A Hundred Pieces of Me (28 page)

Gina feels herself falling down, down, down, even though she isn’t moving. Without Terry, the migraines and moods will choke the house. She can see her mother’s face, abandoned again. Her grief will be uncontrollable. ‘Which hospital?’ she says, but as she gets up, she stumbles, staggering on the daisy-free green of the college lawn. People can look: she doesn’t care.

‘I’ll call you a taxi to the station,’ says Miriam.

‘No, I’ll drive her,’ says Kit, and turns to her. ‘Gina. Where’s your car?’

Minnie the green Mini, the car that Terry had restored for her while she was sitting her A levels, then taught her to drive in. Gina remembers him squashed gamely into the passenger seat in his brown suit, a fixed grin plastered over his anxiety as she crashed the gears and swore. Her legs give way beneath her.

Amanda’s email accepting Gina’s proposed schedule of works – and projected invoice – was as short and prompt as Gina’s was long and detailed. It arrived at three o’clock, Amanda’s time not Gina’s, and was to the point:

This looks fine. Let’s do it! Please get the ball rolling asap with planning, etc, and liaise with Nick re payment going forward, as per the terms set out in your email. I look forward to meeting up soon to review developments.

Best, Amanda

Gina had started the renovation timetable from the top, by booking a thorough structural examination of the roof. It wasn’t quite as magnificent up close as it seemed from the long carriage drive; despite the massive chimneystacks at each end, hinting at stately fireplaces beneath, the actual roof was patched and uneven where the house had been extended over the years, and repaired more neatly in some spots than others. The surveyor had recommended a complete overhaul and, with the Rowntrees’ breathtaking budget now in hand, Gina had called in the best specialist she knew.

A steel web of scaffolding had already been erected around the house, and today’s meeting was to discuss making the lead valleys of the roof watertight, stopping the slow drip into the cavernous attics. Gina’s notes had a whole section about the chimneys, starting with sweeping them free of birds’ nests and the artificial blockages previous owners had stuffed up them for insulation. There was something about fireplaces, Gina felt, that brought a house to life even if you didn’t use them. It was like clearing the house’s throat so it could breathe properly.

When she knocked at the front there was no answer, so she picked her way past the heavy sacks of lime render stacked in the herb garden and knocked on the kitchen door. Nick was at the big table, working on his laptop, and looked as if he’d only just rolled out of bed. His dark hair was ruffled and flattened on one side and he’d thrown a beige fisherman’s jumper over a pair of checked pyjama bottoms.

Gina wondered if she’d got the meeting time wrong, and was about to back away quietly, when Nick spotted her, shoved his chair back and beckoned her inside.

‘Sorry, I’m just trying to get this done before the roof guy arrives,’ he explained, offering her a cup of coffee from the half-full cafetière. ‘I was up all last night editing photos. Lorcan’s been here since eight – he asked if I was ill because I was in my pyjamas. Does everyone round here get up before dawn?’

‘Yup. Welcome to the countryside. And Lorcan’s got more to worry about this morning with the roofer coming than whether you’re up or not. Speaking of which, I was chucking out some stuff at my flat and I thought these might be useful for you.’ Gina handed over some books she’d sorted from her most recent boxes – guides to renovating old houses she’d been given over the years. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ she added. ‘I’m not saying you need an idiot’s guide but it might make things easier when Lorcan starts firing questions about joists and spurs at you.’

‘Thanks.’ Nick ruffled his hair and read the back of the first book with a wry grin. ‘The idiot-er the better. My idea of DIY so far has been phoning for a plumber. But I’m a quick learner, you’ll be pleased to hear. I wish I’d been more involved in our last place, but I was away so much with work.’ He looked through the selection. ‘These are a bit basic to be yours, aren’t they? Or do you hand out homework to all your clients?’

The coffee was so strong the spoon was nearly standing up. It made Gina wonder how late Nick had been working last night, alone in the echoing house. ‘No, they were Christmas presents. From my ex-in-laws. I don’t think they knew what to get me. Everyone else got cupcake aprons and Mum’s Diary, and that’s not really me.’

