Our local property specialist clearly wasn’t a parking specialist, I thought, noting that one of the car’s wheels had mounted the sidewalk. I found a space round the corner for my own car and stepped out, leaving my bags in the trunk for now.
I paused outside the front door, composing myself in readiness for what I might find inside. The door itself had been freshly painted with a smooth black skin, and the knocker, letter box and door number were new, a matte stainless steel. The lock was new, too, I realised, which meant my keys would no longer open it.
If I needed a reminder that this was no longer my home, I thought with a wrench of sadness as I reached for the knocker, here it was.
A guy in a cheap shiny suit and a pink shirt and tie answered my knock, reaching out straight away to shake my hand with a too-firm grip.
‘You must be Sloane. Oliver Bridges. But everyone calls me Ollie. Come on in – we’re just taking an initial look around this very exciting property.’
I forced a smile, suppressing a surge of sadness that our house had become, in the mind of this chirpy young man with his carefully styled quiff of brown hair and the remains of a shaving rash on his neck, just another asset to be marketed.
I followed him down the hallway and into the centre of the house. Light streamed in through the expanse of glass leading to the garden, and through the roof light I could see a rectangle of blue sky. The steel worktop on the kitchen island reflected the light, making it almost too bright to look at. The new appliances stood in their places, spotless and unused.
I turned to the living room and saw two new, pale grey chesterfields. There was a new rug on the floor, also in tones of grey and silver. The walls were painted grey too, and a white-framed mirror hung over the fireplace.
‘It’s a perfect blank canvas,’ Ollie enthused. ‘Just waiting for a new owner to stamp their personality on it. But of course, it’s ready to move right in to. The purchaser will be able to do as much or as little as they like. You’ve created quite a gem here, Sloane.’
‘I left most of the decisions to my husband,’ I said. Even to me, my voice sounded wooden.
Ollie looked uncomfortable. ‘Of course. It must be useful to have a professional in the family, haha.’
‘Very useful.’
I looked around again, remembering with a pang all Bianca’s talk about a shared vision, French-navy walls and pink velvet upholstery. At the time, I’d been far from convinced by her ideas, but now they seemed infinitely preferable to this austere, characterless space.
‘Shall I show you upstairs?’ I asked. I hadn’t seen it myself, not since the loft extension had been finished and a hole bashed through what had been our landing ceiling.
‘Absolutely!’
Clutching his iPad, Ollie followed me up the stairs.
Our bedroom looked more lived-in, at least: one of Myles’s suits was hanging from the door handle in a plastic dry cleaner’s bag, a pair of trainers was half-kicked under the bed and I could smell my husband’s cologne hanging in the air. The spicy, cedarwood smell was like a punch in the stomach, a searingly painful reminder of how much I’d loved him.
But even more painful was the realisation that to do what he had done to me, he couldn’t have felt the same way.
‘I’m just up here,’ Myles’s voice called from the new staircase that wound up into what used to be the roof, a space where I’d been too scared of mice and spiders to ever go.
For the first time, and I supposed the last, I climbed the stairs. Myles was standing by the new window that overlooked the garden. The room had been arranged as an office, with a desk holding a computer and printer. On one wall was a door leading the new en-suite bathroom; against the other stood my lovingly restored vintage armoire.
Myles turned away from the window and looked at me. Neither of us smiled.
‘A delightful space,’ Ollie enthused. ‘Perfect for guests, older children, or as you’ve arranged it, as a work-from-home haven.’
Children. The word transported me back to Vivienne’s bathroom, where, the previous night, I’d felt life literally drain out of me. I wondered how Myles would feel if I told him, but it was pointless to speculate – I knew that I never would. Ollie had joined Myles by the window, and they were both looking down into the garden.
