The Perfect House Read online

  ‘It’s all kicking off at work,’ Tom said, putting his mobile in his pocket as he walked towards her. ‘And we’re short of bodies again.’

  Ellie smiled sympathetically, knowing Tom’s frustration at the budget cuts that regularly shrank his team at the police station.

  They both turned their heads at the sound of an approaching car. A Mercedes pulled up and a man with slicked-back hair and a very groomed beard got out.

  ‘Ellie and Tom?’

  The black overcoat flapped in the breeze, revealing a turquoise lining.

  ‘Shan Raja. So sorry you’ve had to wait. Honestly, the centre of town is in gridlock. I swear the cones were breeding before my very eyes.’

  ‘No worries,’ Tom said, shaking his hand.

  ‘Shall we?’ Shan gestured towards the house.

  A tapestry of weeds covered the driveway, leading them to the porch adorned with saggy grey cobwebs. There was an untidy pile of free newspapers and junk mail in one corner and a lopsided number 6 screwed to the frame, the flaky black paint revealing rust underneath.

  Ellie hesitated. ‘Is anyone still living here? Just that a woman came out a few minutes ago.’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone,’ Tom said, sounding surprised.

  ‘She walked right past you!’

  Shan tapped his phone against his lips. ‘The vendor lives in Canada. But the next-door neighbour’s been keeping an eye on the place so it must’ve been her. Anyway, let’s …’

  Neighbour? Hmmm. Would she really want to live next door to that thousand-yard stare?

  Shan turned the key and the hinges gave an OTT haunted-house creak. Trapped air rushed out to greet them.

  The hall, papered in the same textured stuff as their old uni flat, triggered a memory: Mia in her biker jacket, digging her thumbnail in the little bumps until it was peppered with crescent moon scars.

  Stop thinking about Mia.

  Shan misread her hesitation. ‘A bit of TLC, that’s all it needs. Here. Great size lounge.’

  Tom murmured appreciatively. Ellie breathed in eau de run-down charity shop and saw a faint sepia patch blooming across the ceiling. Seventies carpet. Stone and copper fireplace.

  Meanwhile, Shan scanned the room with an appraising eye. ‘Honestly, I should be bidding myself. What an incredible investment opportunity.’

  Ellie stared at the sad, ghostly outlines where pictures had once hung. Too good to be true. Tom’s warning rang in her mind and the exhilaration she’d felt outside crumbled. ‘I don’t want an investment opportunity,’ she said. ‘I want a home.’

  Her emotions lurked so close to the surface nowadays that they could manifest without warning. Mortified by the crack in her voice, she rummaged up her sleeve for a tissue.

  ‘Love!’ Tom exclaimed.

  Shan smiled kindly. ‘I sell a lot of auction properties – trust me, this one is in an excellent state of repair. Everything that needs doing is purely cosmetic. Lick of paint, carpet fitter and bingo, the perfect family home.’ He patted the fire surround. ‘Maybe an hour with a sledgehammer.’

  She blew her nose and gave a shaky laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t know. A room needs a focal point.’

  Tom squeezed her shoulder.

  ‘Well, if retro’s your thing,’ Shan continued, ‘wait till you see the kitchen.’

  Kitchen: universal heart of the home, and the marbled Formica units and off-white tiles reminded her of her nan’s. But the resemblance ended there. Instead of mingled aromas of Stardrops and Victoria sponge, the air smelled of drains. Two bin liners spilled their contents in the corner.

  The heart of this particular home had ceased to beat some time ago.

  Shan tutted and tied the tops of the bags into bunny ears.

  ‘Sorry, someone was supposed to clear this.’

  She lowered her gaze to the lino. Sensing her mood, Tom slung his arm around her and gently guided her to the window.

  ‘Check out the garden. That view!’

  Nature had run wild in the back too, creating a dense tangle of weeds and waist-high grass to match the front garden. But shrubs flanked the lawn and slap bang in the middle was – what would you call that wooden thing? A pergola? An arbour? – which proved this overgrown jungle had once been tended and loved. Beyond it, the pale birches, dense evergreens and swaying canopies blurred where the garden ended and Mosswood began. Above the treeline, paint-stroke birds circled in the blue sky.

