Finding Home

by Lauren Westwood

  ‘And is Fred doing… okay?’ I figure I can ask since she brought him up.

  ‘Yes, he’s good. He’s using his time inside to finish up a business plan for a new gallery we hope to open.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. The prison has a good library, and he’s making lots of good contacts.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, a bit less enthusiastically. ‘How interesting.’

  ‘We were both gutted to lose the flat in Bristol,’ Mary adds. ‘As soon as Fred’s out, I’ll ring you. We’d still love a flat like that – on a bit of a smaller budget.’ She winks.

  ‘Sure.’ I smile. She may have criminal associations, but still, I’d like to help her and Fred find their perfect ‘remand home’. I decide to come right out and ask her how her husband got into his – ‘business’.

  Mary sips her coffee thoughtfully. ‘Fred always loved art,’ she says. ‘Did you know – he studied to be a painter in Madrid.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. But he was rubbish at it. His flatmate had an uncle who was an artist. Tio Francisco. The uncle was a hero during the war – World War Two. He helped wealthy Jewish families smuggle their art to safety from the Nazis.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That is interesting.’

  ‘But after the war, Tio Francisco had to go back to more mundane things. Art smuggling and that sort of thing. He taught his nephew, Fred’s flatmate, the tricks of the trade. They started a business together.’

  ‘And it’s been… uhh… lucrative?’

  ‘No risk, no reward, Amy,’ she says good-naturedly. ‘Fred’s a good man. He sees it as his mission to help make sure great art gets appreciated.’

  ‘Umm... how’s that exactly?’

  ‘Well, let’s face it – who do you think will appreciate a great piece of artwork more – a collector who loves it and is willing to pay for it, or your average member of the public day-tripping through a museum?’

  ‘I admit I’ve never thought of it that way.’

  ‘It’s all a matter of perspective.’ She grins. ‘You say “tomato” and all that—’

  Just then, her phone beeps in her pocket. She rummages for it and frowns at the screen. ‘Sorry Amy, I should go. Flipping French postal workers – always striking when you need them.’

  I don’t dare ask her what she means. With a conspiratorial grin and a little wave, she walks briskly out of the café.

  *

  Everyone’s coffee is cold. Back at the office, I dole out the goods and collect money (today I end up short-changed by 22p). Mr Bowen-Knowles’s phone line is still lit and his muffled voice seems louder than usual. Meeting Mary Blundell was temporarily distracting, and it was interesting to hear about Fred’s art ‘career’. But I still have the Jack Faraday debacle to deal with. I sit down at my desk, skim through my emails, and wait for the inevitable to happen.

  The inevitable takes exactly seven minutes to occur. I’m sipping the last of my hot chocolate when Mr Bowen-Knowles’s door opens with a smack against the wall.

  I look up. He frowns at me with his usual irritated disdain.

  ‘You,’ he points, ‘in here.’

  I am thus summoned.

  All eyes are on me as I embark on the familiar walk of shame. Though the Christmas Party ‘incident’ has never been discussed, mentioned, or repeated, fleetingly, I wonder if my colleagues think I’m putting in a little ‘overtime’ behind closed doors.

  ‘Sit down.’

  I thus obey.

  He sits down opposite me, steeples his fingers, and frowns.

  ‘While you were out just now, Ian Kendall rang about Rosemont Hall. I understand you had quite a mix-up.’

  ‘Yes, you could say that.’ My anger begins to simmer. ‘But you could also say that the viewing was arranged under false pretences. I may not have the right accent, or have gone to the right schools, but my time is not worthless.’ I stare him boldly in the face. ‘Saturday was a waste of time – I’m hardly going to sell a property to someone who owns it already, am I? So if you or Mr Jack Faraday are unhappy with what happened – well…’ I stop just short of telling him where to go.

  Mr Bowen-Knowles sits back in his chair and appraises me. I furiously calculate the odds that his next words will send me packing. I’m too angry to care, although I do care – more than I want to – about a great many things.

  He makes me wait. His phone rings. He ignores it.

  ‘Jack Faraday would like you to ring him,’ he says. ‘I gather that he came over here to see the house before it’s sold and didn’t have a key.’

