What sort of person smells carpet?
‘It’s an open prison, isn’t it? I always thought that sounded like they can just walk out if they want to.’ Paul sniffed the nearest carpet himself. Now he wanted to sneeze as well as scratch.
‘I don’t think they can, Paul. It wouldn’t be prison if they could just leave, would it? Dad has a job in town, in a builders’ merchants. He goes there twice a week and helps out. It’s part of his rehabilitation. But I’m sure it’s heavily supervised.’ She went quiet after this, not even smiling at the young salesman when he appeared again out of nowhere.
‘Come on.’ Paul took her arm and propelled her towards the exit, which suddenly seemed to be very far away. ‘Let’s go and have lunch somewhere. We can do this another time.’
Stella let him guide her outside but when they were in his car she turned to him and said, ‘You know, I think I’ll go back in there and just choose something, anything. I have to sort this out today, you see. It’s important.’
Paul couldn’t see why when, as far as he knew, the house was still in need of a serious all-over paint job, not to mention a new ceiling in the kitchen and floorboards on the landing. He’d offered her Ray the handyman again for these jobs, and had been surprised when she’d refused. Typical Stella, he thought. Always so independent.
‘I’ll come back in with you,’ he told her.
‘No. You go. I’ve taken up enough of your time already.’
Taken up his time? What the hell did that mean? Wasn’t that what friends did? ‘You’re being weird,’ he said.
‘Have you been to see Hannah again?’ Stella asked, completely out of nowhere.
What the hell?
‘Yes. And Sharon’s agreed to let me bring her over to my flat next time. Why?’ Paul tried to read her face but she was gazing off into the distance now, her eyes inaccessible. ‘What is it with you today? And I thought we’d agreed not to talk about Hannah,’ he added softly.
‘Did we?’ Stella turned back to him suddenly and he felt the full force of her stare. It was like being too close to the sun. ‘Yes, I suppose we did. At least, that’s what you wanted. But the subject of absent fathers has been on my mind a lot lately. I just wondered how it was all panning out for Hannah and Sharon now you’re back on the scene.’
Paul thought he knew where this was going and he was stung. ‘I am nothing like John Dean, Stella, and you know it. What happened between Sharon and me is completely different.’
‘You’re right,’ she answered. ‘You’re right. Let’s just hope that Robert is nothing like him either, eh? Or we’ll all be in a right mess.’ She must have noticed the puzzled look on Paul’s face because she finally put him out of his misery. ‘I need to sort the carpets out as soon as possible, Paul, because Lipsy’s moved back home. That’s the good news. The bad news is, she’s pregnant.’
***
When he got back to the flat, the first thing Paul noticed was the smell. He wrinkled up his nose in annoyance. This was becoming a regular occurrence, and one he needed to stamp out as soon as possible. It wasn’t that he objected to pot smoking per se, he just didn’t like it being smoked in his own flat by the occupier of his spare room.
Especially as he was soon to be entertaining his eight-year-old daughter here. And he had big plans for that spare room.
‘Hey, dude.’ Billy was sprawled on the sofa. At least he’d taken his shoes off this time. Be grateful for small mercies.
‘Billy.’ The word came out like ammo.
‘What’s up?’
Did he have to sound so much like an advert for the surfer generation? By Paul’s reckoning, Stella’s brother had, at twenty-nine, missed his chance to attach himself to that particular identity. Which made it an affectation. And if there was one thing Paul hated it was affectation.
And over-familiar prison guards.
He pushed the thought out of his mind, and pointed first to the ashtray and then to the air in general. Words were wasted on Billy.
‘Oh, yeah. Sorry man. Had a hard day.’
Hard day? Paul nearly laughed out loud. ‘You know, mate,’ he said, giving up and sitting in the space Billy had made for him on the ravaged sofa, ‘I think it’s about time you moved out.’
Billy wasn’t too stoned to look shocked. Or hurt. He stared at Paul. ‘But I thought we were having a laugh?’
‘One of us is, yeah.’
Paul got up and went through to the kitchen where the washing up didn’t get “done” anymore, it merely got stacked in a state of readiness. Ready for Paul to do it himself when he ran out of anything resembling a plate or a utensil.
He made a cup of coffee in a rinsed-out mug and took it to the doorway. Billy was making a valiant attempt to clear up the lounge but it really was too late.
