Escape to Honeysuckle Hall

by Rebecca Raisin

  ‘Let’s get these boxes inside – my arms are about to drop off,’ Maya says.

  I find the key, a brass antique barrel type, and open the cottage door. I’m immediately assailed by a fusty scent of times gone by, a musty dustiness like the smell of old books. That is until we get closer to the kitchen, where the smell becomes pungent as if something curled up and died here. Well you can’t have everything! Still, it’s enchanting, like opening the proverbial Pandora’s box – what will I find here? – but I can see by the scrunched-up look on Maya’s face she doesn’t feel the same.

  She puts the box on the floor, making dust motes dance. ‘Wow, Orly, when you said rustic I didn’t think you meant quite like this …’ She coughs as if suddenly allergic to change. ‘There’s a stench that implies there’s a dead body hidden somewhere.’ She grimaces. I’m hoping it’s just the dirty carpet that’s soaked up years’ worth of stench and not an actual dead body. Surely the property report would have mentioned a bonus cadaver …?

  I laugh at the shock in Maya’s eyes and gaze around the damp, squat cottage but only see potential. Sure, it’s not quite the London luxury apartment I’ve come from – on first glance, the mould needs urgent attention, the fireplace mantle needs replacing, there’s cracks in the walls and the plaster needs to be redone – but it’s exactly what I wanted. A fresh start. A blank canvas.

  ‘You said it needed slight cosmetic work! It’s like we’ve gone back in time.’ Mouth puckered, Maya goes from room to room in the small box of a cottage. There’s detritus of squatters: empty cans of food, beer bottles, and also flattened pillows, rugs and piles of clothing as if they were moved on quickly and didn’t have time to collect their booty. ‘There’s no walk-in wardrobe?’

  I’ll have to get myself an armoire, and cull some more clothes. ‘You’re such a Londoner!’

  ‘So are you, Orly! I’m worried. You’re walking around with this big dazzling smile on your face like you’ve just stepped into an abandoned mansion or palace or something with a bag full of money for renovations, when in reality this little cottage is a disaster. I don’t want to even think about the hall. And then there’s setting up a brand-new business all by yourself, in the middle of nowhere—’ Maya’s positivity flies out the window because of the state of the cottage, but I know, I know, it’s not going to be a huge job to fix it. It’s going to be a dirty job, but that I can handle.

  ‘It’s Kent – that’s not exactly Timbuktu.’ And that’s exactly what I’m going for – change!

  She scrutinises me with her doctor face on. ‘You said it only needed a lick of paint, some new décor …?’

  ‘It’s all structurally sound, despite how it looks. Trust me, I’ve had it well checked over. You need to see the bigger picture – look past the mess and the dust, the god-awful smell, and see what I see.’

  There’s a confidence running through me that I can’t explain. And I want to reassure her but I can’t wipe the grin off my face, which does sort of make me look demented. I don’t care there’s no walk-in wardrobe; I don’t care about the size of the cottage or the fact that it’s not plush. ‘There’s hard work to be done, stuff I have no idea about, but I’m a fast learner, Maya, and this is all part of the dream.’ If the hall and cottage had been immaculate, it would have been well out of my budget. If this is the only way I can have my grand property in the country, then so be it.

  But maybe I won’t shock her with a tour of the outside just yet. The grounds are wild after being abandoned by the gardener. But with some lawnmowing, rubbish removal, and a general tidy-up it won’t take long to bring it back to life. While gardening is a world away from my previous work, I can’t wait to get started. The only greenery I had in London was my bonsai tree, and I killed that with kindness and a little overzealous pruning, but I have faith I can improve.

  She stares at me like I’ve got bananas for brains, so I continue to woo her with my vision. ‘Fixing it up will be a labour of love. And so what if I live in a dingy squat for a while? There’s open space here, green grass, hikes to take, water to swim in. A different outlook while I make a business plan and sort out the next stage of my life. My exciting new life!’

  She takes a deep breath like she wants to believe me.

  I give her a loose hug. ‘I’m not having a breakdown, promise. I’m restructuring the best way I know how. And I know it looks bad, but once I dump the junk, fill up those cracks and flick some paint on the walls, this place will be a cosy little haven. Just you wait and see.’