‘Of course, there’s a huge amount of uncertainty in the market right now. Some agents will tell you property like this is always in demand, and they’re right. But I’m not going to lie – not like some others – and tell you that you’ll achieve top dollar for this home. Not in today’s market. My recommendation – assuming you’re after a quick sale – would be to price realistically and be flexible. We’ll throw all our efforts into marketing the property for you…’
I couldn’t help myself tuning him out as he explained about the websites where the house would be listed, the glossy brochures that would be printed, the number of people on Walkerson’s books who’d expressed interest in a home just like this, in this highly desirable area, close as it was to parks, schools, nightlife and, of course, central London.
‘All things being equal,’ he finished, ‘assuming you want to have accepted a decent offer by Christmas, I’d suggest we market the property initially at…’
And he named a figure so dizzyingly high that, for a second, I felt my heart leap with wild hope in my chest. It was way more than double what we’d paid for the house, five years before when we’d seen it and fallen in love with it as recklessly and joyfully as we’d fallen for each other. It was more money than I’d ever dreamed of having in my life.
And then the practical part of my brain kicked in. I remembered the huge mortgage we’d taken out back then, and the huge additional mortgage that had been intended to pay for the renovation.
‘It doesn’t matter, sweetheart,’ Myles had said. ‘It’s only numbers. It doesn’t mean anything until we decide to sell, and we’re not going to, are we? Because we’re building our dream home right here, and we’re going to stay for another twenty years at least.’
At the time, I’d agreed willingly, even though the numbers spun through my head at night in a terrifying blur. He was right, I’d told myself – it was only numbers. If we ever wanted to move, it would be ages down the track. The house would, inexorably, increase in value, and the money we’d poured into making it bigger and more modern would recoup itself over and over in the quality of our and our children’s lives.
But we had no children, and now we never would. There was no Myles and Sloane any more; no marriage. Just this empty shell waiting for someone else to make their life in it. That, and hundreds of thousands of pounds we owed to the bank – a debt that was the last thing we’d ever have together.
‘We’ll give it some thought,’ Myles was saying. ‘I’ll ring you in a couple of days. Of course we’ll be getting other valuations too. Thanks for your time, Ollie – it was good to meet you.’
He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. ‘I’ve a meeting in twenty minutes, so I’d better get my skates on. Sloane will show you the garden and anything else you’d like to look at, and see you out.’
He shook Ollie’s hand, wincing at the vice-like grip, and turned to leave, then paused as if he was noticing me for the first time. But he didn’t say anything; he just patted my shoulder briefly and hurried away down the stairs.
I followed more slowly, Ollie trailing behind me taking photographs and making notes, occasionally making a flattering remark about the quality of the workmanship, the light, the space, the enviable location.
I couldn’t speak – I felt like my mouth was filled with cold marbles, or blocks of ice, which were rising up from the choking lump in my throat.
I’m not going to cry until he’s gone, I promised myself. I’m not going to make a fool of myself, or embarrass this poor guy who’s only doing his job.
I managed to hold it together, producing one-word responses to his questions, inhaling the strange newness of the house, the s
mell of paint that was everywhere.
At last, Ollie said, ‘Right, I think I’m done here, Sloane. Lovely to meet you. I’ll look forward to hearing from you or your other half once you’ve made a decision. Don’t hesitate to give me a bell if you’ve got any questions.’
And he swung open the front door and strutted off towards his waiting Beetle, already making a call on his phone, off to his next appointment.
I waited by the door for as long as I could endure, until I was completely sure he wasn’t going to come bustling back to ask me a question or pick up something he’d forgotten. And then I returned to the living room, that grey space washed with winter light. The tree in the garden was bare of leaves; the few pots of herbs I’d grown held only blackened sticks now. As I watched, a magpie alighted on the ground and began to hop purposefully around.
‘One for sorrow,’ I said aloud, and then I turned and subsided, limp with despair, onto one of the grey sofas, my head in my hands.
I’d thought earlier that I was running out of road; now, I felt like I was falling off a cliff. I had nowhere to go. I had almost no money, at least until the house was sold and the mortgage paid off. I’d have to look for a flat to rent. But in the meantime? The prospect of moving back in here, with or without Myles in the house, was unthinkable.
