After a terrible night, the sound of banging on the back door woke me. Scrambling to get out of the bath, I caught my feet in the tangled sheet, tipping me headlong onto the floor. Untwisting myself, while trying not to lose my jogging-bottoms in the process, I heard the door open and a man’s voice call my name.
Oh, pants. Only one guess for who that could be.
Managing to pull myself up, I snatched my glasses off the window sill, straightened my clothes and sprinted out of the bathroom, hoping at the very least to prevent him mounting the stairs.
We collided in the hallway, crashing into Mannequin Diana, who thankfully broke our fall. Righting himself, Mack hauled me to my feet.
‘Are you okay?’ He peered at me, still holding my arms with each hand.
‘What? Yes! Why wouldn’t I be? And what are you doing in my house? Don’t you knock and wait for an answer like normal people?’
Dropping my arms, he raised one eyebrow. ‘I did knock. For five minutes.’
‘So maybe I was out. Or not receiving visitors today.’
‘Or suffocating beneath an avalanche of junk. Or electrocuted by the lethal wiring in this place. Or trapped by the flood of storm water that has come in via your leaky roof, and somehow made its way through your wall and into my office.’
‘Say what?’ I blinked, my idiot, pre-coffee brain struggling to focus beyond how cold and bare my arms felt without his hands on them any more.
‘Water is leaking through the top of our adjoining wall into my office. The place in which I earn my living. Several documents are now destroyed, the floor is soaked and my laptop barely escaped with its life. If you could find it within yourself to “receive visitors”, I would be very grateful,’ he said pointedly.
‘Are you always this rude and sarcastic?’
‘While we discuss that issue, months of work will be drowning in the results of your DIY incompetence.’ He folded his arms, which were bulging with tension.
‘Excuse me! I’ve done nothing!’ I folded my arms right back at him, and made a vain attempt to stretch myself up to somewhere near his height.
‘If only that were true. For the past six years this house stood empty and derelict while managing to leave my side of the building undisturbed and intact. Now I have a broken window and a flood.’
‘I haven’t caused a flood! I actually repaired the leaks, in the middle of the night, using my own ingenuity and wits.
He sighed. ‘That’s what I was afraid of.’
‘I worked really hard! It took ages, and I got soaked in the process.’
‘Right. That would explain the hair. Now, if you’re finished bristling, can I see what’s causing the problem? That is, apart from you.’
I gaped. How dared he come into my house at whatever time it was in the morning and insult me like this?
‘How about we start with wherever you were fixing the leak?’
He didn’t go as far as making finger quote marks to frame those last three words, but his tone implied as much. I watched him climb the attic stairs, my simmering anger powering up the cogs of my brain.
‘Fine! As long as you don’t touch anything. And I didn’t think you’d noticed my hair!’
So, my rescue bin-bag job hadn’t quite turned out as planned. One side – the side nearest Mack’s house – of one of the holes – the hole nearest Mack’s house – had half peeled away, creating a sort of water slide, beginning at the hole and flowing towards – yes, Mack’s house. The water had run down the bin bag, poured onto the floor at the edge of the dividing wall, found a massive crack to gather in and presumably seeped through to the rooms beneath.
Mack looked at me. ‘Bin bags?’
‘I didn’t know what else to use.’
‘No. Not much lying around here you could use to board up a hole.’
I bit my cheek and tried to think of something to say other than sorry. I couldn’t.
‘I’m sorry. Has it really ruined months of work? I can try and help fix it, if you want.’
One side of his mouth twitched. ‘No. I don’t want.’
‘I did try.’ I blinked, hard.
He nodded. ‘Well. I’m sorry for being a sarcastic git. I didn’t get much sleep. Let’s check out the damage on your side, and then I’ll sort the roof before it rains again.’
He clattered down the steps, flinging open the door to the small bedroom before I could stop him. I thought I might have left my dirty wet clothes on the floor while rushing to change so I could look through the photos. If thought meant knew and might meant did and clothes meant underwear, that was.
But Mack getting an eyeful of my old knickers was nothing compared to my mortification after he then moved past me to the bathroom.
