I trudged upstairs with a glass, a bottle of red wine, a bag of salt and vinegar crisps and a bar of fruit and nut chocolate – I tried to convince myself it was one of my five a day, if not two. I was both delusional and fed up. Was it only twenty-four hours ago that I had been in bed with Bryn?
Had we been making love? Or was it just having sex? Or had I been generally fucked in every sense of the word? I opened the wine and sloshed out a generous glassful. I wished I could forget.
The following day I woke still fully dressed in a tangle of bedclothes with a headache, crisp crumbs in my underwear and a square of chocolate stuck to my cheek. The wine had done the trick and knocked me out. Now I could add self-medicating with alcohol to my list of sins. Oh well done, Lottie.
Outside, the weather was dull and dreary. Yesterday evening’s mist had thickened overnight into proper fog and the view I had become so fond of had disappeared into the murk. There was still no sign of Bryn’s truck. Perhaps he had gone round to spend the night with Bonnie. I didn’t even know where she lived. I clenched my teeth in fury. Maybe he had gone to double check which one of us was better in the sack? Or maybe he had gone to return Bonnie’s earrings?
I put on my scruffiest paint-smeared clothes and vowed that before I set out to see my solicitor I would make a start on the wallpaper. Sophie had said she thought Jess and Greg were abroad, but they would surely be back sometime soon. I needed to stick to my side of the bargain.
The morning passed quickly and the bedroom (I needed to stop calling it my bedroom) started to look better. There had been grubby cotton curtains at the window when I arrived and I had washed them and never put them up again. Why spoil the view? I took a moment out to lean out of the window. The fog was clearing as the sun raised itself above the hills and I realised I would miss this room with its tranquil outlook over the fields. I had never felt afraid in this house, I had got used to the peacefulness of this place, the clear air in a way I would never have believed. The only sounds were birdsong, the occasional tractor going up the lane, a farm dog barking somewhere in the hills, the far distant noise of a plane overhead. Would I like being back in the noisy world of cars and people and shops? I didn’t allow myself to think about it too much, but I wasn’t sure I would.
I carried on, concentrating on the edges where the sloping ceiling met the uneven walls and parts of the roof beams had been exposed as a feature.
I must try harder to get a job when I finished my task here. If not at the supermarket then somewhere else. I had lived frugally enough but after all these months my savings had been seriously depleted. I couldn’t carry on like this for much longer. The trouble was I wasn’t trained to do anything.
My novel (Love at Last) had stalled into a soggy heap at 44,000 words and my plucky heroine, Amber, was still out there somewhere, torn between handsome but unreliable Jake and stolid, dependable Tom.
By the time I had finished wallpapering one wall I had cheered up enormously and dreamt up a pleasing future for myself where Amber, Jake and Tom were released onto the unsuspecting literary world and made me a fortune. I even thought about which mega Hollywood stars would play the title roles when the film rights were acquired, again at huge financial benefit to yours truly. I would soon look back at this part of my life and – well not laugh exactly, but certainly smile.
I was in relatively good spirits as I washed the paste brush and bucket out, a job I usually detested. I was due to see the solicitor at three so I changed into a tweed skirt and white shirt. Checking my reflection I realised I looked dull and middle-aged. Would Venus Williams have worn such an outfit? Not likely.
I pulled the offending items off and chucked them into the recycling. I spent half an hour doing much the same thing with my other clothes until practically the only things left to choose between were my pyjamas (perhaps not) and a pink dress that I had never worn because Ian had said was too short. I put it on, jammed on some ballet pumps and stuck my tongue out at my reflection.
In my opinion solicitors should, by law, have offices in a rambling, Regency house with piles of documents tied with pink tape lined up on the elegant staircase. There should be worn velvet settees in the waiting room and an elderly receptionist called Janet hovering between the desk and Mr Senior Partner’s (on whom she has a lifelong but unrequited crush) office.