  I have YouTube tutorials and enthusiasm!

  I see myself being cocooned here, and for the first time in ages, not having to answer to anyone except myself. There’s such a freedom in that, I don’t think Maya quite understands.

  She raises a brow. ‘Your optimism is scary.’

  ‘Thank you. Are you going to stay for dinner?’

  With a glance to the kitchen that needs a good degreasing and possibly updated cabinets, she says, ‘I’ll take a rain check. Salmonella is not my style.’

  ‘How do you know if you haven’t tried?’

  Her eyes go wide.

  ‘I’m joking. Joking.’

  ‘It’s just a big leap, Orly. From high-flying executive, to … this.’

  ‘Hush your mouth. You’ll see – when you next visit this will be spick and span and you’ll eat off the floor.’ I can’t help feeling a little rankled Maya isn’t being supportive. I know it’s only because she’s concerned, but I’d hope she knows me well enough to trust my judgement. Unless I really am losing the plot and I’m the only one who doesn’t see it …

  ‘I bloody well hope you’ll spring for plates, but let’s take one day at a time, eh?’

  I grin as Maya rubs her hands on her skirt and looks for an exit. ‘Thanks for helping me move, but you better get back. Beat the traffic and all.’ I want to put the poor girl out of her misery.

  ‘Quite right. I’ll be … back when I can.’

  I swallow a lump in my throat. It’s really real now. ‘I’m looking forward to your next visit already.’

  ‘Aww, Orly.’ She envelops me in a hug. ‘It’s going to be great. Even though I think you’re a little bit crazy. I know that you have the unique ability to see the good when others can’t. And if you see this place as a rough diamond then I know it’ll sparkle very soon.’ There’s the Maya I know.

  ‘Thanks darling.’ I hug her tight and walk her to the car. Waving, she takes off leaving nothing but a trail of gravel dust behind her and a belch or two from Rita for good measure.

  I ignore the shake in my legs as I walk back into the little damp cottage. I ignore the panic as I survey the griminess inside. I’m going to have to get used to these waves of emotions, the ups and downs of starting over. Maya’s right about one thing: I don’t have buckets of money if something goes wrong.

  By the time I sold my share in Excès and paid my bills and taxes, there wasn’t quite as much left in the coffers as I’d hoped, hence the need to buy a property with an eye-watering mortgage that’s a little beaten down by life – just like me. We both just need a bit of time, attention and TLC to get back on track. The pressure is on to get this place up and running, or I’ll lose everything.

  The removals team arrive and I ask them to put only my bed, the sofa, and a couple of boxes marked ‘kitchen’ and ‘clothing’ in the cottage, the rest of my things I send to the hall. Firstly, the cottage is too grimy and secondly, I’m just not sure the furniture from London quite suits this new life.

  As daylight fades and the distance between me and Maya lengthens, a sort of panic starts. The what ifs bombard me. What if this is a huge mistake? What if my adventure camp fails? What if the cottage is haunted? What if …?

  Wine time.

  I hunt through a box and find a bottle and a glass and head to the kitchen to open it. The bench is in need of a good clean and declutter. There’s a notepad open so I take a look to see what the last occupant wrote; that’s my jam, long-lo
st letters that speak of other lives and times.

  Take your business elsewhere.

  Wow. Not the kind of thing I usually find, that’s for sure. My mind spins with possibilities. Did the squatters leave it for the realtor because they didn’t want to lose their free home? Maybe the realtor left it for the squatters? Or perhaps someone wrote it for me? What a ridiculous thought. I really am losing it!

  But suddenly, I have a full crisis of confidence and flee from the kitchen back to the living room.

  I trip over my handbag strap that dangles from one of the boxes and it flies onto the rotting wood of the floor, contents spilling while I stumble forward and land hard against the wood cladding of the wall, leaving a human-sized print in the grime.