He paused in the doorway. Sidling up behind, I followed his gaze as it took in the sleeping bag, the pile of photographs and a battered novel on the wooden table I had positioned beside the bath. At least I’d moved my food supplies into the small bedroom with my clothes.
‘It all looks fine,’ he said, abruptly turning away, and pretending to examine the landing ceiling. ‘I think the attic wall must not be flush with the walls on this level, which is why it all ended up on my side.’
‘I’m really sorry.’ I stared at a stuffed chipmunk, aware I sounded as wretched as I felt. ‘Can I clean up your office while you fix the holes?’
His face shut down then, with a clang – making me realise how much it had previously softened. Yes, Jenny, softened with pity for the useless woman sleeping in a bath and surviving on cold baked beans and tins of tuna.
‘No. It’s fine.’
‘Right.’ I nodded. ‘It’s understandable you don’t trust me with your stuff.’
He sighed. ‘No. It isn’t that. Well, not just that. My work is extremely… private.’ He attempted a smile. ‘I’d appreciate a cup of tea, though. As long as it’s from the kettle in the bedroom, not the kitchen.’
‘Are you a spy?’ I sat the tea on one of the less manky attic boxes.
Mack glanced down, holding a sheet of wood against the roof, two nails in his mouth.
‘Okay, so if you told me would you have to kill me?’ I said.
He deliberately took one of the nails out of his mouth, placed it carefully in position and swung the hammer on to it so hard the roof shook.
‘Because if you are a spy, I could be a threat. Like, a counter-spy sent to discover all your secrets. My bumbling incompetence would be an excellent ploy, to lure you into coming to my rescue, and then wheedle out your secrets by lulling you into a false sense of security. As demonstrated by you revealing where you keep your secret spy documents.’ I took a nonchalant mouthful of tea.
‘Are you trying to lure me?’ he asked, removing the second nail from his mouth.
I choked, spluttering and coughing for a couple of minutes while he finished one repair and moved on to the next.
‘Well, obviously I’m not a spy. It was a theory, pointing out that if you’re a spy you aren’t a very good one.’ My voice came out rough from coughing.
‘Maybe I’m a good enough spy to know you aren’t a spy.’
‘But what if an enemy spy takes me hostage, and tortures me to discover where you keep your information?’
He reached down for more nails. I completely disregarded how his back muscles stretched the T-shirt. ‘Why wouldn’t they search my house first?’
‘Because kidnapping me would be more fun?’
He laughed then. A loud bark that made tea slop out of my mug when I jerked in surprise.
‘Fun. Right.’ He brushed off the dust from his hands, and picked up his drink. Taking a slow sip, he watched me, the smile still lingering in his eyes. ‘I’m not a spy.’
‘What, then? Holed up by yourself all day working on secrets. Are you an inventor? Or a computer hacker?’
‘What I am is late. This’ll hold for now, but you need to get a roofer to tile it properly. Thanks for the tea.’ He downed the rest of the mug, and left.
Still embarrassed by Mack seeing the state of the kitchen, and my makeshift food-preparation area upstairs, I decided to forego my morning walk to the Common and spend the day working on the cupboards and counter-tops. I lugged the fridge an inch at a time outside, dumping it next to the mattress, and began sorting through the stacks of pots and crockery, deciding what to keep and what could be sold. Scouring, sorting, dumping anything that was chipped, cracked or broken and plunging the rest in scalding-hot water turned out to be a great way to scrub away some shame at the same time. I kept going until my arms couldn’t lift another pan.
Had many of my thoughts drifted towards the cottage next door? Maybe. A little. Until I felt sick and tired of my mind’s refusal to stop wondering about him. I had ended up here, in a home unfit for livestock, friendless and skint, through wondering about a handsome face and clever repartee. I needed to learn some DIY skills, fast, so that visits from the mystery man next door could stop.
Only the discovery of another photograph succeeded in switching my thoughts to something less frustrating. My grandmother again, an enormous baby bump stretching her cardigan as she pressed her hands against her back. She stood, grinning, several metres in front of the cottage. There was a chicken pecking at the neat gravel path by her feet, to the side a vegetable garden, runner-bean vines wrapped around a row of canes. Overflowing hanging-baskets either side of the door.
