by Mike Gayle
The house is deathly quiet. I wonder if Lauren will call or text at some point during the day but then on the kitchen counter I spot a message written on a sheet of A4 obviously snatched out of the printer in the downstairs study.
Hi Matt. There’s food in the fridge, help yourself and I’ll see you tonight so that we can talk. L x.
I open the fridge. Sure enough it is absolutely packed: apples, oranges, cheese and a whole stack of ready meals. I pour myself a fruit juice and take a sharp knife to a block of Cheddar and then search the cupboards for crisps or a stray packet of dry-roasted peanuts. But there’s nothing remotely crisp-like apart from a half-eaten pack of rice cakes that might as well be made from cardboard for all the taste they have.
Searching around in the kitchen drawers I find the keys to the back door and head out into the garden. As I’d expected, Lauren hasn’t ventured out here for a while. The grass is long overdue a cut, and it’s the same story for pretty much everywhere else: the privet hedge on the left-hand side is in desperate need of a trim, the flower beds could do with a tidy and one of the fence panels at the end of the garden has come loose. There’s so much work to do that I’m half tempted to spend what remains of the day sorting it out. The appeal of getting some last-minute use out of my shed is strong but then just as I’m trying to recall where I might have left an old pair of trainers my phone rings.
‘Hi, am I speaking to Mr Beckford?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Claire Barrow here from Millward and Lewis, we’re looking after the sale of your property. I’ve just had a call from your buyers Mr and Mrs Mason and they know it’s an inconvenience but Mr Mason’s mother has come to stay and they’re desperate to show her the house. I’ve left a message with Mrs Beckford but she hasn’t got back to me yet and I can’t really do it without your or her permission, so I was just wondering if it would be OK?’
‘It’s fine,’ I reply, ‘I’m more than happy to show them round if you like.’
‘Really? Mrs Beckford seemed to indicate you were resident in the Midlands.’
‘I was,’ I reply, ‘but I’m back. Send them round and I’ll give them the full guided tour.’
The Masons turn up just after three, by which time I’ve showered. Shaved and had a tidy-up. Mrs Mason junior is short, pretty and heavily pregnant, while Mrs Mason senior (much like Mr Mason himself) is tall, thin and incredibly well spoken. I ask them if there’s anything in particular they’d like to know and after a few minutes of polite refusal I’m bombarded with queries about the central heating, and how old the roof is, and what the neighbours are like and have we ever been burgled and while I’m happy to answer all their questions I can’t help feeling they’ve neglected the only question that matters: ‘Were you happy here?’
‘So what were they like?’
I’m standing over a bubbling pot of chilli and Lauren is sitting a few feet away with a glass of red. There was a little bit of awkwardness to begin with (how could there not have been at the prospect of having once again to share the space that she’d become used to thinking of as her own?) but we soon got past that by opening a bottle of wine. Now on our second glass, and talking about someone other than ourselves, it almost feels like life before it all fell apart.
‘They seemed nice enough.’
Lauren laughs. ‘What does that even mean? You’ve always been terrible at this kind of thing. Were they tall, short, fat, thin, head to tail in designer outfits, what? I need details!’
‘She was pretty and pregnant; he was tall and studious-looking; and the mum seemed a bit batty: she kept asking daft questions like: “What time does the post tend to arrive?” and “Will you be taking your wheelie bin with you?” They didn’t offend me but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I actually liked them.’
Lauren’s eyes glint knowingly. ‘You didn’t like them because they were posh.’
‘No, I didn’t like them because they didn’t seem to appreciate how special this place is. They didn’t comment on the fireplace that we scoured reclamation yards for months to find; or ask about those curtains that you had specially made; or remark on the coving we spent a bloody fortune having restored. And when I left them alone for a while upstairs I overheard Mrs Mason junior commenting to Mrs Mason senior how “the bathroom suite will be the first thing to go”, like she’s some sort of bloody interior decorating expert!’
Lauren laughs. ‘I think she is. The estate agent emailed me some forms last week and with a first name like “Fernella” the temptation to Google her proved too much. She runs a design studio over in Fulham so chances are this time next year the whole place will be unrecognisable.’
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’
She reaches a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture I’ve seen a million times and yet now seems absurdly alluring. ‘I try not to think about it and if you want my advice neither should you.’
We stop talking about the Masons and concentrate on sharing news about mutual friends and acquaintances and it is surprising how much has changed in such a relatively short space of time: some couples we know are pregnant with their first children; others are quitting jobs to go travelling and a few putting their own houses on the market to join the great exodus out of London.
‘It suddenly feels like everyone’s beginning to execute the plans they’ve been working on their whole lives,’ says Lauren, as I serve up the food. ‘As if everyone has decided that it’s time to stop playing at life and start living it.’
During the meal she compliments my cooking, telling me that tonight’s chilli is my best ever. Considering how often I’ve made it during our time together this is no mean feat. I’m not sure how truthful she is being because I couldn’t get hold of half the fresh ingredients I’d needed but still, it was a nice thing to hear and as we go outside to sit on the patio with a fresh glass of wine we seem to be getting on better than I’d dared hope.
