by Lucy Dillon
‘But this is your job. They didn’t think you might be a bit beyond . . .’ he squinted, amused ‘. . . The Haynes Guide to Old Houses?’
‘It’s just one of those things I no longer have to care about. Which is fine with me. I’m having a big sort-out at home, so if they’re useful to you, you’re very welcome to them.’
‘A big sort-out. Sounds like the kind of iron discipline we need here.’ He pushed a plate of toast towards her. ‘Toast?’
Gina didn’t normally eat breakfast with her clients but she’d been in such a rush to get Buzz to the rescue shop before this meeting that she hadn’t had time for cereal. She hesitated, then took a piece. ‘It’s not really that disciplined. I’m a bit of a hoarder,’ she said. ‘But I’ve just moved to a much smaller flat with no storage – usual story, too much stuff and not enough room.’ She chewed the toast to slow herself down. Nick was very easy to talk to. Too easy. ‘I’m trying to get rid of anything that isn’t either essential or important to me, and it’s interesting – once you start, you find that actually . . .’
The words stuck in Gina’s throat, as she realised she was about to say that actually, aside from diaries and personal letters that couldn’t be replaced, she wasn’t keeping as much as she’d thought she would. Stuart’s box was by the door for the shopping list of things he’d requested via his solicitor; they weren’t very personal, and one or two she suspected he’d put on the list because he thought she wanted them. Something about the pettiness of it had made her look twice at things she’d thought she wanted to keep herself.
It made the letters she’d kept seem even more important. That envelope of missives to Kit was still in the box, and Gina didn’t want it to be one of the hundred things that defined her. But she couldn’t shred them. Shredding them felt so final.
‘Actually . . . what?’ Nick was looking at her.
‘Sorry?’ Gina blinked, trying to reorder her thoughts into something that was more appropriate for a client breakfast.
‘When it comes down to it, what?’
‘That actually they’re not that important after all. Don’t you get that when you unpack?’ She reached for the milk. ‘You spend hours putting things in miles of bubble-wrap, then get to the new house and think, Hmm, why did I keep this?’
‘I haven’t been allowed to unpack yet.’
‘Well. You know what I mean.’
Nick sipped his strong coffee, and Gina thought he was about to change the subject and start asking about the roof, but he didn’t. ‘Personally, I think people get too hung up about things when actually what they should be stockpiling are moments.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Moments. Experiences. Not flashy ones like paragliding in the Grand Canyon or . . .’ he made sarcastic air hooks with his fingers ‘. . . firewalking at the Burning Man Festival. Small everyday things, like – like being outside just after it’s rained. Swimming in the sea. Arriving at a new railway station. Proper paintbox sunsets on summer nights.’
‘Says the man whose job it is to capture moments so people can turn them into things. Like photographs. And magazines.’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah, yeah. Be as cynical as you like. But I’ve spent a lot of time living out of suitcases over the past few years, and I can’t say I ever missed any one thing in particular. I did miss having a really good shower. And I missed the feeling of getting into clean sheets.’
‘Oh, clean sheets, yes. You can’t beat crisp white sheets on a summer night. Or a warm blanket over the duvet on a cold one.’
‘But is that the sheets? Or the feeling?’ Nick looked at her quizzically over his mug.
‘That’s a bit deep for nine in the morning.’
‘Not really. It’s the whole point. Because once you’ve decided it’s the feeling of the sheets, you can stop trying to chase the Perfect Sheets round the shops and just have the one set, instead of ten. Although,’ he conceded, ‘you might have to do more laundry.’
‘You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.’
‘I had a big de-cluttering epiphany myself a few years back. When everyone changed over to digital, I went through a phase of buying every new bit of kit that came out. Didn’t make me a better photographer, just made me a photographer with a bad back from carrying it all around. Once I decided to use one camera, natural light, my whole style changed. I went back to seeing what I was seeing, not letting the camera dictate it to me.’
He looked at her over the table, his grey eyes analysing her face, and Gina had the feeling he was seeing her as he’d seen her hands: spotting something beneath the surface, something she wasn’t quite aware of.