Tears pricked my eyes as I gazed at the hopes and the dreams contained in that picture. The cottage had been a home, back then. Without a single weed or crack or smear. I propped the photograph up against the kitchen window, more determined than ever to make it a home once again.
Saturday, after a morning bustling with walkers wanting to make the most of the sunshine, I helped Sarah clean up the café.
‘Got any plans this evening?’ Sarah asked.
‘Um… a cosy night in with a book and a packet of crisps. Maybe a bath?’
I didn’t add that the book, a heart-thumping bestseller by author Hillary West, was curling from damp, the crisps would be my evening meal and the bath wouldn’t have any water in it.
‘Fancy a girls’ night?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never been on one. What happens?’ I swiped the hair out of my eyes with one arm.
‘We’ll have a drink and eat pizza. Crank up my girl-power playlist. Discuss why we don’t need duds in our lives. Or, I dunno. Whatever you want. I’ve never been on one either.’
Another night away from Grime Cottage? Yes, please.
I cycled back to said cottage, hurrying past Mack’s side. Going straight upstairs to look for potential girls’-night snacks, I took a moment to realise that the bedroom was different. With a start, I spun around and stared, goggle-eyed, at the bedstead.
Or, should I say, the mattress on top of the bedstead. The thick white duvet on top of the mattress. The brightly coloured patchwork quilt on top of the duvet. The massive pillows.
I touched the duvet. Smelt it. Leant over and pressed my cheek against the pillow. Turned it back and found a crisp white sheet underneath. Climbed on top, my muscles trembling, and lay staring at the ceiling, tears trickling into my ears.
This was exactly what I was talking about. A man who said nothing to my face about discovering my circumstances, but broke into my house and made me a bed with a trillion thread counts and the scent of vanilla. Who was this man? Did he like me, or feel sorry for me?
Right then, I was finding it very hard to care.
I sprang awake several minutes later, jumped in and out of the shower, flung on a nearly clean pair of jeans and jumper and used my rested and refreshed muscles to power myself to the Common in record time.
I sat at the breakfast bar in Sarah’s little flat while we sprinkled cheese on homemade pizzas, chatting about nothing much.
Once we’d taken our glasses of wine to the squishy sofas, she got serious. ‘So, what about this bloke who broke your heart, then?’ Sarah counted the questions off on her fingers. ‘How did you meet? Why did you fall for him? How long were you together? Why did it end?’
I took a gulp of wine. ‘Do you want GCSE grades and medical history, too?’
‘Not unless it’s relevant. I’ll go first, if you want.’
I nodded. ‘I do want.’
‘Edison’s dad – Sean – wasn’t bad-looking before he turned into a slob, but reckoned himself to be a demi-god. And, being sixteen and an idiot, I believed him.’
She went on to describe how, after a turbulent, on-off relationship, she became pregnant, ditching her college plans and moving in with Sean in the hope that they could make a go of things. That lasted until the day Edison was born when, during a flaming row in the hospital, she told him it was over. With her mum’s help she just about balanced motherhood with working at her grandma’s café, becoming manager after her gran retired and moving into the flat. By that time, the food was ready. We ate in comfortable silence for a while before Sarah decided it was my turn.
‘Okay.’ I took a deep breath, and a large bite of carrot cake. ‘Richard was my boss.’
‘Oh, no.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘That is never going to end well.’
‘It certainly didn’t. I’d been a PA at the law firm where my sister worked for a few years, when he joined. He was the youngest partner, and all the clichés – charismatic, arrogant, flashy. He took about four months to make a move. I couldn’t believe the office hunk had kissed me of all people. So I didn’t protest about spending the next eighteen months sneaking around, meeting up in secluded restaurants, fumbling behind locked office doors.’
‘Yuck.’ Sarah grimaced. ‘Eighteen months?’
I puffed out a sigh. ‘I wanted to believe he really cared about me. I clung to every glimmer of hope: the expensive gifts; secret looks across the conference table; the times he called late at night because he had to see me; saying he couldn’t manage without me.’
‘But you wised up eventually.’