  Maya should have had me sectioned before letting me ruin my life in such a spectacular way! I’m going to be one of those old ladies who live in a derelict cottage with an overrun garden that children run past in fear, believing the occupant to be a witch! I’m doomed, I’m—

  ‘No, no, no!’ a shrill voice admonishes and I turn, startled that someone’s wandered into my home uninvited. A small sixty-something woman with grey-black hair stares back me her eyes wide. ‘Don’t put your purse on the floor, or you’ll be poor!’

  ‘I’m already poor!’ I’m the queen of making poor choices all of a sudden. This is why it’s easier to be a yes person. My earlier confidence has vanished just as fast as Maya did, screaming off down the A2 with nary a glance behind …

  ‘Didn’t your mother teach you anything?’ The woman seems actually offended by the fact I’ve knocked my purse on the floor. I’m not thrilled either; it’s an exquisite, hand-sewn, vintage little number and the carpet here is of dubious cleanliness, but hey, I’m not going to lose my head over it.

  ‘Well …?’ she prompts and shakes her head while I stand frozen to the spot.

  ‘Who are you?’ And why are you in my house!

  ‘Esterlita, your neighbour. They call me the Firecracker.’ She gives me a proud smile.

  ‘Erm … nice to meet you, Esterlita.’ I can’t even have a private panic attack – so much for all the space to roam in the country!

  ‘Are you going to pick up your purse?’ She folds her arms and waits.

  ‘OK.’ There’s something about the woman that makes me duly comply. I pick up my purse and dust it off. ‘Happy?’ The heck does she care so much for?

  She rolls her eyes dramatically as if I’m the densest person on the planet and then flings herself on my sofa with its pristine whiteness that suddenly looks so out of place in the run-down cottage. ‘The damage may still be done, but hey, it’s your life.’

  ‘The damage? My purse is fine.’

  ‘It’s not the purse itself, it’s a Filipino thing … never mind.’ She waves me away. ‘What brings you to Eden Hills?’

  ‘A change of scene.’ I busy myself with the box in front of me, making a show of dragging it close to the bench as if I’m about to unpack and clearly don’t have time for a visitor. Actually, I’m doing no such thing until this place is spick and span. I huff and puff like the big, bad wolf and when I sneak a glance, my new neighbour is still sitting there regally, placid as anything.

  ‘Marriage break-up?’ she probes, pulling a pair of specs on as if she’s about to knuckle down to an interrogation. I’m waiting for a spotlight to blind me, which will force me to confess or something. Really, who is this pocket-sized woman and why am I allowing her to sit on my sofa as if I’m visiting her?

  ‘No, no, nothing like that.’ Sweat beads. ‘Look, if you don’t mind I’ve got a lot of unpacking to do and I better crack on.’

  ‘Oh, no problem. Let me help.’ She bounds up and starts rummaging in the box in front of her. The box that just so happens to house my underwear. ‘Ooh, pretty. You will definitely find a new man wearing this! Ooh la la.’ Esterlita holds the teddy against her body and sashays around the small room. It’s so outlandish I can’t help but laugh. Perhaps she’s just a lonely old lady whose boredom drives this kind of behaviour? I’m used to Londoners who don’t show emotion easily and usually have a healthy-sized wall up so we don’t have to have strange encounters like this. Maybe it’s a country thing?

  I gently prise the lacy garment from her hands. It had been a present from Harry, and one I’ve never worn. Give me flannelette PJs any day. I guess I’m built for comfort not style.

  ‘I don’t need a man, but thank you.’

  ‘Bosh! Of course you do! You can stay home and have the babies!’

  The babies. ‘Not going to happen, Esterlita.’ I gulp at my wine and look for a clean spot to place my glass.

  Cue yet another dramatic eye roll from the Firecracker. ‘Girly,’ she tuts. ‘Have you ever thought you might be doing life wrong? What’s the point of living if you don’t have a man?’

  I cross my arms in a very British fashion to convey I’m absolutely livid at her intruding into my life like this.

  For some reason Esterlita doesn’t seem to pick up on this and continues, unabashed. ‘For lovemaking, foot massages, and washing your hair, eh? If you find the right one, they can be very artistic when it comes to painting your nails; they have steadier hands, don’t you know, eh? My Edward, God rest his soul, used to do this thing with his—’

  Visions flash of her Edward and I cut her off before she says something that I can’t unhear. ‘Actually, Esterlita, I’m on a sabbatical from men at present so I can focus on my career.’ My career?! More like my hastily made escape …

  ‘Oh?’ she lifts brow. ‘What do you do?’