Sadly my solicitor worked out of a featureless glass block in the middle of an out-of-town business park. His secretary – or PA, as she preferred to be known – was Leanne, a brusque unsmiling twenty-something with dreadlocks and a penchant for exotic nail varnish.
As I entered the foyer she jerked her chin at me by way of greeting.
‘Take a seat, Charlotte, Jeff’s around somewhere. He shouldn’t be long.’
I sat in the corner on a stylish but uncomfortable chair and thought about picking up one of the obscure magazines on the table, but I couldn’t be bothered.
I’d been here in this overheated office before, terrified about what was happening, just after I’d received a visit from the first of the many creditors who were about to come out from the woodwork.
Only a day after Ian died two large men had come to the house in matching black jackets with logos on the breast pocket. RCL. One held a clipboard. I assumed they were canvassing for the local government elections in March, and I was not in the mood.
‘Mr Ian Gerald Lovell in, is he?’ said the taller of the two, chewing a large wad of gum with obvious enthusiasm.
‘No he’s not.’
‘Are you Mrs Lovell?’
‘No.’
He gave me a disbelieving look.
‘We’ve come for the car,’ he said. His face flexed into a rictus smile.
I stood and stared at them, my mouth open.
‘Car?’
‘A silver Lexus.’ He shifted his gum to the other side and reeled off the number plate. I caught a waft of cigarettes on his breath, thinly camouflaged with spearmint.
‘What about it?’
Had Ian arranged for the car to be serviced?
‘We’re from Regal Car Leasing.’ That would explain the logos. ‘The car is being repossessed for non-payment. Six months in arrears. You should remove any personal items from the car now.’ The unpleasant smile went as quickly as it had appeared.
I staggered back, grabbing hold of the doorframe for support.
‘Do you have the keys?’
‘No, I don’t have the bloody keys!’ I could feel my heart hammering.
The other man, marginally smaller but balder, stepped forward. He gave me a cold-eyed look, reminiscent of a shark waiting outside a diver’s cage.
‘I realise this must be upsetting, but we’re just doing our job, Mrs Lovell. When will Mr Lovell be available?’
‘I’ve already told you, I’m not Mrs Lovell. He’s not available and he never will be,’ I said. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I felt sick.
First man puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. ‘There’s no need to be like that. We have the legal right to remove the car.’ He held out a sheaf of paperwork towards me and shook it. ‘See?’
‘I have no idea where the car is,’ I said.
He gave me a pitying look and then ran his eyes over me with an unpleasant smirk, as though I was also something he needed to value.
‘In the garage, is it? Go and take a look, Les. Mrs Lovell, it would be easier in the long run if you told us. Otherwise we’ve got other people who won’t be as polite as me and Les are, if you get my meaning.’
I was cold with dread now. I just wanted them and their grinning familiarity with this situation to go away.
My mouth was dry.
‘You’d better ask the police. There was an accident. On New Year’s Day—’
First man stepped forward, gum clamped between his front teeth, his face furrowed with concern.
‘Was the car damaged?’
Was the car damaged? The strange thing was I had no idea what state the car was in. I th
ought about it for a horrible few seconds while the first man tapped a chewed biro on the clipboard. His fingers were short and stubby, the nails bitten almost to the quick. Well, had the car been badly damaged? Had it been flattened? Had it burst into flames?
I pushed these thoughts away and found my voice at last. I was afraid, vulnerable, and yet suddenly I was angry.
‘I expect it was damaged, numb nuts. Ian was killed. And if you are going to come to people’s houses, threatening and demanding, at least have the manners to take your bloody gum out first!’
When Leanne took me through into his office, Jeff Bingham was sitting behind a loaded desk, peering out from between piles of documents. I resisted the ever-present temptation to ask how his briefs were, and sat down.
‘All well, Miss Calder?’
‘Fine, thanks. Never better,’ I lied, plastering a smile on my face.
