The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘Okay. Well, goodnight, darling,’ she says, blowing me a kiss. ‘Get a good rest and we’ll chat some more in the morning.’

  She goes back into the living room and, as I walk up the stairs, I hear Jack’s voice. ‘You know I had poor old Mr Allen at the door? He’d seen the police car pulling away and got worried. Good grief, what’s she playing at, Georgie?’

  Jack is tired of me, and rightly so, I think to myself as I walk into the bedroom and shut the door. They don’t need all this trouble and turmoil. I gaze up at the ceiling, in the centre of which is a beautifully ornate ceiling rose.

  I remember Georgie commenting on the rose when she first viewed the house, back in 2000. It was a renovation project but she and Jack put every penny they had into restoring it to its former glory. I remember the first time I visited, with Dad and his new girlfriend. Lynda. God, just thinking about that woman makes me feel tense. She had worked alongside Dad at the stationery company and had offered him consolation after Mum died, though if the whispers I overheard between Jack and Georgie were anything to go by it seems Dad and Lynda had been growing close long before Mum’s death. I just hope Mum never knew. That would be too much to bear. I hope, instead, that she went to her death feeling loved and secure.

  I was fourteen years old when I first set foot in this house and was already feeling like an outsider. Dad had sold the family home and moved to a new-build bungalow in the centre of Reading. ‘Lynda thinks it’s time for a fresh start,’ he told me when I said I didn’t want to leave. ‘And she’s right, Vanessa. It’s not healthy to dwell on the past.’ And so I did as I was told and left everything I loved – my yellow bedroom, the kitchen where Mum and I had danced around to Radio 2, the walled garden with the birds she had talked to like old friends – Mr Robin and Mr Sparrow off on their morning stroll – and went to live in a bland, soulless house with my dad and a woman who made it clear that three was a crowd.

  Seeing Georgie so happy with her family in her beautiful house made me feel even more alone, though she always did her best to make me feel like I was part of the family, that I was loved and cared for. But I remember vowing, as I played with little Imogen in this bedroom, that one day I would have a home that was all mine, and nobody would be able to take it away from me.

  And now I’m back here, trapped like a cornered rat.

  I close my eyes and I’m just about to drift off to sleep when there’s a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ I call, my voice reed thin.

  The door opens and I see Jack’s figure silhouetted in the darkness.

  ‘Oh, sorry, V,’ he says. ‘I thought you might still be awake. I’ll leave it.’

  ‘No, it’s okay, Jack,’ I say, sitting up in the bed and switching on the lamp. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just a parcel,’ he says, stepping into the room. ‘It came for you while you were … er, at the police station. Or rather, I saw it sitting on the doorstep when I opened the door to Mr Allen. I’ll leave it here.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack,’ I say, watching as he places the square parcel on the chest of drawers.

  ‘No problem,’ he says in his usual clipped fashion. ‘Right, I’m off to bed. Night, night.’

  ‘Night, Jack.’

  I wait until he has closed the door, then get out of bed. The parcel is wrapped in plain brown paper and has no postmark. My name is written in blue biro. Big, angry capital letters. I peel it open and see a flash of pink. Inside the box is a pile of papers wrapped in a thick pink satin ribbon.

  I take one out and unfold it. It’s a letter, written in messy, childish handwriting.

  My handwriting.

  I read the first couple of lines.

  Dear Angus, I hope you are well. I think you are the luckiest boy in the world to live somewhere as magical as Holly Maze House.

  I continue to read. It’s a letter to Angus.

  A boy with piercing blue eyes and a sad smile.

  Angus was the protagonist of the Holly Maze books. Like me, he had lost his mother and he felt so different because of this that he found it difficult to make friends. He lost himself in a world of fantasy, just as I did. He was a male version of me really, a twin. And the more I read the Holly Maze books the more I felt that Angus wasn’t an invention, that he was real. I started writing him letters, telling him about my life and how sad I was feeling with my mum gone. I had forgotten all about them until now.

  As I sit here, a chill courses through me, though it’s a warm summer’s night. Who has sent me these?