  ‘Wow,’ she whispered.

  ‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ Shan said, behind them. ‘I don’t show many three-beds with an en-suite woodland.’

  Tom brought Ellie’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. ‘Think of the potential. We could have people round for barbecues. Even get a pizza oven. Sit under the trees in the summer. Get Trinity a treehouse. Grow our own veg, maybe. It’s perfect.’

  His enthusiasm reignited her own. A dated interior was hardly a deal breaker. For the price of a skip and a few tins of paint, the baby could have a perfect outdoorsy childhood. Her mind leapt ahead, visualising her daughter in the fresh air climbing those trees, making dens, playing football on the lawn.

  As though reading her thoughts, Trinity kicked. Hard.

  ‘What do you think?’ Tom murmured in her ear.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she replied from the side of her mouth. She took a series of pictures with her phone. ‘Mum will go nuts for this place.’

  ‘Wait till you see the views from the bedroom,’ Shan said, ushering them towards the stairs.

  Under the nursing home décor, the master had great bones. High ceiling, square proportions.

  ‘Views to die for,’ Shan said, gesturing at the picture window that ran almost the full length of one wall.

  Tom nudged Ellie and, grasping her hand, squeezed lightly.

  ‘Anyway.’ Shan headed back on the landing. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear the bathroom is completely functional. Any works are cosmetic only.’

  ‘Cosmetic only’, Ellie now realised, was estate agent speak for ‘knackered’. Worn fittings, cracked tiles, faded lino. The world’s most corpulent spider crawled leisurely across the pink bath. But the disappointment of earlier failed to materialise. She flushed the loo – fine. Ran the taps – fine. Nothing else mattered. Only the potential mattered.

  Dimly aware of Tom and Shan discussing renovations and building regulations behind her, Ellie’s imagination sketched the room. She visualised a new white suite, metro tiles, walk-in shower with a glass screen. Chrome freestanding tap arching over the bath. Herself like a smiley mum in an advert, expertly wrapping their new-born daughter in a fluffy towel.

  ‘Bedroom three,’ Shan continued. ‘Same fabulous views.’

  Sunlight cast a golden glow over the tired boxroom.

  ‘Cosmetic only, right?’ she said with a grin.

  ‘Exactly. Take your time or gut the whole place in one go. Either way, someone is getting a real bargain at the auction.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Right, I have to be elsewhere, I’m afraid.’

  He ushered them back down the stairs, carpeted in Seventies swirls, and out into the porch.

  ‘Email if you have any queries.’ The front door juddered closed. ‘Otherwise, best of luck.’

  They all shook hands and he strode towards his car, black coat flapping like the wings of the crows flying over the roof.

  Tom fiddled with the zip on his parka. Too busy for a haircut recently, his fringe flopped over his eyes and when he pushed it back, almost twelve years peeled away to reveal the boy she first saw in the student union, nodding to an Oasis classic with his best mate, Danny.

  Danny, Mia’s boyfriend.

  Do not think about that. She touched her bump instinctively. Not now.

  ‘So it needs updating,’ Tom said, head down. ‘But nothing major. We’ll see anyway when we’ve gone through the property pack with the solicitor.’ He finally pulled the stuck zip free. ‘What do you reckon?’

  Her reply tumbled out quickly, ‘I think we’
re never going to find anywhere else this perfect and I’m not bothered about the work or how long it takes. I just want us here when the baby comes, not squashed in one room with a million boxes. And I’m not being ungrateful to your dad. He’s been amazing. But the smoking with the baby …’

  ‘I know.’ The rough cotton of Tom’s parka brushed her cheek as he pulled her close into a toothpaste-and-soap-scented hug.

  Suddenly exhausted, Ellie tugged at the neck of her T-shirt and tried to catch her breath.

  ‘Can you drive? I’m knackered.’

  ‘Course,’ he said, taking the keys. ‘So, the verdict is it’s definitely a project, but currently liveable. The commute to the station or Craftmags isn’t bad. Dad would help out with the work.’ Pursing his lips, he studied the house. ‘I can really picture us living here, you know.’