Isn’t it funny; a solicitor’s offices must see a lot of people for whom the world is close to ending in chaos, but we always say that sort of thing. But then in a crowded doctor’s waiting room, ask anyone how they are and they will always say they are well, which begs the question, why the hell are you here?
Anyway I was one of Jeff’s least interesting and important clients and last time I was here he obviously couldn’t wait to get me out again. Today was rather different.
‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you,’ he said.
Really? Why?
He was young, tall, thin, and nervy, and like last time, dressed in a dark suit and a dull tie. I always had the impression he would rather be doing something else. He looked the sort who would leave his work clothes at the office and cycle in on a very thin bike, with a long queue of impatient motorists behind him glaring furiously at his Lycra-clad bottom.
‘Yes, sorry, I’m a bit out in the wilds. Not much phone reception and no Internet.’
He flicked me a glance to convey his disbelief at this state of affairs.
‘Hmm, doesn’t the postman call either? Would you like a cup of coffee,’ he said, ‘tea, or chilled water?’
I looked up at him, startled. This was a first.
‘No, thanks, but thank you,’ I said. I just wanted to get out of the place.
He shuffled his paperwork about and untied a beige folder tied with pale pink cotton tape in a particular way. I’d noticed how all solicitors do this; perhaps they have lessons at university on how to tie them up. Maybe it’s a part of their first year exams. I’m sorry, Mr Sedgwick, but your knots were not of the required standard.
I realised he was speaking, very quietly, his lips hardly moving.
‘So we have disbursed the proceeds of the sale of the property. HMRC have been satisfied. So have the – um – various people and establishments that the late Mr Lovell frequented. There were some outstanding amounts for the services – electricity, gas that sort of thing. And of course our fees.’ He ran a finger round inside his collar.
‘What else?’
Would there now be a request for a sample of my blood? Sweat? Tears? DNA? Fingerprints? My full educational history? I wondered if I could remember my GCSE grades.
Jeff raised his eyebrows. ‘No, nothing else.’
‘You mean it’s all sorted?’
He shifted in his chair. ‘What were you expecting?’
I thought about it. ‘I don’t know. It’s been going on for so long I wondered if it would ever be finished. It’s been months.’
He hummed and hawed for a minute and then went off on a minor rant about the delays inherent in dealing with HMRC, how many phone calls he had made that hadn’t been answered. The length of time he had been left on hold. Letters that took at least six weeks to elicit any sort of reply. Then he moved on to the problems he had encountered with Mr O’Callaghan (Big Kev) and his unprofessional solicitor. Then the haggling on the part of the house purchasers’ solicitors regarding the stained carpets in the sitting room and the broken tumble dryer that had been left at the back of the garage.
He eventually stopped to draw breath and looked at me for sympathy.
I surprised myself.
‘I really couldn’t care less, Jeff, I’m sure they can afford to replace the carpets and dispose of the tumble dryer. They got the house at a bargain price. I’ve had other things to worry about. I’ve been homeless, living on the charity of friends, not knowing what the hell was happening.’
‘Ah yes. Of course. Well, hmm. Anyway, Mrs Susan Lovell called in to see me a few days ago with a particular request.’
What would that be, I wondered? Perhaps she had a sack full of kittens that needed drowning? Or maybe she had discovered the stained carpet was my fault after I’d kicked that mug of tea over it and was going to sue me for the cost of replacing it.
I noticed a backpack on the floor behind his desk, which reinforced my previous assumption he was a bike rider. On top of the filing cabinet was a metal water bottle. I bet there was a quinoa and nut salad in the staff fridge.
Jeff was still talking.
‘…the surplus funds will be transferred to your nominated bank account as of tomorrow. Probably before nine thirty a.m.’
‘Surplus funds?’ I sat up a bit straighter and blinked at him. ‘What surplus funds?’
He pushed another sheet of paper towards me across the desk.
‘These surplus funds.’
My eyesight went a bit funny at this point. There was just a bewildering set of columns and figures with some things underlined in red biro and others highlighted in yellow. There was a small Post-it note arrow stuck halfway down the page next to a figure. £92,078.76.
