‘Wow!’ Donovan said. ‘This is incredible!’
A tentative buzz of relief pulsed behind my breastbone. I eased the front door closed behind me, then turned and kept my back to the wall as Donovan stepped forwards into the open-plan living area, unbuttoning his coat with one hand.
I was alone with a strange man in my house.
I was having difficulty wrapping my head around that.
My heart began to race. I could feel the knot in my stomach beginning to tighten.
Taking a slow, deep breath, I glanced again at the front door. It was still right there. Still within reach.
I could let myself out any time I needed to, even if my brain was right now doing everything it could to convince me otherwise.
‘Do you like it, then?’ I asked.
‘It’s stunning.’
I tore my gaze away from the door, my scalp tingling not unpleasantly despite my anxiety, the same way it sometimes does when I’m in the salon having my hair cut and styled.
It was a nice thing to hear. Bottom line, we had to sell, but secretly I wanted whoever bought this place to love it as much as we did. I knew we couldn’t afford to be picky, but it would mean something to me if we could find a buyer who appreciated all our hard work.
‘This colour?’ He pointed to the walls and for the first time I took a small step forwards, circling my thumb and forefinger around my left wrist to stop myself from scratching nervously.
‘It took us ages to find the right shade of white.’
‘It just . . . lifts the whole space.’
‘We like to think so.’
That had been one of the biggest challenges of the renovation process. The house had been so dark before. The sash windows were cracked and grimy. The walls were covered in layers and layers of dark floral wallpaper. The coving and cornices were crusted and damaged, and had been painted a strange mottled brown that had the appearance of nicotine stains.
I’d wanted to change all that. Breathe fresh life into every room.
‘Is this fireplace original?’
‘Yes.’ Another small step forwards. ‘I really love the veins in the marble,’ I told him.
‘And the tiles?’
‘They’re replacements. The original tiles were too damaged to keep but I took pictures and sourced the ones you can see in a reclamation yard. We wanted any changes to be as sympathetic as they could be.’
‘Original floorboards?’ he asked, flexing on the balls of his feet.
‘Yes. Every one of them.’
And didn’t I know it. The floorboards had been a true labour of love. I’d lifted the tattered carpets that had concealed them, then sanded the boards back, cleaned them, varnished them, filling every crevice of the house with dust. I’d worn safety goggles and a mask for the sanding work but it hadn’t stopped me from being plagued by a dry cough for weeks afterwards.
Donovan squatted and smoothed his gloved fingertips over the finish before looking up at me for a lingering moment.
‘Listen, if I don’t end up buying this place, will you give me the name of your builders? The care and workmanship that’s gone into this is really something.’
I teetered.
‘I could,’ I told him, ‘but it wouldn’t help you. We did nearly all of it ourselves.’
‘Seriously?’ He looked amazed. ‘Is your boyfriend in the trade?’
‘No.’ I actually laughed. ‘Sam’s a lecturer in psychology and behavioural sciences at LSE.’
And he would be the first to admit he wasn’t a natural at DIY. Sam was tall and gangly with a head of spiky, permanently unruly dark hair. I loved him, but he was much more suited to ordering smashed avocado on toast and an oat milk macchiato at our local hipster cafe than he was at putting up a set of shelves. It had sometimes been excruciating to watch him struggle to heft bags of damp plaster and rubble out to one of the many skips we’d had deposited in the street outside.
‘And you?’ Donovan asked.
I lifted my shoulders. ‘It’s amazing what you can learn by reading books.’
‘Why does something tell me you’re being too modest?’
‘Well, I do have a bit of a background in interior design.’
‘Ah. That explains it.’ He glanced around again from his crouched position, the soles of his tan brogues squeaking against the floor.
‘But we didn’t cut any corners, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ I said quickly. ‘Refurbishing this place has been my life for the past couple of years.’
There was more truth to that than he knew. Probably more than I wanted to admit. For a long time I’d felt bad that I wasn’t earning a wage and paying my way because my fledgling interior design business had failed to take off. Gradually, though, Sam had convinced me I was the one doing him a favour. I could oversee all the renovation and design work for him and I could help him save on labour costs. And when we were finished, he could apply his photography skills to take shots of the finished house for a design portfolio I could present to future clients. Supposing I could ever summon the courage to put myself out there again . . .
‘Did you buy the house as a project?’
‘No. It belonged to Sam’s grandparents before us. They lived here from the early sixties, but obviously the house is Victorian originally.’
‘Right.’ Donovan rose up and advanced towards the bay window, carefully separating the shutter blinds we’d installed and analysing the sash units they concealed. ‘May I?’
‘Please.’
He unscrewed the security bolt holding the nearest window shut and eased the sash upwards. It glided freely on the hidden counterweight system until it hit the buffer about two-thirds of the way up.
‘You had these replaced?’ he asked, rubbing the timber.
‘In the end we did. We went backwards and forwards on it, but ultimately we decided it would be better to have double glazing installed rather than keeping the original single-pane glass. We paid good money for authentic frames.’
A rush of noise swept in from the street. The drone of a passing car engine. A shout from one of the builders nearby. The repetitive chirp of a warning signal on a reversing vehicle.
The backbeat to the city.
It was always reassuring to me that there were so many people and so much going on around us. But even so, it was gratifying to hear how muffled the sounds became when Donovan closed the window and retightened the bolt.
I watched him gently swing the shutter blinds back into position, tilting the blades, admiring the mechanism, humming to himself. His eyes seemed to go inwards for a second, as if his mind was elsewhere.
‘All this work.’ He turned to face me, adjusting the fit of his gloves. Perhaps I should have set the thermostat a degree higher. ‘Why are you selling, if you don’t mind my asking?’
Because we have to.
But instead I summoned a smile and gave him the prepared response – the one we’d given to Bethany.
‘We love the house, and it’s been tough to put it on the market, but we made the decision that it was time for us to leave London as a couple.’
He nodded slowly, his lips parting slightly, as if he was about to ask more, then he drifted towards the shelves beside the fireplace. He leaned closer as he looked at a framed photograph of Sam and me.
Sam had snapped it using the timer on one of his old cameras. We’d been sitting at a picnic table outside our local pub last summer. In the image, Sam had his arms wrapped around me. I was leaning back against him wearing a Breton top with my sunglasses on top of my head. I looked happy and relaxed but it was easy for me to remember how shattered I’d been.
There were other photographs, too. Most were candid black-and-white shots of me around the house, carrying out different projects in my decorating gear. There were pictures of me tiling the bathroom, painting our bedroom ceiling, hanging wallpaper. Sam had been a keen amateur photographer since he was little. It was a passion he’d picked up from his grandfather, whose equipment he’d inherited along with the house, later adding to it with several more expensive cameras and lenses of his own. I felt a twinge of guilt as I thought about how Sam had been forced to sell everything on eBay six months ago to help fund the new bathroom suite we’d installed.
‘Where are you heading once you leave London?’ Donovan asked.
I held off on answering, my pulse fluttering in my throat. When he glanced at me for my answer, he gave no indication that he might have overstepped the mark.
‘We haven’t decided yet. The current plan is to go travelling for a year. See the world. Sam is set on Canada. I mostly want to lie on exotic beaches and swim in the ocean.’
A muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘Sounds like an adventure.’
‘Would you like to see the kitchen?’