by Jess Ryder
I don’t know where to go. All the rooms are either cold, piled up with stuff or choking with plaster dust. I trail listlessly through the ground floor, opening doors and sniffing the air for a few seconds, then retreating. The house seems larger than ever, everything raw and exposed, no safe corners to hide in. I can’t go into the turret room because it’s next to where Lori’s sleeping – that’s her territory now.
To make matters worse, Alan doesn’t turn up for work on Monday morning. The Romanians are here at eight on the dot, but they refuse to start until they’ve seen ‘the boss’. Apparently he owes them money for last week. I call his mobile but he doesn’t pick up. Nor does he respond to my messages.
‘I think he must be ill,’ I say.
‘So now you pay us,’ replies their ringleader, a tall, thin man with a bald head.
‘Sorry, that’s not how it works. I pay Alan, he pays you.’
Miffed, they march into my kitchen and help themselves to coffee, leaning against the units and chatting in their own language. Somehow I know they’re talking about me. Where’s her husband? Why doesn’t he take charge? Lori tries to persuade them to carry on with the plastering, but they just shrug and dip biscuits into their mugs. I look on powerlessly from the doorway, wondering whether dunking is a Romanian habit or whether they’ve picked it up from the Brits.
‘If you don’t want to work, go home,’ she says, making the sort of shooing gesture I’d use to chase cats away. ‘Alan will call you.’
‘Need our money,’ the tall guy repeats.
‘I know, but you have to talk to him about that, not us.’
We try Alan again, but there’s still no answer. I’m starting to worry. He’s usually so reliable. In all the weeks he’s been working here, he’s hardly ever taken a day off, and even then, he told me about it in advance. This behaviour is very unlike him.
‘Do you know where he lives?’ asks Lori, once the Romanians have been persuaded to leave. ‘Maybe we should go round to his house and check. He might have had a heart attack or something.’
‘No, he never gave me his address.’
‘It must be on the building contract.’
I shake my head. ‘We never got round to doing one.’
My mind shoots back to the first time I met Alan. I can see him now in his navy overalls, standing on the doorstep with a notebook in his hand, sucking on the end of his pencil.
‘I understand you need a builder,’ he said, whipping out a card from his top pocket and handing it to me.
‘Oh. Um, yes … Did you see my advert?’
‘That’s right.’ He peered beyond me into the hallway. ‘This is a job and a half.’
I let him in and we walked from room to room as I tried to explain our vision for the ground floor.
‘Sounds lovely,’ he replied, ‘but you need to sort your basics out first.’
‘I know there’s a lot to do … How many guys do you have on your team?’
He laughed. ‘I’m a one-man band, me. I can do most things myself, but if I need to, I bring in specialists. I’m a lot cheaper than your big outfits with their VAT invoices and stuff.’
We carried on with the tour, coming back downstairs and going into the garden. He walked to the end and paced about for a few moments, looking up at the house and even peering into the shed.
‘I can see why you bought it,’ he said, tramping back through the overgrown grass. ‘It’s a beautiful house. I mean, it will be once you’ve done it up.’
‘Are you interested?’
‘Oh yeah, for sure. I love these kinds of projects. Much more interesting than a new-build. Only thing is, I can’t give you a fixed price. How long is a piece of string, eh? Tell you what. You pay me a weekly rate plus materials at cost. Seven hundred and fifty a week. Cash.’
‘Right, er, I don’t know, sounds good,’ I said, as waves of relief washed over me. ‘I’ll talk to my partner and be in touch.’
He grinned. ‘I can start as soon as you like. Just had a job cancel on me, so I’ve got a gap.’
Finally I had a solution. But when I told Jack over our takeaway that evening, he was less than convinced. ‘Cash only? The guy sounds like a crook. But that’s who you’re going to get if you put an ad in the Co-op. For God’s sake, what were you thinking?’
‘Look, I’m not saying he’s the world’s best builder, but he’s a really nice guy.’