  He started the engine, and Ellie peered through the conifers as she fitted the seatbelt under her bump. At some point in its past, this house had known love. Someone had chosen those carpets and that wallpaper; put that pergola up and tended the rose beds. Maybe like Nan in the months before she went into the care home, the owner had got too frail to keep on top of the maintenance.

  Under the layers of dirt and neglect, 6 Moss Lane was clearly begging for someone to come along and restore its beating heart.

  Someone like Ellie.

  Back at Howard’s, they waded into a fog of cigarette smoke.

  ‘For God’s sake, Dad,’ Tom snapped, wafting his hand.

  ‘Didn’t expect you home yet.’ Howard sucked on the filter, eyes screwed tight with effort. ‘Sorry, I’ll put this out. How was it?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Ellie replied, with a cough.

  At Tom’s glare, his dad gave an apologetic shrug and beat a retreat to the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Come upstairs,’ Tom said, holding out his hand. ‘You look wiped out.’

  Even with his guiding arm around her, climbing the stairs left her gasping. The excitement of Moss Lane had been overtaken by the need to lie on her bed with the blind down.

  Concern spread across Tom’s features.

  ‘I don’t think I should go into work,’ he said. The bed creaked as he helped her to lower herself onto the mattress.

  Almost dizzy with the relief of being off her feet, she dropped against the pillow. What she wanted was Tom to hold her until the stabbing pain in her temples subsided. Instead, she mustered up a smile. ‘Go. I just need a nap, and if you stay, I won’t sleep. Please?’ After reassuring him yes, she meant it and yes, she’d ring if she needed anything, he left with a promise to return ‘as soon as the new DC is up to speed’.

  Downstairs, Howard rattled around in the kitchen, arguing with the radio. Ellie pulled the pillow around her ears.

  This was Howard’s house. He had a good heart, fixing things at the flat and letting them stay rent-free. With any luck, they’d be in their own house soon.

  Be grateful. Be grateful. Be grateful. For a few seconds, 6 Moss Lane lingered behind her closed lids. Not the version from today, with peeling paint and a neglected garden, but a spruced-up version, six months, a year down the line with fresh paint and cared-for flowerbeds.

  She rolled over and propped herself awkwardly on one elbow. Scrolling through her phone, she selected the most ‘cosmetic only’ images of the house’s immense potential – no damp patches or scattered dead flies – and WhatsApp’d them to her mum with the message:

  You were right: it was fate. We’ve found our perfect house xx

  3. Now

  ‘Try not to get your hopes up, love,’ Tom warned gently, dropping the butter knife in the sink. ‘Any house in Uppermoss is bound to fly at auction.’

  Ellie picked up a slice of toast. ‘Nope. It’s ours. I know it.’ And she did. Even last night when they’d sat together on the bed surrounded by boxes in their cramped room and inputted the scary figures into the calculator for the hundredth time that week, she knew it. Of course, Tom, frowning as he scribbled numbers on a pad, focused on the practicalities. The mortgage had been approved and thanks to their savings and her inheritance from Dad, the deposit was sorted. It was doable … but only if they stuck to the plan: £310,000 and not a penny more.

  And this morning, although he’d sworn only a national emergency could force him to work, Ellie had taken the precaution of setting his mobile to Do not Disturb while he was in the shower. She had also emailed Joan the Moan to pull a Monday sickie and asked Jess to cover. No guilt there. Why trek into Craftmags when she could work from the comfort of her own dressing gown later?

  To minimise the worsening heartburn, she chewed her breakfast slowly and carefully while checking her messages. One from Jess. No text, just a string of crossed-finger emojis and hearts.

  One from Mum. Let me know how you get on at the auction x. Followed quickly by a second: Please call David and Anita. Anniversary tomorrow. Don’t forget. x

  The sudden pain in Ellie’s chest had nothing to do with heartburn. She’d lived every day of the last ten years in the shadow of Mia’s death. She wished she could forget.

  A spiky weight shifted inside her skull when she bent to tie her laces. Bloody hell, not another migraine. While luckier women bloomed in late pregnancy, Ellie wilted under the burden of endless niggles and there was still another five weeks to go. I need my body back, she ordered the baby. Hurry up.