Then his phone rang on the table, vibrating under a crumby plate and making the knife on it rattle. Nick glanced down. ‘It’s Amanda.’
They could both see that. A snapshot of a smiling Amanda in a red bikini and big Chanel shades, lying on a white beach next to a very blue sea, had flashed up.
It felt as if Amanda had just appeared in the room. The bikini was not how Gina usually pictured Amanda from her brisk instruction-filled emails.
Was that a honeymoon photo? Nick and Amanda seemed like the sort of couple who went on those Necker Island holidays. Gina caught herself.
‘Do you want to get that?’ she asked. ‘I’ll . . .’ She gestured towards the rest of the house.
‘No, stay there. It’s you she’ll want to talk to, not me. She’s just checking I’m not up on the roof with a sledgehammer.’ Nick picked the phone up off the table. ‘Hey, darling! How’s Paris this morning?’
Amanda started talking at once. Gina could hear the tone of her voice, if not the words; she wasn’t wasting time with chit-chat.
Nick’s smile faded slowly. Then he put his elbow on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘No, it’s the roofer coming today . . . But, Amanda, we have to put in an application before . . . No, seriously, we have to . . . Amanda, Gina’s here, she’ll be able to explain it better. I’m not making this up, believe me.’
Oh, bollocks, thought Gina. The chatty mood had evaporated.
‘Can you have a word with Amanda about Listed Building Consent, please?’ said Nick, stiffly, holding out the phone to her. ‘She’s unclear about a couple of things.’
‘Of course.’ Gina braced herself. LBC hadn’t exactly been a favourite topic when she’d been on the other end of the ranting; it was even less of a favourite now she had to explain it to frustrated clients. ‘Hello, Amanda. How are you?’
‘Hi. Good, thanks. I think Nick must have got the wrong end of the stick about this planning permission,’ she said. ‘He told me last night that it’s going to take eight weeks before there’s even a decision about whether we can go ahead with the kitchen build.’
‘Eight weeks is the worst-case scenario, yes.’ Gina rolled her eyes at herself. Did I just say worst-case scenario? Amanda seemed to bring back all the office-speak she’d trained out of herself since leaving the council.
‘So what was the point of having that man come out to go round the house? I thought that was it. He can rubber-stamp it, no? He’s seen what we want to do?’ Amanda’s tone was friendly but not happy.
‘That was just a preliminary consultation. It’s saved us some time because now we know roughly what the council is likely to approve, and Nick tells me your architect’s amending his plans to take that into account. I’ve got the architect’s details, so as soon as he gets back to me with new drawings, I can get the forms sent straight over, but while they’re in the system, I’m afraid we can’t really speed things up.’
‘Really? I can’t believe that.’
Nick was staring at her and when she glanced at him, he got up to put the kettle on for more coffee.
‘I’m afraid it’s standard. The formal notice has to go to parish councils, to neighbours and so on. It’s to stop owners wrecking old houses when they aren’t approaching the process as thoughtfully as you are,’ said Gina.
‘But we’re not going to wr
eck the house. They’ve seen our plans – it’s not like we’re turning it into flats. I’m spending a fortune to restore the place. I don’t see why we can’t just go ahead, and then if they hate it, let them deal with it.’
‘Amanda, I’m sorry, I can’t let you – they can take you to court for unauthorised work. They can fine you thousands of pounds or, at the very least, make you tear down what you’ve done. We had the prison talk already, didn’t we? And to be frank, my reputation as a project manager would be destroyed if Keith Hurst decided to make an example of you. Which is not beyond him. He really doesn’t get out much.’
There was a pause at the other end. ‘When you say thousands, how much exactly? Is it worth factoring it into the build budget and just going for it now?’
Gina frowned and tried to keep her voice level. In a way, she had to admire Amanda’s sheer brass neck. ‘That’s not the point.’
‘Oh, come on. I don’t believe they’d mount a prosecution. That’s just an empty threat. And it’s our house!’ Her frustration was audible. Amanda clearly wasn’t a woman who was used to hearing no. Especially not a legal no.
