by Pippa Wright
‘Dirty?’ I echo. I have the uncomfortable sense that I may have fallen on my own sword here.
‘You’re trying to drive him out, aren’t you?’ says Prue, hands on hips. ‘I know your game, you were just like this when we shared a room. You think if you make it all horrible he’ll just leave. Well, he won’t.’
I start laughing at the idea that my cunning plan has been so woefully misunderstood, but I realize that to say it out loud – the house is dirty because I am training your future husband – cannot help but sound very wrong indeed. Prue has always resented any influence from me. In fact, it wouldn’t be too much to say that her entire puritanical streak may have been formed primarily by her efforts to be as unlike me as possible.
‘Oh you can laugh,’ says Prue. ‘But you won’t drive him out of the house. No matter how filthy you are.’
‘Filthy!’ I say. ‘Jeez, Prue, it’s your stupid fiancé who doesn’t even know how to put a plate in the dishwasher. I’m not filthy; I’m just not cleaning up after him. And if that’s a crime then you can put the handcuffs on me right now, officer.’
Mum looks relieved. ‘Oh dear, is that how it is? I must admit I did wonder, you’ve always been so neat and tidy.’
‘Could never even put a bloody cup down at yours without you running for a coaster,’ Dad offers from his corner of the room, as if this is a helpful comment.
‘I haven’t complained about Ben coming to live with me,’ I say to Prue, ‘but I’m not going to run around after him with a dustpan and brush like his mother.’
‘It’s not like you’ve got anything else to do,’ mutters Prue.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Girls,’ admonishes Mum.
But Prue can’t stop herself. ‘It’s not like you’re doing anything else, is it? Ben’s here helping out with the family business – a family business you’ve never taken even the slightest interest in, I might add. He’s planning a wedding, he’s moving his entire life here. And what are you doing? Hanging out in cafes with old ladies. Oh yes, I saw you with old Mrs Klepto Curtis at the Bay Tea Shoppe.’
‘Klepto Curtis?’ I ask, looking from Prue to my mother.
Mum interrupts. ‘Prue, really, it’s not nice to speak about Mrs Curtis like that. She is not a kleptomaniac.’
‘Mum,’ says Prue, throwing herself down onto her office chair. ‘She stalks tourists around town nicking free teas off them all summer long. Someone even made a complaint to the police in June.’
‘She doesn’t actually steal anything though,’ insists Mum. ‘She’s just a confused old lady.’
‘She doesn’t seem all that confused,’ I offer. She seemed sharp as a tack to me, to tell the truth.
‘Stop changing the subject,’ says Prue. ‘The point is that everyone else is working their arses off right now, and you’re just swanning around town doing absolutely nothing. Would it kill you to be a bit understanding of how busy Ben is? Maybe he doesn’t have time to, like, scrub down the taps to your satisfaction.’
‘I’m not doing nothing,’ I say.
‘Yeah?’ Prue sneers at me. ‘Go on, what are you up to then? What’s taking up all your time? Walking the dog? Thinking deep thoughts while you look out to sea? Don’t think we haven’t all noticed your French Lieutenant’s Woman impressions. Everyone’s seen you.’
I take a sharp breath in. It is typical of Prue that she should so ruthlessly and accurately summarize my aimless wanderings. I cannot deny that my daily schedule of dog walking and tea drinking doesn’t stand up to outside scrutiny. I’m not getting over anything. I’m just wasting time.
Dad’s head lifts up from his computer, waiting to hear my answer, and even Mum doesn’t instantly leap to my defence, which means that they must in some way agree with Prue. Let’s face it, even I agree with Prue. But if she thinks I’m about to admit it, she is very much mistaken.
‘I’m decorating Granny Gilbert’s bungalow, actually,’ I say, lying quickly. ‘I spoke to the estate agent about it.’
I can only hope Prue doesn’t end up confirming this conversation with the estate agent as, while he would agree that we spoke about decorating, he would no doubt tell her, truthfully, that I had scoffed at the idea of doing it myself. We had decorators do our place in London, and my knowledge of DIY starts and ends at pointing to a colour chart to indicate which shade someone else should paint my walls.