  In the car, the DJ’s smug lad banter got on her already taut nerves.

  ‘Can we have the radio off?’

  ‘It’s for the traffic news,’ Tom said apologetically. He adjusted the rear-view mirror and pulled away from the kerb. ‘I’ll turn it down.’

  Through the window, houses gave way to tatty shops, and while her eyes registered graffitied shutters and tired signage, her mind strolled around the garden at Moss Lane. They’d been back twice since the first viewing. Not inside, but to sneak up to the windows and wander the street to ‘get a feel for the area’. Howard had brought binoculars to check the roof tiles and the gutters and pronounced them ‘sound as a pound’. They had all been scratched and stung negotiating the tangled mess of garden. Ellie had half-expected the moody neighbour to give them an earful about trespassing, but they didn’t see a soul and had left still feeling completely bewitched by the house.

  Rain hit the windscreen like a handful of stones and Tom switched the wipers on.

  ‘Remember we said three ten tops. Even then we’ll be skint.’ He coughed a disbelieving laugh. ‘It’s crazy. I mean, it took me nearly a month to choose these trainers and now I’m sinking everything into a house I didn’t know existed till last week.’

  ‘I get it. Massive mortgage stress. Debt. No new trainers ever again.’ She adjusted the seatbelt under her bump. ‘You’re not getting cold feet, are you?’

  ‘No, I love it. I’m just saying we need to act with our—’ He tapped his temple. ‘Not our hearts. Stop me if I look like I’m getting carried—’

  He paused mid-sentence and tilted his head towards the radio.

  ‘Sorry, love.’ The indicator clicked. ‘Motorway’s shut. We’ll have to come off here.’

  Lulled by the swish of the wipers, the tap of the rain on the roof, she relaxed into the seat. The individual shops disappeared, replaced by a tired retail park and then a series of industrial buildings. A pedestrian stepped off the kerb, head down, and Tom slowed.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said.

  A pair of magpies chattered on a sign that read ‘Stockfield Auction Rooms’. Two for joy, as her mum would say. Tom pulled into a space and put the handbrake on. ‘What I mean is, I know we’ve got our hearts set on it, but if it’s not meant to be …’

  ‘Head not heart,’ she said. ‘Promise.’

  Her first auction, and the swirl of adrenalin temporarily masked her physical discomfort. The décor was twenty-first-century uninspired: nylon carpet, fluorescent lighting, ceiling tiles. Crammed with mismatched chairs but strangely not with people. Apart from half a dozen other audi
ence members and a man in round glasses, the room was empty.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ she whispered.

  Tom replied from behind the auction card, ‘Maybe the motorway crash? Listen, there’s something I need to tell you. Something the estate agent said.’

  ‘Sssh,’ she hissed. ‘They’re starting.’

  The man in glasses had stood up and she realised he was on a platform. He peeled a sheet of paper off the desk.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Lot number one is a detached family home on the outskirts of Uppermoss village. Covenants restricting any redevelopment are detailed in the property pack. Let’s start the bidding at 220,000.’

  Tom leaned forward and tapped the card on his knee. At two fifty, he did nothing. Two eighty.

  The auctioneer clicked his mouse, announcing, ‘The internet is out at two ninety.’

  As the bidding continued, the urge to prod Tom grew until finally – finally! – he put his hand up.

  ‘Three hundred thousand with the gentleman at the front,’ the auctioneer said.

  Ellie twisted her fingers in her lap. This was the moment the other bidder would bow out. The moment the man would slam his little hammer down.

  But he didn’t.

  ‘Three ten.’

  Tom slumped. Ellie sensed his grip loosening on the card.

  You belong there, her heart said. You deserve it. One more.

  The auctioneer peered over his glasses. ‘Five then?’

  Her pulse throbbed erratically. She looked at Tom. He looked back.

  ‘Oh, what the hell,’ he murmured and waved the card.

  ‘Three fifteen with the gentleman at the front,’ the auctioneer said. ‘Sir?’

  The rival bidder nodded.

  ‘Against you at the front.’

  Tom waved the card. ‘Three twenty … three twenty-five … three thirty.’