It was him – his careless cruelty, his self-indulgence, his belief that he was entitled to one final fling with that pretty blonde girl who’d believed she was in love – that had brought us to this situation. If the pregnancy that hadn’t even properly begun had been real, had carried on, it would have been his actions that would have led to his child growing up without ever knowing what it was like to have two parents who loved each other.
I couldn’t bear to breathe the same air as him, never mind live with him, even temporarily.
Up until now, I realised, I’d been existing in a kind of limbo, waiting for something to happen that would set my life back on track – or on a different course altogether. Now, I supposed, Ollie had provided a kind of closure – a kind of impetus that would force me to properly move on. But where to?
Hearing the sound of keys in the front door, I leaped to my feet, heart pounding in alarm, and hurried to the hallway.
But it was only Wayne and Shane.
‘Hiya, Sloane,’ Wayne said cheerily. ‘We’re all done here, as you can see. We just dropped in to collect the last of our gear and leave the keys. What do you think? Looks all right, doesn’t it?’
‘That’s a cracking kitchen you’ve got,’ Shane said. ‘Just right. You’ll be able to have your mates there, drinking cocktails by the island while you cook up a storm, right?’
Then there was a moment of silence, and I saw in their faces that they’d remembered the situation with Myles and me, and that we’d never be hosting a cosy evening with friends in that kitchen.
Wayne cleared his throat. ‘I was sorry to hear you and him indoors were having problems.’
‘It’s a difficult time,’ Shane said, looking down at his work boots. ‘I hope you’re all right.’
It was pathetic, but their kindness completely did for me. I heard a wailing sound, realised it was coming from me, and a second later I’d collapsed to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, sobbing my heart out.
‘Here, Sloane, love,’ Wayne said. ‘Don’t cry. It’ll be okay.’
‘Why don’t I make you a nice cup of tea?’ Shane said.
Twenty-Six
I spent that night in the house with Myles. I had to – I’d nowhere else to go. Like two goldfish in a bowl, we circled around each other, not communicating. Politely, he said he was going to order a takeaway and asked whether I was hungry. Equally formally, I said yes, thank you, I was. Would I prefer Chinese or Indian, he asked, like he was talking to a stranger. I said I didn’t mind and would be happy with whatever he preferred.
It turned out that what he preferred was chilli paneer, chilli mushrooms and lamb vindaloo, all served with a side order of passive aggression – he knew perfectly well I couldn’t stand spicy food. But I refused to get into an argument, put some rice and naan bread on my plate and ate in the kitchen with my laptop, while he watched football on TV with the sound turned up loud.
As soon as I’d finished, I went upstairs and spent the night lying in the spare bedroom, sleepless, all my senses on high alert as I heard Myles moving about the house, using the bathroom and at last going to sleep himself, in what had been our bedroom, where he snored thunderously all night.
As soon as the square of darkness that filled the window began to lighten almost imperceptibly to grey, I got up. I showered and dressed silently, not because I gave a single fuck about disturbing Myles’s beauty sleep, but because I couldn’t face another minute of the leaden, toxic atmosphere, which was lightened slightly by him being asleep.
I went downstairs, grateful for the carpet that deadened the sound of my footsteps, and opened the front door. It was cold; the sky was a bleached non-colour somewhere between grey and blue and a brisk wind sent dead leaves scudding along the sidewalk.
It was too early to go to work. I pulled on trainers and a coat, put my work things in my car and started walking. Instead of heading north as I usually did, through the park and towards the river, I found myself making my way south, through unfamiliar streets lined with blocks of flats and rows of unprepossessing modern houses. I passed rows of shops: fried chicken takeaways, bookmakers and vape shops, mostly – signs of an area that had fallen on hard times. Or perhaps times here had always been hard.
I turned off the main road, into another residential street. Apart from the occasional runner and a handful of commuters waiting gloomily at a bus stop, the roads were deserted – it was not yet seven. I imagined the scenes behind all those closed doors – parents hustling their children out of bed and into their school uniforms; lovers snatching a precious last few minutes under their duvet together; dogs padding around behind their owners, eager for breakfast. One of the doors, I noticed as I passed, was open. I paused, curious, wondering if I was about to catch a glimpse of the lives of the people inside.