‘Believe me, they would. And they don’t care that it’s your house. Listed buildings are different. You’re seen as a custodian, not an owner. I’m really sorry.’
‘The reason I hired you is because I expected you to be able to handle this sort of thing.’ Amanda let out an impatient sigh. ‘I don’t believe you can’t fast-track it.’
‘I’ll monitor everything as closely as possible, I promise.’ Gina had worked with some pushy property developers while she was at the council, but Amanda had a way of applying pressure she’d never felt before. She straightened her back, even though Amanda couldn’t see. ‘If you have a look at the schedule of works I emailed through, there’s plenty that Lorcan can be getting on with while we’re waiting for the go-ahead. Repairs don’t need consent, so we’ve got the roofing specialist here today.’
‘This is really disappointing, Gina.’
‘I know, but in the long run—’
‘Fine. Fine. I have to go. But if you can keep the pressure on, that would be appreciated.’
Gina found herself making agreeing noises, but before she could explain the rest of the week’s schedule, Amanda had said goodbye and was gone.
‘Wow,’ said Gina, staring at the phone. The lock screen was a photo of duck eggs; the same duck eggs she’d had in her hands, she guessed. ‘Did I handle that all right? I can’t tell.’
‘It sounded perfectly reasonable to me,’ said Nick. ‘In as much as any of this planning regulation stuff is reasonable.’
‘No, I mean the time issue. I didn’t realise there was a deadline on this. If there is, you’d better tell me now.’
The kettle boiled and he poured more water onto the coffee. ‘There isn’t, not particularly. Amanda just likes to get things moving ASAP – it’s part of working in that field. Time is money.’
Gina wasn’t sure that was the whole answer. ‘She does understand that this sort of project doesn’t move on normal schedules?’ She gave him a square look. ‘Some things will happen quickly, and others . . . Well, be prepared for rotten floors, and unexpected holes behind walls. I tell all my clients, you need a twenty per cent cash reserve and a forty per cent time one. Minimum.’
‘Look, she’s not going to be back for another fortnight.’ Nick put the refilled cafetière on a pile of colour cards. ‘This merger she’s refereeing seems to be expanding daily, so I doubt she’ll have time to make more than, ooh, three or four chasing phone calls a day.’
‘Okay. Maybe ask her to condense it into one nightly email? Then I can respond properly.’ Gina took a mouthful of cold coffee. Suddenly it didn’t seem too strong any more. Her heart was pounding.
‘It’ll be fine. Honestly. Amanda’s just very full-on. It’s one of the reasons we had to build two offices into the last house. And buy the flat in the Barbican. I think we’d end up killing each other if we had to live together all the time.’
‘Have you never lived together?’
He laughed. ‘Once. For six months when her flat was on the market. Never again. We agreed that either we bought a second place, or one of us went into rehab or prison.’
Gina glanced over, surprised at the honesty of the admission, and Nick added, ‘I’m joking. Sort of.’
‘Still, this house should be big enough,’ she said. ‘A wing each?’
‘That’s the idea,’ said Nick, but he’d turned back to the counter for the toast, and she couldn’t see his face.
‘Nick?’ Lorcan appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Morning, Gina. I’ve got Barry Butler here. About the roof? Ah, is that coffee? Grand.’
Gina poured him a mugful, then topped up her own. It wasn’t even half past nine yet, and she felt as if she’d been awake for hours.
‘Has no one come for this dog yet?’ Naomi asked, eyeing Buzz, who was curled up in his basket while Gina assembled the tea and cakes in the kitchen. He was doing his best to ignore Naomi, in the hope that he would be ignored in turn. But Naomi didn’t ignore things.
‘Not yet. Next week.’
‘I thought the rescue woman was going to move him to a greyhound shelter?’
‘She is, as soon as a space comes up. To be honest, he’s no bother. He spends most of the day over the road. I just feed him, and give him somewhere to sleep.’