I prodded at it with one finger. ‘What’s this?’
Jeff obviously considered me to be in the slow learners group at this point.
‘As I have been explaining, surplus funds,’ he said, very slowly and pointedly, ‘funds that are surplus.’
‘And what has this got to do with me?’
He sighed with exasperation.
‘I’ve just told you, Mrs Susan Lovell wishes these surplus funds to be passed to you. As a gesture of goodwill.’
‘Bloody hell!’
I sat looking at the paper for a few minutes, and then I looked up at him.
‘Ninety-two thousand pounds.’
‘And seventy-eight pounds and seventy-six pence,’ Jeff added.
‘And that’s for me? That’s it?’
He took the piece of paper back and looked at it, wagging his head from side to side.
‘I know it’s not much. I mean, not considering the house sold for over seven hundred thousand. But, well…’ He looked up at me and pulled a sort of agonised sympathetic face. He looked even more like Rodney Trotter for a moment and I half expected him to say he felt like a right dipstick. But no. He fell back into the safe territory of legalese.
‘You have to realise that we were charged to disburse these monies. HMRC are not an institution to fall foul of. Much as we might not approve of money being squandered at Mr O’Callaghan’s casino or his – ahem – line of work, he had a claim on Mr Lovell’s estate that we could in no way—’
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I mean, yes, it was awful to think that so much money went the way it did, but it’s done now. And Susan is quite sure she wants to do this?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘Then I’m free.’
‘Free? I don’t understand.’
‘You’ve never had large men come to the house and threaten you.’
‘No.’
‘Or had a car repossessed or phone calls at all hours from people wanting money.’
‘No.’
‘You’ve not hidden behind the sofa because there are people at the front door. You’ve not dreaded the postman arriving.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well I have and it’s not a thing I would wish on my worst enemy,’ I said. I stood up and reached over for the piece of paper he was still holding. ‘Can I have that?’
He looke
d at the paper as though he was surprised to find himself still holding it.
‘Yes, of course. This is for you after all.’
I took the paper and folded it into my handbag. It was the most wonderful moment I had experienced for ages. Well at least since I had found myself gasping, pinned to the bed by Bryn, my world condensed down to throbbing sparks of pleasure.
Shut up! Shut up! Stop thinking about him! For God’s sake!
I was horribly aware of the inappropriateness of remembering such a scene while Jeff sat watching me. I must have seemed feeble minded at best.
I pulled myself together, we made our polite farewells and I drove home. I had money at last, from the most unlikely of sources. I had a window on the future. I could stop buying own-brand food from the budget supermarket all the time. I could fill up my car’s tank instead of forcing it to limp along on fumes. I could get my teeth checked.
CHAPTER 17
Anemone – have you forsaken me?
That evening I fished out my laptop and fired it up for the first time in months. Not being able to log on to the Internet meant I had given it up as a bad job. My crops on Farmville had long since withered and died.
I read through the first few pages of Love at Last and my confidence faltered. Perhaps I should get a day job after all. Chef Jake’s eyes were blue and occasionally brown. Stolid Tom’s devoted but incompetent receptionist was by turns Liz, Lisa and Louise. In the space of four chapters Jake smashed crockery three times and Tom saved nine kittens and a Jack Russell puppy.
Thinking that perhaps a glass or three of Merlot might help, I went into the kitchen. Approximately nine and a half seconds after I switched on the light, someone knocked on the back door. I shrank against the fridge, clutching the bottle to my heart like a meths drinker cornered in an alley.
‘Lottie? Come on, Lottie. Please talk to me.’
It was Bryn. Of course it was.
I weighed up the options and after a few moments of pretending I wasn’t in, opened the door. Bryn stood there in jeans, a check shirt and his CAT boots looking so unbelievably handsome that at the back of my mind Stolid Tom changed his entire appearance and character in seconds. I decided to play it casual.
The Summer of Second Chances Page 19