‘But this is your job. They didn’t think you might be a bit beyond . . .’ he squinted, amused ‘. . .
The Haynes Guide to Old Houses
?’

‘It’s just one of those things I no longer have to care about. Which is fine with me. I’m having a big sort-out at home, so if they’re useful to you, you’re very welcome to them.’

‘A big sort-out. Sounds like the kind of iron discipline we need here.’ He pushed a plate of toast towards her. ‘Toast?’

Gina didn’t normally eat breakfast with her clients but she’d been in such a rush to get Buzz to the rescue shop before this meeting that she hadn’t had time for cereal. She hesitated, then took a piece. ‘It’s not really that disciplined. I’m a bit of a hoarder,’ she said. ‘But I’ve just moved to a much smaller flat with no storage – usual story, too much stuff and not enough room.’ She chewed the toast to slow herself down. Nick was very easy to talk to. Too easy. ‘I’m trying to get rid of anything that isn’t either essential or important to me, and it’s interesting – once you start, you find that actually . . .’

The words stuck in Gina’s throat, as she realised she was about to say that
actually
, aside from diaries and personal letters that couldn’t be replaced, she wasn’t keeping as much as she’d thought she would. Stuart’s box was by the door for the shopping list of things he’d requested via his solicitor; they weren’t very personal, and one or two she suspected he’d put on the list because he thought she wanted them. Something about the pettiness of it had made her look twice at things she’d thought she wanted to keep herself.

It made the letters she’d kept seem even more important. That envelope of missives to Kit was still in the box, and Gina didn’t want it to be one of the hundred things that defined her. But she couldn’t shred them. Shredding them felt so final.

‘Actually . . . what?’ Nick was looking at her.

‘Sorry?’ Gina blinked, trying to reorder her thoughts into something that was more appropriate for a client breakfast.

‘When it comes down to it, what?’

‘That actually they’re not that important after all. Don’t you get that when you unpack?’ She reached for the milk. ‘You spend hours putting things in miles of bubble-wrap, then get to the new house and think, Hmm, why did I keep this?’

‘I haven’t been allowed to unpack yet.’

‘Well. You know what I mean.’

Nick sipped his strong coffee, and Gina thought he was about to change the subject and start asking about the roof, but he didn’t. ‘Personally, I think people get too hung up about
things
when actually what they should be stockpiling are moments.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Moments. Experiences. Not flashy ones like paragliding in the Grand Canyon or . . .’ he made sarcastic air hooks with his fingers ‘. . . firewalking at the Burning Man Festival. Small everyday things, like – like being outside just after it’s rained. Swimming in the sea. Arriving at a new railway station. Proper paintbox sunsets on summer nights.’

‘Says the man whose job it is to capture moments so people can turn them into
things
. Like photographs. And magazines.’

He shrugged. ‘Yeah, yeah. Be as cynical as you like. But I’ve spent a lot of time living out of suitcases over the past few years, and I can’t say I ever missed any one thing in particular. I did miss having a really good shower. And I missed the feeling of getting into clean sheets.’

‘Oh, clean sheets, yes. You can’t beat crisp white sheets on a summer night. Or a warm blanket over the duvet on a cold one.’

‘But is that the sheets? Or the feeling?’ Nick looked at her quizzically over his mug.

‘That’s a bit deep for nine in the morning.’

‘Not really. It’s the whole point. Because once you’ve decided it’s the
feeling
of the sheets, you can stop trying to chase the Perfect Sheets round the shops and just have the one set, instead of ten. Although,’ he conceded, ‘you might have to do more laundry.’

‘You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.’

‘I had a big de-cluttering epiphany myself a few years back. When everyone changed over to digital, I went through a phase of buying every new bit of kit that came out. Didn’t make me a better photographer, just made me a photographer with a bad back from carrying it all around. Once I decided to use one camera, natural light, my whole style changed. I went back to seeing what I was seeing, not letting the camera dictate it to me.’

