‘Look, this isn’t
Ally McBeal
,’ he scowls. ‘It’s men only in here. Now get out before I call security.’
‘Okay, I’m going.’ I turn round, then spin back again. ‘But you’re missing out on so much, that’s all I’m trying to say. Your son is a
wonderful
person. I know I’m biased, but he is.’
‘He’s fine, he’s good – I know that. But not every father and son relationship is all fishing trips and Friday-night beers. He and I are different. He’s . . . not my cup of tea, I suppose.’
My jaw quivers. ‘Not your cup of tea? He’s your
son
.’
He marches past me, out into the corridor as a security guard emerges from the lift. ‘Is everything all right, sir?’ he asks.
Scott knows this is his chance to get me out of his hair. Possibly arrested. Adrenalin jolts through me.
‘Sure. It’s fine,’ he says calmly.
The security guard slinks back in the lift.
‘Thank you,’ I tell Scott.
He backs away. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘One final thing: Dan wants to have a relationship with you,’ I say simply. ‘If you only took the time to get to know him, I really think you’d be proud.’
I walk off down the corridor then, a shiver of hope running down my spine. But when I reach the stairs door, I realise with a heavy heart that that seems to be the end of the matter.
Work is stupidly busy as we start on some ideas for a seafood company, while feedback comes in for our Good Honest Soup commercial, aired for the first time last night. It’s all positive, made even better by the fact that we only have to deal with Sebastian once all afternoon, during which time he doesn’t even mention his car.
‘I think he could be getting over it,’ Sadie decides optimistically as we head back to our desks after a late-afternoon meeting. ‘It’s nice to see him finally achieving some closure.’
As we approach our desks, I see that a bloke in overalls is on all fours under Sadie’s, a toolkit next to him.
‘Can we help you?’ I ask.
He pops his head up. ‘Essential maintenance work, love.’
Sadie and I exchange glances. ‘
Now
?’ she enquires.
‘Unless you want an electric shock through your high heels, yes, luv. And yours is next,’ he tells me.
I look at my watch. ‘This is no good,’ I say. ‘Look, I think we should ask Sebastian if we can both knock off early and finish this at home.’
‘Good idea,’ she says, then narrows her eyes. ‘I hope you don’t want me to do it?’
I roll my eyes. ‘I’ll go.’
When I reach his office and knock, there’s no answer. Then a meeting-room door opposite opens and he pops out his head. ‘Go in and take a seat,’ he instructs. ‘Won’t be a minute!’ and he dodges back inside again.
As I enter the office, the smell hits me instantly – and I recall it’s the same one I picked up in the car park weeks ago. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear someone had been smoking pot in here.
Sebastian reappears. ‘What can I do for you?’ he grins, traversing the room.
I’m about to tell him about the electrical work when he stops dead, his gaze on the corner of his desk.
My eyes follow his, to a great, big
mutha
of a joint – I’m talking six inches, big enough to get an African elephant stoned. He swallows, eyeballs me and silently slides his hand across the desk, tucking his fingers around it and flicking it into his desk drawer. It occurs to me that I am supposed to pretend I haven’t noticed. Which strikes me as a fairly sound tactic.
‘There’s someone doing maintenance work near our desks and we wondered if we could go and work from home instead?’ I blurt out.
‘Sure,’ he replies. ‘Close the door on your way out.’
When I open the door to Buddington, nobody’s around, but I note that the door to the swimming pool is open and wonder if it’s Flossie. Instead, Belinda is ploughing through the water in a frantic front crawl, goggles pulled tightly across her face like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. When she reaches the side, she looks up.
‘Gemma! Come and have a swim!’ I shake my head. I’m exhausted after today and still have work to do. ‘Oh, go on,’ she urges. ‘I could do with a chat.’
I give in. ‘Okay. A quick dip wouldn’t do any harm.’
I dart upstairs, dump my bag and phone, then throw on my swimming costume and go downstairs to join her.
‘I’ve heard nothing from this paparazzo you saw,’ she tells me, slowing down to a breaststroke. ‘The thought that I might get a call any day from one of the tabloids makes me feel green.’