  ‘You said that Hexagon was sending someone around,’ I say heatedly in my own defence. ‘But no one’s rung me. I assumed that this Jack Faraday was their rep. It was an honest mistake.’

  He waves his hand. ‘Look, this “Mr Jack” is a moron – that’s obvious. I’m as annoyed as you are.’

  I doubt that, but I’m surprised that he’s taking my side.

  ‘You’ve done as well as could be expected – that old pile was never going to sell. And most importantly, you looked like you were doing your job.’

  ‘Oh...?’

  ‘Yeah. Mr Kendall rang to let us know that Hexagon came in with a formal offer this morning. It’s on the low side, but Mr Jack talked them up from the original figure. He’s going to accept it – cut his losses.’

  I wring my hands together, struggling to stay composed.

  Mr Bowen-Knowles fiddles idly with his cuff-link. ‘But because we did the viewings, we’re going to get partial commission. The Hexagon rep is going to ring to sort out the paperwork – I doubt he’ll bother to go round the place now. It’s now all down to the numbers, the plans, and, of course, the cash.’

  ‘I see.’ I stand up. ‘Thank you, Mr Bowen-Knowles. Thank you for telling me.’

  My chest aches and my breathing is shallow as I walk out of his office feeling like I’ve been diagnosed with a fatal disease. I grab my handbag from my desk and leave through the back door – desperate to get away from the office. There’s the Ronan Keene viewing in Bristol – but it’s not for several hours yet. I get in the car and start driving.

  As I leave Bath, I think of all the literary heroines I’ve encountered over the years. All of them had to cope with bad things happening – tension is a necessary part of good literature. I wonder if I’m an Elinor Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility. Even when she thinks she’s been jilted by Bingley, she bears her sorrows with a stiff upper lip. Or maybe I’m a Jane Eyre – she votes with her feet when she discovers that Mr Rochester already has a wife who is deranged and locked in the attic.

  I honk the horn hard at a lorry that is overtaking as two lanes merge into one. At least I’ve no penchant to be an Emma Bovary or Anna Karenina. Topping myself would be too messy.

  I drive on, but rather than take the turn-off to Bristol, I take a detour. To Rosemont Hall. If no one is there, I’ll just pop inside quickly and see if I can find my scarf.

  When I reach the gates I drive slowly, knowing this is my last visit here. I try to memorise the details and that first view of the house when the road tops the crest of the hill. The huge silhouette against the sky always makes my heart beat a little faster.

  But today, the view is marred by another huge silhouette: a removals lorry backed up to the front door. I slam on the brakes, skidding across the grassy verge.

  In addition to the removals van, there are two cars – Jack Faraday’s hired Vauxhall and Flora’s Mercedes. Two burly men are loading something heavy into the back of the lorry.

  I do a swift three-point turn and floor it back to the main road. Once I’m outside the twisted iron gates, I discover once and for all which kind of romantic literary heroine I would be: the kind who when faced with adversity, pulls her car over to a lay-by, puts her head against the steering wheel, and cries.

  *

  I may have lost both battle and war, but I still have a flat to show in Bristol. Maybe if I sell enough penthouse flats in Bristo
l to footballers, someday I’ll be able to afford a little flat in a historic house conversion next to a golf course.

  Perish the thought.

  While the car is stopped, I remember that I’m still supposed to ring Jack Faraday. I dig in my handbag, throwing out the contents on the seat. At the bottom, I find the yellow sticky with the information for the ‘Hexagon viewing’: Mr Faraday’s mobile number.

  Knowing that he’s busy directing removals men to bin his deceased relatives’ precious belongings lends me courage. I dial the number but nothing happens. I try again, adding a US prefix. The phone begins to ring.

  At first, the line clicks and I assume it’s going to voicemail. But a second later, his voice sends a very strong, very unwelcome surge of adrenalin through my body.

  ‘Jack Faraday.’

  ‘Oh, hello,’ I stammer. ‘It’s Amy Wood. The estate agent.’

  ‘Amy…’ His brusque tone becomes warm. ‘I’m glad you called.’