  I can hear Dad filling the kettle to make a cup of tea. The ITN news headlines echo through the house. Dad always turns the news on when he comes in from work. You still haven’t got back from the shops. You told me you would pop to Bee’s Books in town to buy Geoffrey Rivers’s book before you went to do the weekly shop at Sainsbury’s. I try to block out the sound of the news and concentrate on my latest book: The Demons of Winter Valley. I borrowed it from the school library before the holidays and I’m almost finished. I curl up on my polka-dot beanbag in the corner of my bedroom and let myself be whisked away to a land of snow and ice and enchanted forests, much more exciting than interest rates and politics.

  I’m so engrossed that before I know it two hours have passed. I can hear voices downstairs. You must be home. I put the book down and walk out on to the landing but it’s not your voice I hear, it’s another woman’s, half obscured by a crackling radio. Dad is with her. His voice is shaking. The woman asks him if he’d like to sit down.

  10. Then

  We wait until the Americans are safely in the lift before letting out a collective squeal of delight. The presentation went better than I could have expected and Luna London has now acquired Loris International as a major new client.

  ‘Gosh, well done, everyone,’ says Anne, taking a bottle of champagne from the tiny fridge in the corner of her office and bringing it over to the table. ‘Six months of blood, sweat and tears, and look what we’ve achieved. I’m bloody proud of each and every one of you.’

  She opens the bottle and as it pops there’s another round of applause from the team. Anne looks thrilled as she hands us all a large glass of fizz.

  ‘You were amazing today, Vanessa,’ she says, coming to sit next to me. ‘Your knowledge of the US cosmetics market shone through. You could see how impressed they were. Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.’

  ‘Thanks, Anne,’ I say, feeling heady as I take a long sip of champagne. ‘I put everything into this presentation. I’m just so glad it went well.’

  ‘Great choice of outfit too,’ says Anne, gesturing to the silk shift dress Connor picked out for me last week. ‘I must say, I’ve noticed a change in you these last few months. You’re looking great. You’ve got more confidence. It’s like you’re blossoming in front of my eyes. It’s wonderful to see. It really is.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say again, feeling rather emotional. ‘That means such a lot coming from you.’

  ‘I think I know the reason why you look so good, Vanessa.’

  I turn to see Damian, beaming at me from the other side of the table, his champagne glass held aloft.

  ‘She’s found the love of a good man,’ he says, laughing.

  ‘Oh,’ says Anne, smiling awkwardly. As a lifelong champion of women, it’s not her nature to think that success stems from being with the right man. ‘Well, you’ve certainly made us all proud here, Vanessa. Well done.’

  She gets up and walks across to Colette, her PA, who has appeared at the door with Anne’s diary.

  ‘Hey, I didn’t mean to embarrass you there,’ says Damian, sitting down in the chair she has just vacated. ‘And Anne’s right. You did a brilliant job today. I can’t believe it. You’ve actually brought money in for once. Just kidding.’

  ‘Thanks, Damian,’ I say, draining my glass. ‘And, you know, you’re right about Connor. We’re really happy.’

  ‘It shows,’ he says, smiling warmly. ‘And I meant what I said. Connor’s a good ’un. I’v
e known him since he was a kid and he’s always had a big heart. It’s great that he’s found a good ’un too. Right, enough of this schmaltz, I’m off to crunch some numbers.’

  Later, as I’m walking back over Albert Bridge, I feel a deep sense of relief and contentment. Today was a good day, a brilliant day. We all pulled together and secured a major client. And throughout the presentation I’d felt relaxed and confident. As I stood up to speak I could hear Connor’s words in my head – ‘You can do this. You know you can. I believe in you, Vanessa’ – and it felt like he was there in the room with me, cheering me on.

  I thread my way along the outskirts of Battersea Park and on to Queenstown Road, thinking about the day and how I should swing by Sainsbury’s and pick up a bottle of champagne to celebrate, but as I reach the corner of Ingelow Road, two streets away from the flat, I see a large ‘For Sale’ board outside a red-brick Victorian terrace. It’s a house I’ve noticed as I pass by on my way to work, as it has retained its original iron railings and has a fox-head door knocker. I take a closer look at the board: ‘Two bedroom, split-level ground-floor flat with garden. Open Day: Saturday November 11th at 1 p.m.’