But even as the words leave my mouth, I realize that this could be a great idea. I need a focus for my restless mind, and perhaps this will be it.
‘You? Decorating? When did you decide this?’ demands Prue.
‘Um, recently?’ I say. ‘Very recently.’ Like, five minutes ago.
‘Well,’ she folds her arms across her chest. ‘You should have discussed it with me first. Granny Gilbert left that place to both of us. You can’t go round painting it all weird colours and stuff. I mean, you’re all depressed, you’d better not go doing the walls in black or anything.’
‘Who says I’m depressed?’ I ask.
‘No one, darling,’ says Mum, quickly enough that it’s obvious she thinks I am.
‘Well I’m not. And I’m doing this for our benefit, Prue, actually.’
‘How?’ says Prue.
‘Well,’ I am clearly going to have to freestyle this, but as I do, the mission becomes clearer and clearer, as if I truly had given it a great deal of thought and preparation. ‘The estate agent said that Granny Gilbert’s house might sell if it gets a bit of a facelift. And couldn’t you and Ben do with the money for your deposit?’
I don’t add that I could do with the money myself. My savings are running low, and there’s no telling how long it will take for Matt and me to divide our assets. Granny Gilbert’s bungalow isn’t going to make anyone a fortune, but if it was sold at last the profit could be enough to give me a fresh start.
‘You don’t have the first clue what you’re doing,’ says Prue. ‘What if you make it worse?’
I glare at her.
‘Girls,’ says Mum, again. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea, Kate, darling. And you are very clever to have thought of it. And Prue, I think as Kate is doing this partly for your benefit, you might have a quiet word with Ben about tidying up after himself. After all, the estate agents could send someone round to the house at any time.’
Dad snorts behind his computer. ‘Going to take more than paint to shift that place,’ he says.
‘Shut up, Dad,’ says Prue, on my side for once. ‘I could invest my half of that money in this place. Actually put some of my plans into action.’
Dad looks alarmed. ‘Already? Aren’t you too busy with the wedding to start changing Baileys’ right this second? I thought we’d agreed to take it all slowly?’
‘You know my primary focus is always the business,’ says Prue, her chin set determinedly. Dad looks over at the bridal magazines and her eyes follow his pointed gaze.
‘There’s a reason they call it the wedding industry, Dad,’ she says. ‘That is research. You won’t be making that face when Baileys’ has a piece of the pie.’
She catches a glance between Mum and Dad.
‘Pie. Wedding cake. Whatever. You’ll see. I have plans for all of us.’
None of us doubts it for a moment.
While Prue and Dad debate the future of Baileys’, I take the opportunity to check my emails on Ben’s computer. But he is back from the shops with the milk before I can do anything more than see that Matt has sent me an email every single day since I left, and so has Sarah.
I select all and delete the lot. I have come to Lyme for a fresh start. It will do me no good at all to wallow in the past.
18
When Ben gets back from work, he stands with the front door open, his jaw hanging and the key still held in his extended hand. The hall floor is hidden underneath a patchwork of Granny Gilbert’s old floral bed-sheets, in one corner of which Millie has made herself a nest to sleep in. The fringed lampshade has disappear
ed and a bare bulb swings from the ceiling like in a prison cell. From my vantage point at the top of a stepladder, Ben’s face is a comical sight. It’s good to know that he is capable of expressing an emotion other than just hearty affability.
‘Hi, Ben,’ I wave from near the ceiling, and he looks up at me with wide eyes.
‘Wow, Kate, what have you done?’ he asks.
‘What does it look like?’ I say, chirpily, brandishing the wallpaper stripper I’ve hired from the DIY shop in Axminster. ‘Time to make some changes here, don’t you think?’
Ben’s forehead wrinkles. ‘Do you know how to use that thing?’ he asks, nodding at the machine in my hand.
‘Oh yes,’ I lie, pressing it against the wall so that clouds of steam obscure me from view. I can hear a violent bubbling inside the machine, but it’s okay. I checked with the man at the shop and he told me it won’t burn me; but it might sound quite bad if I use it wrongly. Which is perfect.
Ben drops his bag to the floor and takes off his coat, shutting the door behind him. ‘Ah, Kate, I’m not sure you’re meant to just hold it in one place like that,’ he says.