He narrowed his gaze. ‘How old is he?’
‘I don’t know, in his fifties.’ I put down my fork. ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t fancy him! He’s old enough to be my dad.’ Jack huffed in disbelief. ‘Why are you being so snarky? I thought you’d be pleased. At least we can get started. Let’s give him a trial. One week. Please.’
He tutted. ‘Okay, but if it goes wrong, it’s your fault.’
‘He’s probably got the flu,’ says Lori, breaking into my thoughts. ‘He’s been looking very tired recently. Working too hard. Bit old for this lark.’
‘Has he ever mentioned a wife or a partner?’
Lori thinks for a few seconds. ‘Not that I can remember. I got the impression he’s divorced. Or a widower.’
‘I hope he’s okay.’ I look around at the vile kitchen, the sickly colours enough to turn my stomach. ‘The extension’s supposed to be starting soon. I can’t do without him.’
She knits her eyebrows at me. ‘Yes you can. Or rather, we can.’
I laugh. ‘We’re not builders, Lori.’
‘I know, but there’s plenty of general labouring stuff we can do while he’s off sick. The work doesn’t need to grind to a halt.’
Her words spark a small flame inside me. She’s right. We don’t have to hang around waiting for some man to lead the way. And it’s not as if I’m overburdened with other work. Doing some hard grafting on the house will take my mind off my troubles and be really useful and cost-saving. God knows how the budget is going; all I’ve done is take money out of the cashpoint and I’ve not kept proper track. If I can save a few pounds, so much the better.
‘I’m up for it, if you are,’ I say.
She nods eagerly. ‘That’s the spirit, love. Fuck men, eh? Who needs ’em?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Stella
Now
‘Jack? It’s me.’
‘Just a sec,’ he replies. I hear his footsteps crossing the room, a door closing, shutting me out from his new life. ‘What is it? Only I’m on my way out.’
The coldness in his voice shivers down the line. I lean against the headboard and pull the duvet over my legs. This is the first time we’ve spoken since he left, almost a week ago. It took all my courage to make this call and I can’t believe he’s already trying to end the conversation.
‘I’m just ringing to see how you are,’ I say limply.
‘I’m fine.’
And how are you, Stella? I silently reply on his behalf. I’m feeling really awful, actually. Missing you but also still furious. Lost. Disorientated. Dismayed. Confused.
But instead I say, ‘I was thinking, we should talk.’
He sighs. ‘What’s there to talk about?’
‘Everything!’
‘Everything?’ He laughs.
‘What’s so funny about that?’
I can hear him walking around, opening a drawer, the sounds muffled as he tucks the phone under his chin to heave on his coat. He’s behaving exactly as he does when his mother rings – refusing to stop and listen properly, multitasking because he’s not interested in what she has to say.
‘Please, Jack …’
‘Look, it’s simple. Get rid of that woman and then maybe—’
‘You’re hardly in a position to make demands,’ I cut in. ‘Anyway, this has nothing to do with Lori. Things were going wrong before that and you know it; she was just the spark that set things alight.’
He makes a noise in his throat. ‘Granted. But she hasn’t exactly helped.’
‘She’s not going anywhere for now.’
‘Okay. Then I’m not coming back.’
‘I don’t want you back,’ I snap. ‘Not at the moment, anyway. What you did was utterly appalling.’
He grunts again. ‘Whereas you, my darling, are perfect in every single way.’
‘Oh piss off, I didn’t say that. You’re deliberately misunderstanding.’ My pitch ratchets up a notch. ‘We’re not a couple of teenagers who’ve had a bit of a tiff. We need to talk things through, work out what we want to do. I’m happy to try couple counselling if you think—’
‘We don’t need counselling. Get rid of Lori, sell the house and come back to London. We should be able to afford a two-bedroom flat in Stokie.’
‘I don’t want a two-bedroom flat. I want to be here.’
Stalemate. Silence.
‘This is not about where we live, or the money; it’s about our relationship,’ I say, my voice trembling with anger.
‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’ Another pause. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, I’m meeting the guys. It’s comedy night at the Brakspear, remember?’ Yes, I remember. It was a regular haunt of ours – loads of our mates would turn up and we always had a laugh, regardless of the quality of the acts.
‘Enjoy the show,’ I say, lacing my words with sarcasm, and end the call.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I put my boots on and stand up. I’m shaking with fury. I reach for my coat and check that my keys are in the pocket. As I leave the room, Lori is coming down the stairs with a tray of dirty mugs from our day’s work.
‘Going out?’ she says.
‘Yup, need some fresh air.’ I fasten my coat, cursing as the zipper catches.
Her eyes scan my face. Even in this dim light she can see that I’ve been crying. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Not really. Just spoken to Jack. He’s being such a knob.’
‘That’s men for you.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Darren, Jack … even Alan has let us down.’
‘Yeah …’ I agree uneasily. I’ve never been one to make sweeping statements about the inadequacies of the male species, although the men in our lives do seem to be behaving spectacularly badly. ‘What’s the latest with Darren? You haven’t mentioned him for ages.’
‘Er … nothing to report. Same old, same old.’ She makes to move towards the kitchen.
‘What does that mean?’ I pull on a woolly hat. ‘Is he in calling-you-a-slag mode or begging you to come home?’
‘A bit of both.’
She edges past me with the tray and my gaze follows her into the kitchen. She’s been very vague about Darren recently. She no longer seems convinced that he’s lying in wait outside, or driving around Nevansey hoping to find her, and yet she still refuses to leave the house. Maybe she’s agoraphobic, I think, as I open the front door and breathe in the cool, briny air. I couldn’t stand being cooped up for weeks on end; it would drive me crazy.
A light, cold rain is falling. Droplets of icy water spatter my cheeks as I cross the road and walk towards the beach, stuffing my hands into my pockets, my fingers curled into tense fists.
The steps down to the promenade are slippery with algae. I walk a few yards, then stop by the huts, turning to stare out to sea, but it’s too dark to see anything. A swathe of blackness stretches before me. The tide is so far out, I can barely hear the waves slapping against the mud. To my right, the distant lights of the pier twinkle like a diamond necklace thrown into the sea. The land on my left rises to a peak and then stops abruptly. There’s nobody around, not even a dog walker. I can sense the darkness creeping up behind me, placing its hand on my shoulder.
Would I miss all this bleak nothingness if I sold Westhill House and moved back to London? I transplant myself for a moment – standing on the Tube, sweaty in my winter coat, negotiating busy pavements with an umbrella, always nearly late or unsure where I’m heading, checking Google Maps and trying not to get my phone nicked by some kid on a moped. Or driving down congested roads looking for parking spaces that don’t require a permit, reversing into blind spots, edging into streams of traffic, dodging reckless pedestrians and mad lane-changers, being beeped because I’m a second late responding to a green light. And that’s just getting around, let alone the unaffordable cost of living, dealing with people trying to rip you off left, right and centre. Just thinking about it makes my head pound.
I didn’t realise how much I hated all that stress until we came here; I couldn’t return to the city now. But Jack never wanted to move in the first place; he only did it to please me. I could tell that he was really happy to be back in familiar surroundings, with the regular crowd, doing the things he used to do – that we used to do. He didn’t seem to be missing me at all.
Surely our relationship is more important than where we live? He’s made his position very clear, and yet I feel unable to leave this place. There’s a story that hasn’t been fully told, secrets yet to be revealed. I didn’t choose to live here – the house chose me. It won’t let me leave until the job is finished, and maybe not even then.
* * *
There’s been no word from Alan all week, despite my leaving countless messages on his voicemail and bombarding him with texts. I nearly called the police to report him missing, but after the recent embarrassment over the fake burglary, I decided not to bother them. How do you know if somebody’s missing if you don’t know where they’re supposed to be?