  A garden flat. My mind goes into overdrive, imagining me and Connor planting flowers and vegetables in our own little garden. I take out my phone and go to the estate agent’s website, scrolling down until I find the listing. The flat is on at £500,000 which, for this area of London, is a bargain. And I actually think we could maybe afford it. For a while now I’ve been thinking about how amazing it would be to have our own little home, and something about this just feels right.

  My mind is whirring with all the things we could do to the flat as I make my way back. I’ll put together a mood board, I tell myself, get Jack to give me some architectural advice, see if it has its original flooring. By the time I get in I’ve got a fully formed picture of our future home in my head.

  ‘Is that my brilliant girlfriend?’

  Connor comes out of the kitchen and hands me a glass of champagne. He’s wearing an apron and the air smells of cumin.

  ‘See,’ he says, clinking his glass against mine. ‘The outfit did the trick. I told you.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for helping with that, baby,’ I say, following him into the kitchen, which is a bit of a squeeze for two.

  I open the door to the roof terrace and step outside. It feels wintry tonight, despite the outdoor heater. As I sip my wine I think about the garden flat. According to the description on the website it has a dining kitchen. I start to imagine the Le Creuset pans we could buy and the big farmhouse-style table with a bench. And flowers, lots of flowers, peonies and hydrangeas which I’ll put in little jam jars and vintage milk jugs.

  ‘It’s lovely seeing you look so happy,’ says Connor, coming out to join me.

  ‘Well,’ I say, putting my glass down on the table. ‘It’s not just the US deal that has made me happy. I think I’ve found us a flat.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he says, his smile fading. ‘We’ve got a flat.’

  ‘No, we rent this place,’ I say. ‘It’s not ours. Anyway, when I was on my way back I saw a “For Sale” board outside that little house on Ingelow Road. You know, the one I’ve pointed out to you before, with the original iron railings?’

  ‘I think so,’ he says, his voice flat.

  ‘Well, the house is divided into apartments. The ground-floor garden flat is for sale. And guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s on at five hundred thousand,’ I cry, waiting for his eyes to light up. ‘I mean, that’s a total bargain for round here.’

  ‘That’s a huge sum of money, Vanessa,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘We’re in no position to buy a flat and certainly not anything that expensive.’

  ‘I did the sums and I think it’s doable if we make a low offer,’ I say, handing him my phone with the details of the flat on the screen. ‘Have a look at the photos. With our salaries combined we could get a mortgage and there’s the building society money that Mum left for me. She left it with strict instructions that I should use it to put towards “a home”. We could use that as a deposit. Plus, after today I reckon Anne will give me a pay rise when it comes under review next month.’

  ‘Slow down, Vanessa,’ he says, holding his hands up. ‘You’re getting overexcited. First of all, I want to continue saving for our deposit. The money your mother left is yours. I wouldn’t feel comfortable using it as a deposit. Plus, the repayments on a mortgage like that would be huge. We’d have no money for anything else.’

  ‘But it would be a home,’ I say, rubbing his arms. ‘I mean, this place is lovely but it’s tiny. We could really expand, have friends over for dinner, have a vegetable garden.’

  ‘No, Vanessa,’ he says, handing the phone back. ‘It’s also a renovation job. Look at the photos. It’s the kind of place a property developer will snap up and turn around in a few months. It’s for someone with the money to do it, not us. Those kind of places are notorious money pits. It’s too much of a risk.’

  He gets up and heads inside. Then, probably sensing my disappointment, he comes back out and kisses my head.

  ‘Our perfect home is out there somewhere, baby,’ he says gently. ‘But we just have to wait a little while. And as we both know, the best things come to those who wait. I waited years to find you. Right, give me ten minutes and I’ll have dinner ready.’

  ‘Okay.’

