kitchen.”
We walked into the living room first, and I fell in love. Like the cottage in Scotland, this had beams across the wall and ceiling, a brick chimney with a grate and hearth. Although someone had put shelves in the alcoves, I could already picture the room stripped of the ghastly wallpaper, the brickwork cleaned, and the fire roaring.
“Is there any other form of heating?” I asked, not noticing a radiator.
“No, putting that in and updating the electrics would probably be the first investments I’d make. The lady that lived here had done so her whole life. There’s a lot of history in these beams.”
“Is the house listed?” Joe asked.
“No, thankfully, so there is a huge amount of potential, and of course, the price does reflect the level of work required.”
I popped my head into the downstairs loo and was surprised at the size. It wasn’t as awful as I was expecting; the traditional old lady style avocado coloured toilet and sink were still in place, and, hopefully, useable. The kitchen was larger than I’d first glimpsed with another open fireplace. I could imagine stylish new units with a seating area at one end of the room. I also thought it might be possible to knock right the way through and make it one very large space. The fact that I was planning suggested I was interested, and I chuckled. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself.
Upstairs there were three bedrooms and a bathroom, which obviously came from the same shop as the avocado loo downstairs. The walls were a dirty green, and it had a carpet that I didn’t want to walk on, but it wasn’t a bad size. There were two okay-sized bedrooms and one small.
Judy said, “I’d consider, and I think it would give more value, in making this a two bedroomed with en-suite to both and a dressing room to the main bedroom.”
“I thought it was cause for shooting to get rid of a bedroom,” I said, laughing at Joe’s wide eyes. In London, a box room was worth thousands, if not tens of thousands, in value.
“Out here, it wouldn’t reduce the value at all. Of course, the more bedrooms you have, the better, but you should be looking to resell this to potentially management-level London workers who have a short drive to the fast track train. They don’t care about an empty room; they want the mod cons.”
She had a point. More people were moving from London into its neighbouring counties and with a train just a short drive away that would have me in London in under twenty minutes. What she was saying made sense.
Judy added, “Of course, if you wanted to, you could extend. If I were buying this house to live in any length of time, I certainly would.”
“Lots of potential,” I said, as I made my way back down.
We didn’t bother with the backdoor; it appeared that Judy didn’t have a key, so we walked around the side.
“Not only do you have this, but the field beyond also belongs to this property. However, it has been, and continues to be rented out to the local farmer. It provides a small annual income, but more importantly, you get your logs for free, and he’s a brilliant handyman,” she said. “Easy on the eye as well,” she added, with a chuckle.
I rammed my elbow into Joe’s side to shut him up in advance of any cougar comments.
“I like it. I’m not sure about the level of work needed. But…there’s something about this property. It reminds me of one I visited in Scotland recently,” I said.
We decided to follow Judy to the second property, which was the other end of the village. We drove through the centre with its green, church, and importantly, a pub. There were a couple of local shops, a butcher and a baker, and I thought I saw a small café.
“This is gorgeous,” Joe said. “And an hour’s drive from me! I could come for weekends. Imagine sitting on the green with a pint watching the cricket.”
“I don’t like cricket or pints, but yes to weekends and gin and tonics. So, honestly, what did you think of that property?”
“It’s overpriced, and Judy knows that. The problem with a probate sale is if we’re only just out of probate the owners want the mo
st they can get, as time goes on, the prices tend to drop because they just want their money. It needs a good one hundred thousand spent on it, and I’m not convinced that you’ll make much back if you sold within three years. I also don’t go along with what she said about getting rid of a bedroom. It has potential, for sure, but we’d need at least eighty grand off that price. I think we’ll see that still for sale in six months time.”
The second property we approached was, again, set back from the road but completely different.
“Wow,” I said, as we came to a stop.
In front of me was a black wooden barn conversion. The central portion of the barn was floor-to-ceiling glass on both floors, and I spotted a galleried landing with a couple of sofa’s looking down on us. Excitement bubbled inside me.
We followed Judy into the central hallway, and I looked up at the eaves and those beams that I was beginning to yearn for. To one side was the living room, and I was thrilled to see an open fire. There was a central staircase and to the other side, the downstairs loo and smaller living room—the snug as Judy called it. We walked through the hallway to the kitchen diner. The back of the house opened up to a terrace via folding doors. I tried to keep my excitement in check. I didn’t want to tip Judy off to how much I loved the property. All thoughts of the renovation project went out the window. The barn was perfectly to my taste with its off-white painted walls, oak beams, stone floor, and modern kitchen and bathrooms.
“Heating?” I said, not seeing any radiators, again.
“Under floor,” Judy said. I slipped off a shoe to feel the warmth.
The upstairs had the three required bedrooms, one master with an en-suite and dressing room, and a family bathroom. I could move straight in. I walked around on my own, leaving Joe and Judy talking shop. For the second time since I’d become single, I felt positive about something. And I felt at home.
There was a lovely garden beyond the terrace, and like the previous property, fields to all three sides.
Limp Dicks & Saggy Tits Page 18