‘We have to face it, he’s done a bunk,’ Lori says as we begin our second week without him. ‘How much did you pay up front?’
‘Nothing. I paid him weekly. Plus materials, of course.’
She fills a large bucket with soapy water. ‘Did he give you receipts?’
‘Um … a few. He was really good at first, but I haven’t had any for weeks. I assumed he was just saving them up.’ I blush, realising how stupid that makes me sound.
‘Hmm … So you don’t know if he actually bought the stuff.’
‘Well he obviously bought some stuff – plasterboard and electric cable, that sort of thing. But he seemed more interested in demolition than building.’ I reach for the plastic box of scrubbing brushes and old cloths, thinking of the thousands I’ve paid out in small denominations over the past few months. Fifty quid for this, a hundred for that … It all adds up.
Lori twists her mouth. ‘And you paid him cash in advance to give to the Romanians?’
I nod, chewing my lip. I don’t want to believe that Alan was cheating me, but it’s looking more and more likely. The plasterers came knocking last Friday, having failed to find him themselves. They almost frogmarched me to the bank and made me hand over the cash they claimed they were owed.
‘There must be some explanation,’ I say. ‘Perhaps he decided it was too big a job and was embarrassed to admit it. Or maybe his mother’s been taken ill suddenly—’
‘He told me his mother had died,’ she interrupts, tying her hair back and covering her head with one of my scarves. We’re working on the floorboards today. They’re coated in ancient lino glue and bits of dried plaster, full of holes and spiky with old nails. I want to sand and seal them eventually, but they might not be in good enough condition to save.
‘I don’t understand it,’ I sigh. ‘I liked Alan; so did you, Lori. He was sweet. He made you sandwiches every day and gave you all those things for your room. I’m not giving up on him yet.’
‘Sounds like how I used to be with Darren,’ she says. ‘Always making excuses for him.’
I give her a piercing look. ‘But not any more?’
She shrugs. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll never escape from him. He’ll get me in the end.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘It’s true, Stella. Sad to say, but true.’ A dark cloud crosses her face for a moment, then she picks up the heavy bucket and goes upstairs.
We work hard every day, on our hands and knees, digging out nails, scraping away gunge, chipping off the plaster. It feels odd not to hear the strains of Alan’s seventies chart music reverber
ating through the empty rooms, his voice singing slightly out of tune. I put my phone on maximum volume, but Lori doesn’t appreciate my playlist – either the music’s too dreary or it gives her a headache. Instead we work in companionable silence, broken every so often by Lori’s questions about my childhood, my parents, how I met Jack, what I want to do with my life. Sometimes it feels like she’s interviewing me for a job, or I’m talking to a counsellor. She never offers her own experiences in return, or expresses an opinion. I feel as if she’s siphoning me off, piece by piece, and storing me in her brain. There are moments when I want to unburden myself, tell her the shameful truth that not even Jack knows, but the story is buried so deep, I’m unable to dig it out.
Since Jack left, we’ve taken to eating together in the evenings. We’re still on the ready meals and takeaways – after a hard day’s grafting, neither of us is interested in cooking. We eat in my room, using the desk as a dining table. It’s warmer than sitting in the conservatory and I quite like the company. Last night I invited her to watch a film on the laptop, and we sat on my bed groaning, laughing and weeping at Mamma Mia!
Jack would never have agreed to watch such ‘dross’, as he would have called it. I miss him, and yet I don’t miss him. Life’s simpler now I’m no longer creeping around trying to keep him happy. But the space next to me in the bed feels bigger with every passing night. Sometimes I forget that he’s not there and reach out to touch him. I’ve turned the alarm clock off, but still wake up at half six, expecting to hear him moving around the bedroom as he gets dressed in the dark.
It’s Thursday, early evening, when we hear the knock at the door. We’re in my room – Lori’s halfway through a shepherd’s pie and I’m tackling a rather slippery lasagne.
‘Who could that be?’ I say, putting down my fork.