  When he’s back in the kitchen I get out my phone and retrieve the estate agent’s web page. I think back to this afternoon, how confident I had been when I delivered the presentation, how I had felt in control of my own destiny. This flat could be the next step in taking control, I think to myself as I scroll through the photos. Just as I have outgrown disposable fashion, so I should be moving on from renting. I need to start thinking about the future, need something to show for all my hard work.

  As I sit contemplating the flat my phone beeps. Sixteen Instagram notifications. I click on the app and see a stream of photos from Luna London, tagging me and the rest of the team, and congratulating us on our success. I smile. Today is a meaningful day. I’m about to click off the app when I see a post from Lottie, whose account I still follow. It’s a photo of the interior of a plane; a window to the left shows billowing clouds. I read the words underneath the photo with a heavy heart: ‘Off to find new adventures in South Africa.’ Accompanying the post are a series of hashtags and the name of the South African branch of the children’s charity Lottie works for.

  So that’s it, I think. She’s got a new job in a new country and didn’t even have the decency to tell me or to even attempt to clear the air before she left. It’s then, in that moment, that I make my mind up. Connor and Anne are right: I have changed. But I’ve changed for the better. It’s time to stop living in the past and move on.

  I hear Connor dishing up the food. He’ll be out here any minute so I’ll have to be fast. I open up the estate agent’s website and, before I know it, have added my name to the list of viewers for tomorrow’s open house. As the confirmation email pings into my inbox I feel a surge of excitement. This could be the beginning of a whole new life for us. If the flat is as perfect as I imagine it is then I’m sure I can talk Connor round.

  When I arrive at the flat just before 1 p.m. there is a large crowd of people already assembled outside. I join the back of the queue and when I reach the front a rather harried-looking young man, holding a clipboard and wearing a lanyard round his neck with JAMIE RICHARDS printed on it, asks me my name.

  ‘Ah, yes, there you are,’ he says, running a stubby finger down the list. ‘Vanessa Adams. Do go through, Miss Adams. We’re showing people round in groups of six. My colleague Dawn is inside and will happily answer any questions.’

  ‘Thanks, Jamie,’ I say, stepping into the rather dank hallway.

  I can see Dawn standing by what looks like the kitchen door with a group of men and women. One of them, a suited, balding man in his late fifties, lo
oks like a property developer. The rest are couples in their twenties. Dawn, a petite black woman, seems to be a lot more in control than Jamie on the door. I catch her talking about the flat’s ‘amazing potential’ as I join the group.

  As Dawn walks us from room to room I realize that Connor was right. This flat needs renovating from scratch. The floorboards are rotten, there are green damp patches climbing up the walls, there is a substance that looks suspiciously like asbestos hanging from the ceiling. Dawn suggests we see the garden but I hang back. Seeing it would only make me feel worse. I know I shouldn’t be taking this to heart so much – after all, this is only the first flat I have viewed – but I’d had such a good feeling about it. I’d let myself get carried away and created a fantasy of it in my head. Of course, the reality was never going to match up.

  Still, as I stand at the window of what appears to be the main bedroom, watching Dawn pointing out various features of the garden to the group, I can’t help thinking how time is slipping away from me. My parents were much younger than me when they bought their first place. Granted, house prices weren’t as insanely high when they were young and there was a lot more job security, but still I can’t shake the feeling that the home life I’ve been searching for since I was ten years old will never materialize.

  I step back from the window and look around the room, narrowing my eyes as I try to imagine Connor and me lying in bed in here. The thought of my neat-freak boyfriend even setting foot in this hovel makes me giggle. Someone has lived here though, I think to myself, as I see a stack of boxes piled up by the door. Probably an old person, judging by the dated kitchen units and peeling wallpaper. I take a peek into one of the boxes. It’s full of books. I read a few of the spines: Delia’s Complete Cookery Course, Jane Fonda’s Workout Book, The Day of the Jackal. It’s an eclectic mix. All headed for the charity shop by the looks of it, I think as I riffle through. There’s a small paperback wedged at the side of the box. I pull it out and a shiver flutters through my body. ‘Good grief,’ I whisper as I run my fingers over the embossed letters on the cover: The Spirits of Holly Maze House. I open it up and see that it has been signed by the author, Geoffrey Rivers.