  ‘Mr Bowen-Knowles said you asked me to ring you?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I… just a second.’

  A commotion erupts in the background (a woman’s voice yelling: ‘No! The one with the sticker, not that old thing!’).

  The phone is then muffled. I wait.

  ‘Sorry, Amy,’ Jack says a moment later. ‘It’s not really a great time for me to talk, but listen, is there any chance you can come over to the house tonight? Say around seven?’

  I hesitate, wishing the blood would stop rushing in my ear. ‘I can do that,’ I say, ‘but I’m not sure—’

  A loud crash echoes in the background.

  ‘Shit!’ Jack’s voice. ‘Sorry Amy – did you say yes or no? I think you left your scarf here.’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘Great, I’ll see you around seven.’

  ‘But—’

  The line buzzes.

  I roll down the window to let in the cold air. The lay-by reeks of urine. A car whizzes past.

  Jack Faraday wants me to stop by so that he can return my scarf – nothing more, nothing less.

  So why are my palms clammy and I feel like I might hyperventilate?

  I should probably ring him back – tell him to give my scarf to the solicitor and take his lovely, ruined house and stick it somewhere unpleasant.

  But I do nothing of the sort. Instead, I put the phone away and drive off towards Bristol with a silly grin on my face.

  - 26 -

  The idea of seeing Jack Faraday again – even if it’s only for him to return my scarf – fills me with a guilty, thrilling terror. Despite my best efforts, he’s there in my mind, drifting just below my conscious thoughts. There was a spark there when we met; an understanding on some primordial level. It’s ridiculous; it’s annoying – and it’s incredibly distracting.

  When I meet Ronan Keene at the Bristol penthouse (this time with the right keys), I’m so on edge that I even greet Crystal with a friendly kiss on the cheek. She instantly stiffens – like I’ve mussed up her carefully applied foundation; but her bee-stung lips give a little smile: ‘How’ve ya been?’ she even asks (though she clicks off in her stilettos to send a text before I can answer).

  I’m pleasantly surprised when they both instantly like the flat: the building, the location, the view, the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. For me, it’s not the same buzz I had showing the flat to the Blundells, especially knowing how gutted Mary was that she and Fred had lost the flat. But it’s out of my hands, and all I can do is my job.

  Of course, there are quite a few things that Crystal finds fault with: the double-wide bathtub is too small; the carpet on the top floor is hideous beige (and ‘wouldn’t white look so much better?’); the alcove in the master bedroom is only big enough for a 72-inch screen rather than a custom home cinema. But overall, she’s much more enthusiastic than I’d expected.

  Ronan doesn’t say much, but I get the feeling he’s eager to end what must be a very painful search with Crystal in tow (‘I know it isn’t perfect, cupcake, but remember, we’ll only be here a few times a month anyway’).

  I praise the place to the moon, downplay the defects in grand Tetherington Bowen Knowles style, and eventually, leave them on the roof terrace mulling things over. I flop onto the ultra-chic cowhide sofa in the main living space to wait for them.

  My mobile phone rings: it’s Claire checking to make sure that I’m okay. She goes a bit quiet when I tell her where I am (keen clients being hard to come by). But she wishes me luck.

  Ronan and Crystal stay outside on the roof terrace for a long time. I check my watch – at this rate, I won’t even have time to go home and get changed before the evening. On the other hand, why should I? I’m wearing a nice suit, and I really don’t want to face my parents and their over-zealous questions about where I’m going, who I’m meeting (and whether he or she plays Scrabble). I even debate going back to the office – anything to get my mind off seeing Jack Faraday again.

  Finally, Ronan and Crystal come back inside and have another look around the downstairs. Ronan asks me a few questions about service charges, parking, council tax, and whether the furniture is for sale. I have a competent answer prepared for everything.

  ‘This place has given us a lot to think about,’ he says as we ride down the (newly replaced) lift. ‘We’ll definitely be in touch soon.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you.’

  We shake hands and go our separate ways. I grab a coffee at Costa and sit down at a little table. The clock on the wall reads 5 o’clock.

  Two hours to go before…?