‘Now Stella and Lipsy are both back in their own home again there’s no reason why you can’t go home yourself, Billy,’ Paul told him, sounding like a patient school teacher.
‘Aw, go back to my
mother’s
. What a drag.’ Billy completed the role play by speaking like a petulant child. No wonder Stella got so irritated with him. But Paul didn’t want him around anymore, and he damn well wasn’t going to feel guilty about it. He’d done the decent thing and given the bloke a bed and a roof over his head, and God knows what else; now it was time for him to move on.
‘Suppose you want the place to yourself for when you bring my sis back here, eh?’ Billy said, with a knowing wink.
Paul could have kicked himself for letting it slip that he had feelings for Stella. Boy, had he picked the wrong person to confide in.
‘That won’t be happening,’ said Paul, quietly.
‘She dump you already?’
‘No!’ He took a deep breath. ‘Your sister and I are just friends. And that’s all either of us wants to be at the moment.’
‘Just good friends, eh?’
‘That’s right.’
Billy jumped off the sofa and patted Paul on the back. ‘I’m packing, mate. Don’t you worry. Thanks for the room and everything but you’re right. It is time for me to go. Back to mater, eh? Someone to look after me, that’s alright.
‘Word of advice, though.’ He paused in the doorway and smiled. ‘Don’t give up on my sis just yet. I know she’s a pain in the neck but she really likes you and, if you want my opinion, you two are made for each other.’
Chapter 17
This week I’ve been gratefully distracted by the endless small decisions to be made about my house. I was seriously tempted just to choose the same for everything as I’d had before. Change had been forced upon me, after all. It wasn’t my doing (I keep telling myself this). But the opportunity for a total revamp is too good to miss. And I must have watched far too many home make-over programmes because before long I am stacking up the paint pots in creamy neutrals and light-reflecting naturals.
The experience holds a strong element of déjà vu for me. When we first moved into this house I agonised alone over each of these decisions – curtain poles, curtains, carpets, walls, furniture. All had taken an inordinate amount of time and effort to get right. It was my first home. It meant everything to me.
And now I have to choose everything all over again. There is a part of me that finds it fun. There is another part of me that still feels incredibly guilty for neglecting my maintenance responsibilities and not having insurance, but I try to keep that part stamped down.
Having Lipsy home is wonderful. Really wonderful. Apart from the obvious, lurking problem of a baby on the way, life with her is how I’d always imagined it would be. She is considerate and warm and polite. She cooks meals for me when I come in from work and meets me after my shifts at Café Crème so we can go for pizza together. I don’t know what’s happened to her – could it be that the new life inside her has caused some kind of personality shift? Whatever it is, I’m not complaining!
We even went to see a film this week. I can’t tell you what it was or anything about it, because I spent the whole two hours pinching myself. Is becoming a grandmother at thirty-seven too high a price to pay for getting my perfect daughter back? I’m starting to wonder.
We’re having our decorating party this afternoon. Lipsy organised it for me – can you believe it? She phoned round all our friends (didn’t take too long), roped most of the neighbours in, Joshua included, and persuaded my mother to come along to make the tea. Robert turned up an hour ago with a bag of paintbrushes and an enormous roll of plastic sheeting for the floors. I didn’t have the heart to point out that as the floors are still only bare concrete it doesn’t matter if they get splashed with paint. It was a nice gesture.
Yes, OK, I am warming to him. Seeing the two of them together gives me hope, that’s all I’ll say. But I won’t tell him that, oh no. Or Lipsy. I’m not ready to throw in the towel and support this nonsense openly. Not yet.
Bonnie is the first of our party to arrive. I’d expected her in some kind of designer overalls – Bonnie has a way of making clothes into costumes. But she’s just wearing old jeans and a too-big T-shirt, and looks amazing of course. Marcus has brought Cory with him.
‘He can do the skirting boards,’ Bonnie jokes.
The more the merrier, I say.
Pete and Louise squeeze through the door next, attached at the hip, dressed identically. Lipsy sets them to work in my bedroom, my soon-to-be “Relaxation Haven”, but I wonder if this is a good idea. Newly-weds, brand new king-size bed – do I have to spell it out for you? The floaty lady from Number One, Sandra, brings a cake she baked herself and some crystals for the house’s feng shui. Triffic.