‘Yeah.’ I let out a laugh. Not a pleasant one. ‘Him proposing to my sister was a pretty good hint.’
‘Shut the front door!’ Sarah leant forwards. ‘What happened?’
I took a deep breath and told her.
A team from the office had spent two months working in Paris, on a big case. For reasons I now knew to be Zara’s evil schemes, I wasn’t part of the team, but Richard fabricated excuses for me to fly over a couple of times, and we were in contact most days about work. I’d never told Zara about my relationship, but we shared an apartment, so she must have at least suspected. When she decided it was time to snag herself a man, Richard was an obvious choice. I didn’t know what happened in Paris. But then a ring box arrived on the day of the office Christmas party, and the gossip quickly spread. Richard was going to propose.
‘And you thought… Flip, Jenny. That is so crap.’ Sarah took hold of my arm. ‘Hang on a minute, I’ll just check on Ed before you tell me the rest.’
She topped up our glasses on the way back, the buzz of wine after several weeks’ abstinence probably contributing to my ability to continue the story.
‘It all happened as you’d expect. Me, sweating in my best dress, trying to catch his eye across the room. Champagne, a speech about how much this person meant to him, how he admired their ambition and the success they’d achieved against the odds. And, to clarify – the only odd my sister ever had to deal with was me. I stood there, a total fool, clutching my glass and grinning away, subconsciously inching closer to the front ready for my big moment. And when it finally came, and he got down on one knee…’
‘Wait.’ Sarah flapped her hands in disgust. ‘He proposed at the office party?’
‘It’s hard to explain, but Dougal and Duff is more than a workplace. It’s their whole lives. Like something out of a John Grisham novel.’
‘Remind me never to read one of those. I’m more of a Hillary West fan.’
‘I love her books. This was nothing like that.’ I pulled a tissue from the flowery box on the coffee table and blew my nose. ‘So, anyway. At first, I thought he’d got flustered, when he knelt down facing the opposite way. I even waved to get his attention. Which unfortunately meant I got a load of other people’s attention instead. He had eyes for one person only.’
‘You poor thing,’ Sarah whispered. ‘You must have been properly gutted.’
‘Weirdly, no. Not at the time.’ I shrugged. ‘As I realised what was happening, I saw Zara flick her eyes over to me, with this look, and something inside me, like, burst, you know?’
She nodded.
‘Twenty-eight years of jealousy and insecurity. That’s another story, really, but pressure to keep up with Zara led to a nervous breakdown when I was nineteen. And then I’d had to accept her handout job and spare room after screwing up my future. I’d lived in her shadow my whole life. Felt grateful when she passed on her barely worn clothes, or the rare times she let me sit in on her dinner parties. Worked my butt off in that firm because I owed it to her. Tidied, ran errands, apologised, bowed and scraped. And then she took the one thing I’d managed to earn myself. And, yes, I do know how wrong it sounds that I thought I’d earned Richard’s attention. So, basically, I flipped. Violence ensued, hair got yanked out, food tables toppled – and I broke her new plastic nose. The police were called…’
‘Wow. You got arrested?’
‘She decided not to press charges – for the firm’s sake, not mine.’
‘But you lost your job.’
‘Yep. And for obvious reasons, I moved out.’
‘It sounds like you’re better off here.’ Sarah gave my hand a squeeze. ‘I know me and Ed are better off having you here.’
‘Sure you don’t mind a violent criminal who beat up her sister working in your café?’
‘Are you kidding?’ She snorted. ‘You sound like a handy woman to have around.’
I wobbled back home at around half-ten, the bike’s lamp casting a weak silver glow on the path in front of me. The woods around were so dark that the black seemed to have texture – like treacle. I mumbled the rap we’d composed earlier about all the reasons we were better off single, but it made a poor job of drowning out the snaps and creaks of the forest, the rustles and hoots. I felt properly spooked by the time I reached home, and grateful for the soft yellow light peeking from the edge of Mack’s blind. I tramped upstairs, wondering whether, if I did manage to sleep in my lovely new bed, my dreams would be about the man who lived next door, and whether they would be dreams, or nightmares.