‘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 Designs’ 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.
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 some
thing. 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?
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