started clicking: she was well over fifty thousand pounds before she’d even looked lower than the roofline.
Fixing damage was one thing, but Gina knew that even when you’d arrested decay, houses like these had expensive tastes. Agas that burned great quantities of oil, grounds that demanded weekly gardeners, and a heart that had to be stoked with atmosphere and activity, as well as furniture. You needed the social life, too. Weekending friends, their children and dogs; mellow, wine-warmed autumn dinners in the kitchen; village book groups in the drawing room; and ebullient New Year’s Eves spilling into the candlelit garden. Those high ceilings would have echoed the silence of two people who barely spoke to each other down to them, reproach lingering, like dust, in every unused spare room.
Gina walked round the gravel path and stopped by a stone bench, positioned to give the best view of the house from one side, as well as a sweeping panorama of the terraced gardens from the other. She gazed at the beautiful lines of the front elevation, trying to flush any lingering traces of regret from her system before she met Amanda. She’d already warned Lorcan not to say anything about her own interest in the place; he’d understood.
This house would have ruined Stuart and me, Gina reminded herself, unable to stop searching for more signs of structural damage she didn’t really want to find, the same way you’d half hope, half dread to see wrinkles on the face of a still-attractive ex.
The sun went behind a cloud, and Gina felt an unexpected loneliness, for Stuart and the happiness they’d once had. There had been happiness. He had carried her over the threshold of their first place together, joked about nurseries and trampolines ruining his lawn. She’d never get that time back: it was gone. Those chances had been blown. Gina let the sadness run through her for a moment rather than fight it: it dissipated faster that way.
From the outside, she thought, blinking tears away hard, it’ll just look like I’m taking in the project. That’s fine.
She heard a van door slam, and the sound of boots crunch on the gravel, but didn’t turn because her eyelashes were wet. The steps came nearer, and Gina was aware of a solid male presence behind her, one that smelt of a light, lemony aftershave and clean clothes. It didn’t say anything, which confirmed her suspicions about who it was.
‘Morning, Lorcan,’ she said. ‘Just putting some old memories to bed. Don’t say anything to Amanda, will you?’
‘Course not. About what?’ The voice wasn’t Irish. It was southern English.
Gina spun round. The man standing behind her was wearing jeans and a Pixies T-shirt under a half-zipped fleece, with a builder’s bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t recognise him, but Lorcan had said he might bring along a few ‘trades’ to advise on specialist work and, like Lorcan himself, most of his mates were of the old band T-shirt persuasion.
‘Oh, er, nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m just . . . just . . .’
‘Just looking. I know. It’s a lovely old place.’ He dumped the bag and took a step nearer, standing next to her with his arms folded, his head tilted to take in the view. ‘You can almost see them wafting out of those french windows, spot of croquet on the front lawn, fancy hats and boaters . . .’
‘Pimm’s in hand, light music playing inside.’ Gina paused. ‘Weather permitting. You don’t tend to picture the endless afternoons playing Scrabble while it’s too wet to go out, do you?’
‘Ha! Indeed you don’t. But isn’t that when you imagine the roaring log fire and eight-foot Douglas pine with teeny tiny candles? And urchins arriving for the annual mince pie and half a crown in the kitchens?’
Gina liked this game: she played it herself. ‘Ah, yes. Chestnuts roasting on the hearth, and the ominous letters arriving from the Front? Brought in on a silver tray during a raucous cocktail party?’ She
Fixing damage was one thing, but Gina knew that even when you’d arrested decay, houses like these had expensive tastes. Agas that burned great quantities of oil, grounds that demanded weekly gardeners, and a heart that had to be stoked with atmosphere and activity, as well as furniture. You needed the social life, too. Weekending friends, their children and dogs; mellow, wine-warmed autumn dinners in the kitchen; village book groups in the drawing room; and ebullient New Year’s Eves spilling into the candlelit garden. Those high ceilings would have echoed the silence of two people who barely spoke to each other down to them, reproach lingering, like dust, in every unused spare room.
Gina walked round the gravel path and stopped by a stone bench, positioned to give the best view of the house from one side, as well as a sweeping panorama of the terraced gardens from the other. She gazed at the beautiful lines of the front elevation, trying to flush any lingering traces of regret from her system before she met Amanda. She’d already warned Lorcan not to say anything about her own interest in the place; he’d understood.
This house would have ruined Stuart and me, Gina reminded herself, unable to stop searching for more signs of structural damage she didn’t really want to find, the same way you’d half hope, half dread to see wrinkles on the face of a still-attractive ex.
The sun went behind a cloud, and Gina felt an unexpected loneliness, for Stuart and the happiness they’d once had. There had been happiness. He had carried her over the threshold of their first place together, joked about nurseries and trampolines ruining his lawn. She’d never get that time back: it was gone. Those chances had been blown. Gina let the sadness run through her for a moment rather than fight it: it dissipated faster that way.
From the outside, she thought, blinking tears away hard, it’ll just look like I’m taking in the project. That’s fine.
She heard a van door slam, and the sound of boots crunch on the gravel, but didn’t turn because her eyelashes were wet. The steps came nearer, and Gina was aware of a solid male presence behind her, one that smelt of a light, lemony aftershave and clean clothes. It didn’t say anything, which confirmed her suspicions about who it was.
‘Morning, Lorcan,’ she said. ‘Just putting some old memories to bed. Don’t say anything to Amanda, will you?’
‘Course not. About what?’ The voice wasn’t Irish. It was southern English.
Gina spun round. The man standing behind her was wearing jeans and a Pixies T-shirt under a half-zipped fleece, with a builder’s bag slung over one shoulder. She didn’t recognise him, but Lorcan had said he might bring along a few ‘trades’ to advise on specialist work and, like Lorcan himself, most of his mates were of the old band T-shirt persuasion.
‘Oh, er, nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m just . . . just . . .’
‘Just looking. I know. It’s a lovely old place.’ He dumped the bag and took a step nearer, standing next to her with his arms folded, his head tilted to take in the view. ‘You can almost see them wafting out of those french windows, spot of croquet on the front lawn, fancy hats and boaters . . .’
‘Pimm’s in hand, light music playing inside.’ Gina paused. ‘Weather permitting. You don’t tend to picture the endless afternoons playing Scrabble while it’s too wet to go out, do you?’
‘Ha! Indeed you don’t. But isn’t that when you imagine the roaring log fire and eight-foot Douglas pine with teeny tiny candles? And urchins arriving for the annual mince pie and half a crown in the kitchens?’
Gina liked this game: she played it herself. ‘Ah, yes. Chestnuts roasting on the hearth, and the ominous letters arriving from the Front? Brought in on a silver tray during a raucous cocktail party?’ She
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