  - 27 -

  I grip the wheel with sweaty palms as I pull up in front of Rosemont Hall. The lights are on downstairs, the windows glowing like jack o’ lantern eyes.

  The removals lorry and the Mercedes are gone, but the blue Vauxhall is still there. I park next to it but stay in the car, gathering my courage. When I finally do get out, my knees are so shaky that I can barely totter in my heels through the mucky gravel. I manage to make it up the cracked stone steps to the front door. Holding my breath, I ring the bell.

  Within seconds, the door opens. Jack Faraday’s smile has the air of amusement. His face is too craggy to be considered classically handsome, I suppose. His blue eyes are sharp and intelligent, and I feel like they could penetrate the fog of my deepest dreams. I immediately experience a stirring in parts of me that I thought were long dead.

  ‘Hi Amy.’ He holds out my scarf. My heart plunges – is that it then?

  He gestures for me to come inside. ‘Come on in – it’s freezing out there.’

  I put the scarf in the pocket of my coat and move past him into the great hall. In the centre, a table is set up with a white paper cloth and plastic plates for two. In the centre of the table is a large brown bag – the room smells of Chinese food. Two electric radiators stretched to the end of their electrical cords are set up at either end of the table.

  I stand there, stunned.

  ‘I wanted to apologise for offending you,’ Jack says. ‘I should have told you who I was right away. But by the time I realised that you thought I was someone else, it seemed too late to tell you. Besides…’ the laughter is back in his eyes, ‘it was interesting to see your sales technique.’

  ‘I should be the one to apologise. I had no right to say those… uhh… things.’

  He gives a little smirk and I blush. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘I hope we can call a truce. And do some damage to this Chinese takeaway.’ He grins. ‘I’m told it’s the best in Little Botheringford.’

  ‘You mean, the only.’ I automatically grin back. I’m tingling all over, and not just from the warmth of the radiators.

  ‘Can I take your coat?’

  ‘Thanks.’ I unbutton my coat and hand it to him. He hangs it on the newel post of the staircase, then gestures for me to take a seat.

  ‘Since you love this place so much, I thought we could have a picnic in here,’ he says. ‘Unfortunately, as you know, coo
king anything in the kitchen is out of the question. And as far as I can tell, there isn’t a supermarket for miles. Otherwise I would have whipped up my special chilli con carne, extra spicy.’

  ‘Do you like to cook?’ I ask, pleasantly surprised.

  ‘Sometimes. But nothing too fancy. I can do Mexican pretty well – that’s all in the sauce. And I like making Italian food with home-made pasta. And I live near the ocean, so I like making things with fresh fish. Anything seasonal, really. That’s the secret – fresh ingredients.’

  ‘I can make chicken curry,’ I say. ‘But that’s about it. When I lived in London, I did a lot of takeaway, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I understand that too. I don’t bother to cook when I’m working late, or when I’m eating alone.’

  Alone as in no wife or girlfriend? I can’t bring myself to ask. ‘And where is it that you live?’ I say instead.

  He rummages in the bag. A bottle of wine and two glasses appear in his hand.

  ‘California,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a nice Victorian house in a little town called Carmel-by-the-Sea. The house was built in 1899. Practically ancient – for California.’ He smiles. ‘It’s painted light green with dark green gingerbread trim. There’s a holly tree out in front that’s as old as the house. It’s trimmed in the shape of a bell. And from the top floors, you can see a little strip of ocean. There’s a balcony in front called a widow’s walk. It was built for a sea captain’s wife – so that she could go out and see if her husband’s ship had returned.’

  ‘It all sounds lovely,’ I say truthfully.

  ‘I thought you’d like to hear about the details. It shows that I’m not a complete architectural and historical Neanderthal, I hope.’

  ‘No,’ I risk a little laugh. ‘I guess I was wrong.’

  He opens the bottle of wine and pours some into a glass.

  ‘Your sister said that you’re in computers,’ I say. ‘And that you teach at Stanford. That’s impressive.’

  ‘Is it?’ He hands me a glass to taste. I sniff it like I know what I’m doing and then take a little sip and nod.