‘No?’ I ask, innocently, turning around so that the steam billows towards him.
‘No,’ he says, holding his hands up in front of his face. ‘Seriously, have you done this before?’
‘Well, not exactly,’ I admit, pushing my damp hair off my forehead with the back of my hand. I’m sure I look convincingly hardworking. ‘But I’m learning. See, I’ve done loads already.’
I indicate a small pile of peeled wallpaper on the floor. In truth, I have been toiling away for approximately fifteen minutes, having timed my efforts precisely to coincide with Ben’s arrival home.
‘Look, ah, Kate, let me—’ he begins, and I know I’ve got him already.
‘Mmm?’ I say distractedly, turning away as if I’m eager to get back to work. I half drop the steamer as I wobble on the ladder. I have choreographed this beautifully. Come on, Ben, I think. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Ben rolling up his shirt-sleeves.
‘What you need to do,’ says Ben, and I keep my face turned to the wall so he doesn’t see me smile. ‘What you need to do, Kate, is move the steamer slowly up the wall and then scrape the paper off immediately afterwards, while it’s still damp.’
‘Like this?’ I ask, scraping at a dry piece of paper until a tiny fragment peels away. The steamer belches in my other hand, miles from the wall.
‘Steamer first,’ explains Ben, standing close up against the stepladder to look at my work. ‘Use the steamer.’
I can tell he is itching to take it out of my hands and show me how it should be done.
‘Mmm?’ I say, waving the steamer around again while I continue to scrape elsewhere. I can hear Ben sigh in exasperation at my incompetence. Any moment now . . .
‘Look, Kate, why don’t you let me show you how to use it properly?’ he says at last.
‘Oh would you?’ I ask, turning to him gratefully. ‘I think I’m just quite hopeless at this.’
Ben chuckles as he takes the steamer out of my hand. ‘Come on, off the ladder,’ he says, looking far more comfortable now that he’s in charge. ‘Let me show you how it’s done.’
He presses the steamer against the wall and follows it with the scraper, peeling away a thick, satisfying strip of Granny Gilbert’s textured apricot wallpaper.
‘See?’ he says, with a triumphant note in his voice. ‘It’s not so hard – steamer first, then, like this, the scraper. Steamer, scraper. Just like that.’
‘Wow, Ben. I didn’t know you were so good at this sort of thing,’ I say, admiringly.
I didn’t – this is a total stroke of luck. Having pledged myself as the dedicated bungalow decorator, it occurred to me while choosing paint colours that the circumstances presented another excellent opportunity for training my foster husband. And it’s already working better than I could have imagined.
‘Well, I’ve done a bit of decorating for my mum,’ says Ben, pulling away another sheet of wallpaper and depositing it on the floor next to the stepladder. ‘Actually pretty good at it. Mum says I do a better job than the Polish decorator she paid for last year.’
‘Gosh, isn’t Prue lucky? I wish Matt had been a bit more handy around the house. It’s such an attractive thing in a man.’
I can see a flush on the back of Ben’s neck, and he coughs embarrassedly. Perhaps I am laying it on a bit thick. He might, oh God, he might think I’m actually coming on to him. Rein it in, Kate, rein it in.
‘I think Prue will be really impressed when she sees you like this,’ I say briskly, stepping back away from the step-ladder and crossing my arms. Textbook ‘I do not fancy you’ body language. ‘It’s a whole other side to the businessman she already knows. Every woman hopes her husband will be practical around the house.’
Ben chuckles again. ‘I’d have thought she’d just tell me off for making a mess,’ he says.
‘Oh no,’ I reassure him. ‘Prue will be grateful. I know she will. I certainly am.’
Although I am a little concerned that, not seeing the bigger picture here, not knowing that Ben is in pre-husband training, Prue might mistakenly think that I am just getting him to do my dirty work for me. Which would be all wrong. Obviously there is a benefit to having Ben help with the decoration, but my motives are purely altruistic.
He seems to have got into a rhythm with the wallpaper steamer, running it up the wall methodically, and following it with the scraper. I can see he’s actually enjoying himself.
‘Shall I take it back now you’ve shown me how to do it?’ I ask.