And then I heard a woman’s voice. ‘Oh, holy Jesus, come on, you bastard fecking thing!’
In the doorway, a couch appeared – or what had once been a couch. The fabric was ripped away from its sides and I could see springs poking out at odd angles. Pushing it towards the open door was a woman in her fifties.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ I asked. ‘Sorry to intrude – I was just passing and you look like you’re struggling there.’
She looked at me for a second, suspicious, and then said, ‘Oh go on then. If you don’t mind. Thank you.’
I grabbed the other end of the ungainly piece of furniture and, together, we wrestled it out onto the sidewalk.
‘The council are coming this morning to pick this up, and a load of other stuff,’ the woman said, panting from her exertions. ‘My tenants did a midnight flit without paying their rent and left a load of junk behind. I’m trying to clear it all out so I can get the house back on the market.’
‘Well, let me help you. It’s not a job for one person. My name’s Sloane Cassidy, by the way.’
‘Eileen Murphy. And you’re some kind of guardian angel, you know that?’
Together, we trudged back into the house and got to work.
‘I used to live here myself,’ Eileen explained as we carted broken bookshelves, a chair with one leg snapped off, a hoover with its entrails spilling out and boxes full of old newspapers out of the house. ‘But then my daughter had a baby, so I moved back to Dublin to help her out. I thought renting the house out would be easy, but I’ve had one nightmare after another. I’m done with it now – I’m selling it and I don’t care if I make a loss. It’s not worth the hassle.’
In my mind, a small spark of hope ignited, but I kept quiet and kept lifting and moving.
‘There we go,’ I said at last. ‘Job done.’
‘Really, I can’t thank you enough. I’d o
ffer you a cup of tea, but the kettle’s broken and the gas has been cut off, so…’
‘That’s all right,’ I replied. ‘I should probably head off to work any— What was that noise?’
We both turned and looked into the house.
‘What noise? I didn’t hear anything.’
‘I’m sure I did.’
I stepped into the hallway and stood, listening. There was silence, then that sound again, a muffled wail. It came again, louder, and I heard a rhythmic thudding sound on the stairs.
‘Oh my God,’ Eileen said. ‘Those gobshites have only gone and left their bloody cat behind, too.’
A silver tabby cat, eyes wide and alarmed, had appeared at the top of the stairs. It paused for a second when it saw us, then came dashing down towards us, meowing at the top of its voice, and started twining itself around our legs.
‘Hello.’ I squatted down and caressed the silken head. ‘Are you hungry? Is that what’s the matter?’
‘Poor wee mite,’ Eileen said. ‘That’s all I need! Now I’ll have to get the cat to a shelter today, on top of everything else.’
All in a rush, I heard myself say, ‘Look, I’ve got an idea. You need a tenant; I need somewhere to live. My husband and I are splitting up, and I was going to start looking for a place this week. But if I move in here, the cat could stay. I’ll pay what they were paying. We can get an agent to draw up a proper contract. I won’t trash the place, I promise.’
Eileen and the cat both gave me almost identical, hard stares.
‘No,’ Eileen said. ‘I don’t reckon you would.’
Three hours later, I was sitting at my desk as if this was just another normal day. But instead of getting on with work, I was staring blankly at the estate agent’s contract in front of me, in between staring blankly at my online banking.
Oh my fucking days, what have I gone and done?
I’d only gone and signed a six-month lease on a ramshackle two-bedroom house in a sketchy area. One that came with a free cat. Who would need – in addition to the food and water bowls, litter tray and blanket I’d bought for her in a smash-and-grab raid on the local high street – to be taken to the vet, fed twice a day and generally taken care of to an extent that I wasn’t even sure I was capable of taking care of myself.
No, We Can't Be Friends: A totally perfect romantic comedy Page 24