  I double blink. ‘I … I … I’m restructuring my life, I’m realigning …’

  ‘You’re unemployed?’

  Blimey. ‘Yes, yes, I am.’

  She claps her hands. ‘Perfect! That frees us up to find you a man. You want a rich one? Older maybe? Not as spirited …’ She waggles her brows and it’s all I can do not to laugh. I have no idea what to say and how to extricate myself from this whole slapstick scenario. She can’t be for real, surely?

  ‘I don’t want any man, truly. I have a plan and I’m working through the steps to achieve it. And nowhere on that plan is there room for a relationship.’ Who has the energy for such things? My poor heart hurts just thinking about it. Harry’s off gallivanting around all the posh establishments in London with Carly C and I’m … here. Hoping to maybe eat cold beans from a can, if I actually packed any.

  It’s kind of impossible not to know their whereabouts since they’re snapped by the paps every day, their faces splashed across tabloids and social media. Knowing Harry, he tips them off himself! It does make moving on hard when you see your former fiancé locking lips in a very public display of affection, and yet the cold fish was never quite as amorous with me in public, saying we had our reputations to consider, like we were in a Jane Austen novel or something.

  ‘Ah.’ She continues rummaging through my underwear as if she’s searching for something in her size. ‘So he broke your heart and you’re running away and now you’re just going to give up on life and become a recluse? Take up bird-watching? Start collecting stamps, eh? Sink into the sofa and watch reality TV marathons? Go on long hikes to nowhere and never return?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with collecting stamps.’ I bristle.

  Laughter barrels out of her. ‘Let’s get you unpacked and you can tell me all about the swine and what he did to you.’

  For some inexplicable reason, the eccentric Firecracker somehow puts me at ease, even as she’s going through my things as if they’re hers and giving me advice based on the fact she’s known me for all of five minutes.

  We bond. It could be the fact she’s the only one brave enough to hang out in my decaying cottage. I tell her the whole sorry story including the fact that Harry and Carly C are now perceived as the darlings of the London social scene and I’m just a footnote. I’m not usually so open, but somehow this feels right.

  ‘Carly C’s album launch propelled her furthe
r into the stratosphere, and her metaphorical “call to arms” for women to join together and stamp out oppression worked. Somehow stealing someone else’s man doesn’t apply to her, although he’s the one who was engaged, so really, it’s on him, but still …’

  ‘Oh, my darling girl. What you need is revenge. And I don’t mean paying for a hitman – unless that’s what you want …?’ There’s a sparkle in her eye that slightly worries me, as if she hopes I’ll say yes. I hastily shake my head no. ‘OK, well in that case, if a hitman is off the cards, I guess you also won’t want him roughed up?’

  I double blink. ‘No, no roughing up.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. And no hate mail?’ She looks under her lashes at me.

  I frown. ‘No hate mail.’

  ‘No break and entry, no graffiti, no smashing of plates and crockery?’ She stares me down and I let out a nervous laugh and look for the exit. ‘OK, I’m not suggesting any of that if that’s what you’re thinking. The best revenge is taking charge of the next chapter and showing the world you don’t need him; that you’ve never needed him.’

  ‘I don’t think I ever even had him, Esterlita. It must’ve been all in my imagination.’ When I left London, I felt on fire, inspired, ready to take on the world, but now I’m here, away from all I know, I’m a little more doubtful. Maya’s reaction worries me. What if I’ve made a mistake? ‘I managed to wrap up my entire life in about six weeks and it’s only now I’m wondering if I acted on impulse. Usually, I’m the problem-solver, and I’m good with contingency plans, so how could I have upset my whole life like this without thinking it through?’

  I’m going to be alone and bankrupt – what a combo.

  ‘You’ve been here a few hours and you’re giving up. Already?’ She shakes her head. ‘No, not on my watch. You’re going to throw on some of those barely-there excuses for underwear, pull out the sequins, slip on the stilettos and start living for the moment, not for the past.’