Ben pulls the steamer towards him like a child whose sole possession of a toy has been threatened.
‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you let me get on with this for now? Quite like a bit of manual labour, you know. Using the old muscles after being in the office all day.’
I demur politely, insisting several times that he needn’t bother, but I time it carefully to capitulate just as he’s about to give up. I’ve managed to make him beg to do it, and he seems as pleased when I agree, as if it was all his idea in the first place.
‘Well, if you insist, Ben,’ I say, when we’ve finally established that the steamer is his and his alone. ‘I feel bad that you’re doing all this work for me.’
‘Oh, not a problem,’ says Ben. ‘Least I could do.’
‘Well, in that case let me make you supper,’ I say. I’ve actually already made supper – a beef stew that cooked for hours this afternoon. It is all part of the plan, but he needn’t know that.
‘Right, well, right,’ says Ben, looking delighted. ‘Jolly decent of you.’
I pick up his bag and coat and take them through to the kitchen. Let Ben see that there are rewards for good behaviour. It’s just like training Minnie – a matter of rewarding the good behaviour and ignoring the bad. And setting firm boundaries.
All the things I wish I’d done much, much earlier.
19
London
You know I’d really like to tell you all about our wedding. I really would. Because, despite everything that happened afterwards, I still think of it as one of the best days of my life. But listening to Prue’s wedding talk has reminded me that even those closest to you really couldn’t care less about the colour composition of the flower arrangements, or the menu tastings or the difficulty you had finding underwear that wouldn’t show through your silk and chiffon dress. Let alone mentioning the speeches, which are bad enough to sit through at the time, and twice as bad second hand (sorry, Dad).
So I will spare you the details, and simply say that Matt and I got married, and it was everything I had ever hoped for. More than that, really, since I had never hoped for marriage at all.
What can I say? It turned out I did believe in true love.
Or maybe it was just the way he asked me.
We had been house-hunti
ng for months without success. As much as we may have still been in the first flush of living-together love, it could no longer be denied that my flat was too small for both of us. The galley kitchen was so narrow that we couldn’t pass in it without squashing ourselves up against either the counter or each other. Initially this was a charming novelty, an excuse for cheeky kitchen fumbles and misbehaviour. But early in the morning, with hangovers and slept-through alarms and disagreements about who had stacked the dishwasher like that (I am sure I don’t need to tell you it was Matt), the charm quickly wore off.
They say that moving house is one of the most stressful events in one’s life, and on the basis of our experience, I’d say they’re right. First we argued about where to live; nothing was dragging me out East, not even Matt’s promises that we could own a vast mansion in Mile End for the price of a Chalk Farm bedsit. I was too old to relocate to an edgy area – I didn’t care about being cool, I cared about not being mugged when I walked home from the tube. And I knew exactly where I wanted to live. Matt’s exasperation with my refusal to look anywhere else finally gave way to resignation.
Winner: me.
Then there was the garden or no garden discussion, which forced me into an indefensible corner from which I attempted to argue the passionately green-fingered case for, while Matt held in front of me the case against: the dust-covered remnants of a long-ignored African violet from a shelf in the bathroom, and the desiccated, leafless skeleton of something that had once been a fern. Not having remembered to water either for months somewhat weakened my argument that I’d be tilling the earth and growing vegetables in our new home.
Winner: Matt.
Flat-roof-gate was bad enough that the estate agent excused himself to make some phone calls outside, one of which was probably to a counsellor at Relate to see if they made emergency house calls. Matt, whose knowledge of DIY barely extended to changing a light bulb, claimed with all the blustering confidence of a building trade veteran that any home with a flat roof was guaranteed to leak and refused even to consider any property that had one. I wouldn’t have minded so much if it wasn’t obvious that he’d just heard something negative about flat roofs from a man down the pub and taken it to heart without having any knowledge to back it up. In addition to this his rigorous stance ruled out all the houses with lovely glass-fronted modernist extensions that I’d set my heart on. So who could blame me for resorting to hiding the particulars from him, and arranging to meet at a mystery house without revealing its dark flat-roof secret? I had hoped he’d fall in love with it – everything else was perfect – and overlook this one tiny flaw.