He looked at her over the table, his grey eyes analysing her face, and Gina had the feeling he was seeing her as he’d seen her hands: spotting something beneath the surface, something she wasn’t quite aware of.

Then his phone rang on the table, vibrating under a crumby plate and making the knife on it rattle. Nick glanced down. ‘It’s Amanda.’

They could both see that. A snapshot of a smiling Amanda in a red bikini and big Chanel shades, lying on a white beach next to a very blue sea, had flashed up.

It felt as if Amanda had just appeared in the room. The bikini was not how Gina usually pictured Amanda from her brisk instruction-filled emails.

Was that a honeymoon photo? Nick and Amanda seemed like the sort of couple who went on those Necker Island holidays. Gina caught herself.

‘Do you want to get that?’ she asked. ‘I’ll . . .’ She gestured towards the rest of the house.

‘No, stay there. It’s you she’ll want to talk to, not me. She’s just checking I’m not up on the roof with a sledgehammer.’ Nick picked the phone up off the table. ‘Hey, darling! How’s Paris this morning?’

Amanda started talking at once. Gina could hear the tone of her voice, if not the words; she wasn’t wasting time with chit-chat.

Nick’s smile faded slowly. Then he put his elbow on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘No, it’s the roofer coming today . . . But, Amanda, we have to put in an application before . . . No, seriously, we have to . . . Amanda, Gina’s here, she’ll be able to explain it better. I’m not making this up, believe me.’

Oh, bollocks, thought Gina. The chatty mood had evaporated.

‘Can you have a word with Amanda about Listed Building Consent, please?’ said Nick, stiffly, holding out the phone to her. ‘She’s unclear about a couple of things.’

‘Of course.’ Gina braced herself. LBC hadn’t exactly been a favourite topic when she’d been on the other end of the ranting; it was even less of a favourite now she had to explain it to frustrated clients. ‘Hello, Amanda. How are you?’

‘Hi. Good, thanks. I think Nick must have got the wrong end of the stick about this planning permission,’ she said. ‘He told me last night that it’s going to take eight weeks before there’s even a decision about whether we can go ahead with the kitchen build.’

‘Eight weeks is the worst-case scenario, yes.’ Gina rolled her eyes at herself.
Did I just say worst-case scenario?
Amanda seemed to bring back all the office-speak she’d trained out of herself since leaving the council.

‘So what was the point of having that man come out to go round the house? I thought that was it. He can rubber-stamp it, no? He’s seen what we want to do?’ Amanda’s tone was friendly but not happy.

‘That was just a preliminary consultation. It’s saved us some time because now we know roughly what the council is likely to approve, and Nick tells me your architect’s amending his plans to take that into account. I’ve got the architect’s details, so as soon as he gets back to me with new drawings, I can get the forms sent straight over, but while they’re in the system, I’m afraid we can’t really speed things up.’

‘Really? I can’t believe that.’

Nick was staring at her and when she glanced at him, he got up to put the kettle on for more coffee.

‘I’m afraid it’s standard. The formal notice has to go to parish councils, to neighbours and so on. It’s to stop owners wrecking old houses when they aren’t approaching the process as thoughtfully as you are,’ said Gina.

‘But we’re not going to wreck the house. They’ve seen our plans – it’s not like we’re turning it into flats. I’m spending a
fortune
to restore the place. I don’t see why we can’t just go ahead, and then if they hate it, let them deal with it.’

‘Amanda, I’m sorry, I can’t let you – they can take you to court for unauthorised work. They can fine you thousands of pounds or, at the very least, make you tear down what you’ve done. We had the prison talk already, didn’t we? And to be frank, my reputation as a project manager would be destroyed if Keith Hurst decided to make an example of you. Which is not beyond him. He really doesn’t get out much.’

There was a pause at the other end. ‘When you say thousands, how much exactly? Is it worth factoring it into the build budget and just going for it now?’