Gina put the tea tray in front of Naomi on the coffee table. She had hoped that her attention would be drawn to the bright clean lines of her nearly empty sitting room rather than to the dog in the corner. The boxes were now confined to the spare room (which they nearly filled, but still), leaving light to flood into the main living area. She’d put a big mirror on one wall, reflecting the grey-blue sky outside; the sill displayed three postcards on stalks, and the Polaroid of the eggs in her hands. The main blank wall, where her one amazing picture would go, still had only her lining-paper list, now decorated with a packet of gold stars she’d found in a box. No point in saving gold stars, Gina had decided. They formed glittering trails around her favourite things.
‘Naomi? Cupcake? From the gourmet deli?’
Naomi was staring at Buzz’s knobbly back with a semi-disgusted, semi-fascinated expression. ‘Are you feeding him enough? I’ve seen fatter supermodels.’
‘I’m giving him this special greyhound food to build him up. Rachel says they’re all skinny. He gets very nervous and apparently it stops him putting on weight.’
‘You’re starting to sound like you know a lot about this all of a sudden.’ Naomi turned back to her with reproachful eyes. ‘Don’t get suckered in. You don’t need a dog. They’re a tie. You’re getting rid of stuff, not taking things in. What about that holiday you were going on?’
‘Oh, it’s only for a few more days. I don’t mind.’ Despite herself, Gina was getting attached to Buzz. He demanded so little of her, and Rachel had been right: his silent company was just what she needed, to take the edge of her solitude. Buzz added a rhythm to her day that wasn’t completely unwelcome in its new free-form state – he gave it a beginning and an end, and a walk around the park with her new friend.
‘Any sign of your bike?’ Naomi helped herself to the blue cupcake.
Gina shook her head. ‘The police gave me a crime number, but they weren’t very hopeful about getting it back.’
‘That’s outrageous. Don’t they know what it’s worth? Can you claim on your household insurance?’
‘To be honest, Nay, I don’t care. That bike didn’t bring me any luck. I’m glad it’s gone. It only . . .’ Gina blew out a long breath ‘. . . it only reminded me that I wasn’t the cycling wife Stuart obviously wanted. Now it’s gone, I don’t have to kick myself.’
Naomi looked at her sympathetically. ‘Fair enough. I just wish you could have spent that money on your big treat. How’s the fund coming on?’
‘It’ll come on a lot quicker when you get round to showing me how to flog my clothes.’
‘That’d be me.’
‘Ha ha. Very good. But how’s it going otherwise? You’ve got rid of loads. Are you not worried Stuart’s going to see his old jackets in the window of the Oxfam shop?’
‘No, I was tempted. But he’s getting them back, in bin bags.’
‘Is he asking for the rings?’ Naomi asked nosily. ‘You don’t have to hand them over. I’ve seen it on Judge Judy. They’re yours – people have them melted down and made into a divorce ring. Ooh, what about personal letters? Are you giving those back? That’d put a crimp in his love nest, unpacking a bundle of those.’
Gina smiled at the glee on Naomi’s face, but then stopped. ‘What would you do,’ she said, ‘if you had some letters that belonged to someone else? Would you give them back?’
‘What? If I’d stolen them? Well, duh, Gina. Yes.’
‘No, not stolen.’ She hesitated again. ‘Returned.’
Naomi put her cup down. ‘Oh, no. Are you talking about those letters Kit’s mum sent back? I thought you’d given them to him that time you saw him.’
‘Don’t look like that. No, I didn’t. I was going to, but the moment wasn’t right . . .’ Gina winced. ‘I thought maybe, now some water’s passed under the bridge . . .’
‘No!’ Naomi looked incredulous. ‘Get rid of them. For God’s sake. Don’t even think of going back to that mess. You had your chance to get it sorted out, and the pair of you managed to make everything just that little bit worse, so on balance, Gina, I would say, no. Do not send those letters back to Kit, do not arrange to see him, stop picking that scab, and move on.’
Naomi took a deep breath. She’d been speaking so quickly, her voice rising with each passionate sentence, that Buzz had abandoned his basket and retreated to the kitchen. ‘Sorry,’ she added. ‘I’ve scared your dog.’