Soon Number Three, Chaplin Grove is full of music and laughter and toxic paint fumes – I couldn’t afford the expensive, odourless type and I’m sick of explaining that. Paul is in the lounge talking to Sandra while he slaps a load of Pacific Breeze around, and Lipsy and Rob are tackling the dining room. I’m flitting from room to room, dishing out directions and compliments in equal measure. I give Lipsy yet another hug to thank her for organising the party, and I’m thrilled when she doesn’t shrug me off. To reward her I give Rob a subdued smile.
My mood is good. Buoyant, even. It is ruined a little, however, when John Dean turns up – uninvited but then isn’t he always – looking devastatingly handsome and carrying a very macho bulging toolbox. When he arrives, squeezing past me in the narrow hallway with a mischievous grin and an unmistakeable leer, I can see straight through to the kitchen – straight through to Paul. He does not look happy. I put this down to his almost pathological hatred of John Dean.
Not my problem. I have enough to deal with as it is.
As I survey the activity going on in my little house, I’m struck by an exciting thought which makes my future self tingle with possibility. I could do this for a living. I mean, I could do up houses for a living. With help, obviously, even the kind you have to pay for. I could buy run-down, damaged or unloved houses, do them up on a budget and sell them on. For a profit. I could, I think – standing on the edge of a future I’d never imagined – become a Property Developer.
Now, you may laugh – after all, how many people have thought this and fallen flat on their faces? But I have the credentials. I’ve done it once, that’s got to count for something. I’ve also done it on a budget of nearly zero, which makes me better at managing the money side of things than most of those wannabes on the TV. I work for an estate agent, albeit as an administrator, but I know about house prices and I also know the local area like the back of my hand. Better, even. Which estates are a no-go, which are a guaranteed earner.
And, a fact not to be dismissed, my dad is a builder. A soon-to-be-available and out-of-work builder. Pictures of a father and daughter business empire stretch out in my mind. Obviously I would take charge of the finances – he’s marked his card in that department.
Lipsy interrupts my musings with a cup of weak tea and news of an accident in the bathroom.
‘Joshua’s ruined the new shower screen,’ she says, and I stream off up the stairs, delightful daydream abandoned.
Joshua, it seems, was a little too eager in his cleaning and has scoured the protective surface off the screen. That John Dean had to be the one to point this out to him doesn’t seem to have done much to improve the atmosphere.
‘It was an accident, alright,’ Joshua is saying as I burst into the tiny room. ‘Anyone could have done it.’
‘You’ve rubbed the bloody thing away completely. I only installed it yesterday.’ This is an exaggeration – he actually installed it three days ago, along with a new extractor fan and a bathroom cabinet to die for. He gives me a smile now and shakes his head at Joshua. ‘What are you like, mate?’
At least he’s not the type to rub someone’s nose in their mistakes. Much. Joshua, I’m happy to say, still has his ego intact and turns away to tell me he’s very sorry.
‘That’s OK,’ I say reassuringly. ‘I’m just glad of the help. And I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. The shower screen is probably one of those really cheap ones anyway. It was only a matter of time before it happened.’ I throw John Dean a withering look.
‘Not if the cleaning was left to you it wouldn’t, Stella,’ my ex says mockingly. ‘Unless you used a scouring pad on it like this muppet.’
I pull Joshua out of the bathroom before a major row erupts. Typical of my ex to try and make a fool out of any other man in the vicinity. Thank God Paul is safely occupied downstairs. ‘Take no notice,’ I tell Joshua. ‘He’s the muppet, not you.’
My neighbour goes to work on the kitchen cabinets instead, and soon he and my mother are happily discussing the merits of modern-day cleaning fluids over old-fashioned remedies. Mr Muscle versus vinegar. Stain Devil versus baking soda. I leave them to it.
‘He’s a nice bloke, isn’t he?’ Bonnie says as I walk out of the kitchen. She is gesturing towards Joshua with her dainty head.
‘Yes, he is. A really good friend. Especially if you don’t like housework much,’ I say, laughing.
‘Seriously, Stella. You could do a lot worse.’
‘Oh, come on, Bonnie.’ I steer her back into the relative privacy of the dining area. There is a little posse of painters gathered in the far corner of the lounge and I don’t want them to overhear. ‘
Joshua
? He’s more wife material than husband material.’