‘So,’ says Lauren, ‘are you going to tell me what happened to your face or do I have to guess?’
‘Trust me, you don’t want to know.’
‘I think you’re probably right. Am I allowed to ask how your birthday was or is that part and parcel of the face story?’
‘It was fine. It came and went and I survived.’
‘So the world didn’t fall apart like you expected?’ Lauren laughs. ‘It’s Y2K all over again!’ She looks down at the floor. ‘I really wanted to call, you know, and wish you happy birthday, but it didn’t feel right. I felt like I should keep my distance.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ I put my hand on hers. ‘How did we get to the stage where we can’t even wish each other well?’
For a moment she looks at me in a way she hasn’t done for the longest time. It’s a look suffused with longing and desire but above all, love. I lean across and gently kiss her lips and for a moment she closes her eyes and then slowly pulls away, shaking her head.
‘I sent off the D8 this morning,’ she says, not looking at me. ‘My solicitor says that as long as you don’t contest it, it shouldn’t be anything more than a formality.’
‘What are you citing?’
‘Unreasonable behaviour.’
‘Sounds about right,’ I say, and then I get up and go back inside.
53
Lauren’s gone by the time I wake and when I go downstairs in search of breakfast I find another note on the kitchen counter:
Thanks for dinner last night. It was gorgeous! I won’t be home tonight. I think we both need a little space right now and so I’m going to be staying with a friend. Feel free to stay as long as you need. Text me if you want anything. Lauren x
I fill a bowl with cornflakes and milk and as I spoon it into my mouth I do a lot of thinking about Lauren’s ‘friend’ but none of it is particularly constructive. Is this a real friend or did one of her internet dates go better than she’d hoped? And would it be wrong of me to check the history on her browser in order to find out? I f
inish my cereal, slurping the last of the milk from the bowl but I resist the temptation to check her browser history. Lauren doesn’t love me any more, at least not in the way that matters and if I care at all for her then the least I can do is wish her well and keep my nose out of her business.
I make myself a couple of slices of toast, brew up some coffee and continue breakfast in the living room in front of the TV. It’ll be easy to kill a couple of hours here as Lauren hasn’t bothered changing my selections on Sky+. There are about a million episodes of Top Gear to work through and an entire series of Horizon, and Mythbusters too. As a distraction from the fact that there are now legal documents out in the world officially proclaiming my failure as a husband it’s a pretty good one and by the time I switch off the TV I feel moderately less like the guy no one ever invites to parties.
I take a shower and shave and once I’m fully dressed (jeans, T-shirt and the jumper Mum bought for my birthday) I try to work out how I’m going to fill the day ahead. I think about putting together my CV and circulating it amongst various recruitment agencies; I consider nipping out to the local Thomas Cook and seeing if I could get my hands on a cheap last-minute holiday paid for from the large amount of cash that will soon be sitting in my bank account; I even contemplate staying in bed all day and doing absolutely nothing. But what I actually end up doing is logging on to Rightmove and start looking for somewhere to rent.
I type my search requirements into the website (I’d like a one- or two-bedroom flat within a three-mile radius of the house) and within milliseconds there are enough properties to keep me busy flat-hunting for weeks. I put in a call to Choice Estates, who are looking after the first flat on the list that I like.
‘Choice Estates, Ray Collins speaking, how can I help you?’
‘I’m interested in renting one of the flats on your books: a two-bed Victorian conversion on Selsey Road.’
‘I know the one,’ he says, ‘Flat one, two-two-seven Selsey Road? Lovely property.’ He takes down my details and then completely throws me with his next question: ‘Is there any chance that you’re free right now, Mr Beckford? I’ve just had a viewing cancellation and I’ve got half an hour free before the next one. If you’d like to take a look right away I’d be more than happy to squeeze you in.’
Did I really want to look at a property now especially given that there were four weeks left until I needed to move? Wouldn’t finding a place now make things more real than they strictly needed to be? I’d only rung for something to do later in the week and now here I was being asked if I wanted to see the place that day.
I open my mouth ready to decline but stop myself. What if all I’m doing is stalling because I’m not ready to move on? What if I’m playing for time like I did when Lauren and I were still living together? I’m forty now. There’s nowhere to hide. I’ve done the hard part; now all I have to do is push on through.
‘Meet you there in five minutes,’ I say, and then I grab my coat, and a piece of fruit and leave the house.
The letting agent and I both arrive at the property at the same time. He holds out his hand for me to shake but embarrassingly my hands are still sticky from the orange I’ve just eaten so I end up wiping them on my jeans, which seems even worse. He’s a professional though; he doesn’t flinch, he just flashes me that rictus grin all letting agents have when you’re nothing to them but walking commission and ushers me into the flat.
‘As you can appreciate, this apartment has been finished to a very high standard having recently been renovated by the current owner. You could literally move in tomorrow and all you’d need to do is unpack your things.’
