Richard couldn’t remember when he first became aware of Zoe. He remembered putting money in the envelope for Amanda’s leaving present and feeling vaguely sorry: Amanda was patient and kind, and when clients came into the building, they often said, ‘The lady on your front desk’s lovely.’ And he noticed when her place was taken by a younger woman, who didn’t look quite right. When she agreed, in an amiable but slightly blank way, to order a bike or look after a package, he didn’t absolutely believe she would. He was mildly surprised to see her there, week after week, but truthfully, he didn’t think too much about it. Sometimes he felt guilty for not making more of an effort with the people that surrounded him; he wondered if he ought to be more like Martin, who called the men in the postroom ‘Chief’ and said, ‘Morning, you,’ to the woman in the coffee shop, but he never managed it. So when Martin came in one morning, pointed a finger at him and said, ‘Sorted out someone for your basement: Zoe,’ he had no idea who he was talking about.
It was embarrassing to have to be introduced to Zoe, given that he walked past her every day. When he looked at her properly for the first time, he saw immediately why she didn’t fit: there was something hopeless and inauthentic about her attempts to look smart. There was a hole underneath her bottom lip, her pale blue nail varnish was chipped, and the white shirt she wore was thin and slightly too big. She also looked absurdly young. Martin had told him she was twenty-seven and it made him feel exhausted. Most days, he still believed he was in his late twenties, but looking at Zoe’s unlined skin, it became very clear he wasn’t and hadn’t been for some time. He was disarmed by how loquacious she was: she seemed genuinely interested in living in his house, which was extraordinary, but she was also bright and interesting, telling him that she’d resigned from a job in marketing without another one to go to, so she could ‘focus on more creative stuff’. She was temping on reception but she was about to leave because she’d just been offered a job in an art shop.
It immediately felt necessary to make it clear that he was not an ordinary lawyer, and in an almost involuntary non-sequitur, he blurted out: ‘I’m part-time here, you see, because I’m also working on a Master’s in Renaissance Studies. I’m going to do a PhD next year, if I get funding. I’m going to become an academic.’ Suddenly, in front of Zoe, this plan, which in his head seemed so audacious and had sustained him for the last two years, was punctured and collapsed. I’m going to become an academic – even his career change sounded dull. But still, he came away from their encounter buoyed, and a little charged. He wondered if Zoe might bring something to the household, do more for them than simply solve a financial problem.
*
The day after it was decided, Richard made his way home with a rare bubble of elation rising inside him. He had been ambushed by spontaneous bouts of happiness since they’d moved: from the day they’d first seen the house, it had felt like a charm or fate. He knew not everyone could see it – they were the only people to offer in the end – but that only made it more special. It had a light only visible to him.
After years of feeling restless and in the wrong place, things were starting to take shape. He was now a family man – a status that still felt new and unreal, but that he liked: it gave him ballast and purpose. He’d found the courage to make changes – not the wild, dramatic life changes he’d once longed for, just a series of adjustments, year by year: part-time hours, starting his MA.
And now they had the house to hold everything together. If he ever felt anxious and questions started crowding in – what would he do if he didn’t get funding, what if he couldn’t find a job, what if it was just another dead-end after all – he would remember the house. He hoped they would never have to sell it, but they would know it was there if they needed it: a London property they’d renovated during a housing boom. A shrewd investment; one success he could be sure of. All he had to do was make it work.
He was building a maquette in his imagination. He spent hours moulding and stretching it, extending rooms, constructing walls, creating doors, skylights, staircases. He filled it with kitchen islands, roll-top baths and king-sized beds. He wallpapered, upholstered, sanded floorboards and painted skirting boards. He spent days thinking about ‘Cat’s Paw’ versus ‘Lamp Room Grey’, whether Fired Earth tiles were a good investment, and if they should paint small rooms in strong colours. He could spend days tiling an imaginary kitchen.
It was true they hadn’t planned to buy somewhere that needed so much work or borrow so much money, and he knew that Eleanor was still unsure, almost squeamish, about it. And she’d been worried about finding someone for the basement. Although he hadn’t said anything, it had made him anxious too, this unusable, expensive space beneath his house, decay and hopelessness emanating upwards. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live there. But now he had found Zoe, and she was fascinating and creative and intelligent. Perhaps she would even help with babysitting.
He put his key in the yellow door, thinking about paint colours – dark grey, perhaps, or navy – and door furniture. It was a Wednesday evening and he felt the lightness he always felt, knowing he was finished with the office for the week. He now faced two whole days working on his Master’s in his new study: the epicentre of the life he was building. He saw Eleanor sitting on the floor of the living room, playing with Rosie and Isobel, and felt a rush of excitement and love. He was certain they were all at the start of something. He just needed her to see it too.