He’s not wrong. The entire flat: living spaces, kitchen, bedrooms and even the garden, all have had everything done that I could want. What’s more I can even imagine the kind of furniture that I’d have in here and where I’d put my TV. The whole flat has a good feel about it and as he waits for me in the kitchen and I give the place a second tour alone I can really picture myself living here: the designer kitchen where I’ll cook meals for some beautiful and intelligent woman I’ll meet through work; the living room where we’ll relax with a glass of wine afterwards and in which, sound-tracked no doubt by an Adele album, I’ll open up about my chequered relationship history; and finally the bedroom where as my new love and I enter I will make the joke: ‘. . . and this is where the magic happens.’ As potential futures go it’s not at all bad-looking which is why no one is more surprised than me when I find myself responding to the letting agent’s question: ‘So what do you think?’ with the words, ‘It’s great but not for me.’
‘So what kind of thing are you looking for exactly? Larger? Smaller? More modern?’
I shrug. ‘Over the last ten to fifteen years I’ve done a lot of moving. I suppose what I’m looking for is something that feels a bit more like a home. Does that make sense?’
‘Absolutely,’ he says earnestly but I can tell from the glassy look he’s giving me that he doesn’t get it. ‘I’ll have another look through our books this afternoon and if anything leaps out at me I’ll be sure to bring it to your attention.’
We don’t shake hands as we part (he’s not going to be caught out twice), and although I’m in the mood for a walk in the park followed by a read of the paper I force myself to return to the house and continue my property search, because now that I know what I don’t want (which apparently is the perfect flat in the perfect area) maybe it’s going to be a lot easier to work out what I do want.
At home I start the search all over again and print out a new list of potentials: a sleek modern two-bed with views of the park and close proximity to the Tube; a two-bed mews house a bit further out than I would have liked but which does have a garden; and: a huge one-bed mansion flat with massive windows, loads of original features and parquet flooring throughout.
I like the mansion flat most of all. It looks grand from the outside but worn and comfortable on the inside as though after years of trying too hard it has come to the conclusion it has nothing to prove any more. I call Robinson’s, the letting agent, but the call goes straight to voicemail and as I prepare to leave a message I realise that my heart’s already not in this flat. It’s pricier than I want it to be and further away from the Tube too, but the thing that really unseals the deal is the fact that it’s got one bedroom: buying it would be like saying to the world out loud: I’ve given up hope. This is as good as it gets.
Returning to the web I try changing the parameters of my search: different areas, price ranges and numbers of bedrooms but the more choice I get the less interested I am. None of these places looks right; none of them feels like they could be home.
After a while I really start to throw out the rule book. In a couple of weeks I’ll be a man with a lot of cash sitting in his bank account. I won’t have to live in London, I won’t even need to live in the UK if I don’t want to. The world is my oyster. On a whim I take a look at a couple of letting websites based in France, then Australia, the Netherlands, the USA and even some in the West Indies but as tantalising as some of these places are (especially the beachfront property overlooking Womans Bay in Barbados) they just don’t feel right. They’re not what I’m looking for to see me through the next chapter of my life.
And so I return to the UK. I try Brighton (because it’s by the sea); Manchester (because these days it’s where everything seems to be happening); Bath (because I quite fancy living in one of those white Georgian terraces) and even Edinburgh (because Lauren and I once went to a wedding there and loved it). But none of them does it for me, none of them has that spark, that special something I’m looking for.
Finally I do one last search. It’s a massive long shot and completely off the wall given that I’ve changed the search requirements from ‘rent’ to ‘buy’ but as I press return I think to myself, Well, what harm can it do?’ The results come back in an instant and at the top of the list is an entry that pulls me up short. I stare at the screen for a good five minutes, shakin
g my head and laughing to myself. It’s perfect. Absolutely 100 per cent perfect. It’s got everything I want and even though it’s quite clearly been messed about with (the front and back rooms have been knocked through, hardwood flooring has been laid in every room and the kitchen’s been extended), at its heart it still remains the same. And best of all, clearly visible in a number of shots of the garden is a shed. And not just any old shed but a vintage eight-foot by six-foot overlap softwood apex shed that I know for a fact has been lovingly maintained for its entire existence. Once I’ve composed myself I pick up my phone and dial the estate agent’s number.
‘Direct Move, Kings Heath, Karen Samson speaking,’ says a female voice with a delightfully chirpy Birmingham accent. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Hi, my name’s Mr Beckford. I’m enquiring about one of your properties: eighty-eight Hampton Street, Kings Heath.’
‘The recently developed three-bed semi?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Oh, that’s a lovely property. It’s only been on the market about a week. I took a couple there to see it only yesterday, it’s got such a wonderful finish on it. I was really impressed. One family owned it for the best part of forty years until they part-exchanged it with a developer earlier this year. It’s been completely modernised from top to bottom. When would you like an appointment to see it? All our slots are booked up today and Tuesday but I might be able to fit you in on Wednesday.’
‘I don’t want to make an appointment to see it. I want to buy it.’
The woman from Direct Move can’t quite believe her ears. ‘You want to buy it? I’m sorry, have I got the wrong end of the stick? Have you already had a viewing?’
‘Not in so many words.’