‘Surely you’d have heard by now if anything was going to appear,’ I say.
‘Maybe.’
‘So what’s the score with James?’
She stops at the edge and faces me. ‘I . . . I haven’t returned his calls.’
We spend the next half hour swimming, chatting and talking about Belinda’s problems, as well as one or two of mine.
‘When’s this exchange going to happen then?’ she asks me, as we get out of the pool.
‘I honestly don’t know, Belinda.’
‘You must be absolutely desperate for it by now. At least when it happens you’ll know for certain that you and Dan will have a future in that house,’ she adds.
‘Yes,’ I agree.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asks.
‘Of course,’ and I turn away to pick up a towel before she can see the uncertainty in my eyes.
Chapter 49
Dan
When Rich introduces himself on the phone, I’d have to admit that a second passes when I struggle to place the name.
‘Ah, the estate agent! Sorry. Had to think for a moment – it’s normally Gemma who deals with you, isn’t it?’ I feel guilty as I say it, whether she’s insisted on doing everything herself or not.
‘True enough, my man. But at the moment your girlfriend is failing to return my calls. Wouldn’t be the first time a woman’s done that, I’ll be honest.’
I laugh. ‘What can I do for you, Richard?’
‘It’s Rich. Or 007, I answer to both. Right, I have two sets of bad news and one set of good.’
‘Okay.’
‘Well, the first bit of bad news is that there isn’t really any good news. Just bad. There. It’s out there. No point in me trying to dress it up.’
My chest tightens. ‘Is the sale off?’
‘God, no! That wouldn’t be Bad, that’d be Really Bad. Big difference. No, this is just plain, common or garden B. A. D. Which is bad enough, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know what it is yet.’
‘Aha! Course. Well, there’s been a setback. The house Mrs Deaver is buying has fallen through. So she’s not quite ready yet to exchange on yours.’
‘I thought she’d already moved out? We were told there wasn’t a chain.’
He sighs. ‘Well, there wasn’t in the sense that both parties had moved out. But now . . . well, one of them is thinking about moving back in.’
‘But that’s our house. Or it’s meant to be our house in
weeks
. How can she move back in when her stuff’s in storage? Wouldn’t it be easier for her to stay with her family, her parents or somebody?’
‘She’s been staying with a friend, but it was only supposed to be temporary – and her parents live in Australia. Besides, the house isn’t yours yet.’ I start rubbing my forehead. The thought of how disappointed Gemma’s going to be makes me feel a bit sick. ‘But it’s close – it really is! Fear not. Do as Braveheart would.’
‘Eh?’
‘FREEEDOMMM!’
‘What?’
‘Enjoy it. Your freedom. You’re about to get tied down with a mortgage for the next twenty-five
lonnng
years. You need to make the most of the months before that happens. Go out and get wasted. Get a few strippers in. Live like a single man while you still can.’
‘What do you mean, months?’
‘Did I say months? Oh, I’m sure it’ll only be weeks.’
‘But it
could
be months – is that what you’re telling me?’
‘It’s a little unclear at the moment. Look, she’s only
considering
moving back in. She’s just asked me to let you know that this is why the exchange hasn’t happened yet. I’m sure things will be back on track soon.
DON’T WORRY
,’ he stresses, like some sage morning television agony aunt.
‘Well, I am worried. My girlfriend happens to love this house and I happen to love her,’ I blurt out. ‘And if I don’t move out of my mother’s place soon I’ll go out of my mind.’
‘It’s the repairs you’re concerned about, isn’t it?’ he ventures. ‘I know this puts you in a tricky situation. Because technically, if the vendor walked away from the deal, then all those repairs would’ve been on a house you don’t own. And I can see why that might be a bummer.’
I frown. ‘Why would that be an issue? I’m not following.’
‘Well,’ he laughs, ‘any number of reasons – not least the thousands you’ve forked out for the repairs.’
A heartbeat passes. ‘
What?’
‘That’d tick anyone off. Paying half of the cost of damp-proofing a house you’re never going to live in. Urgh!
Nightmare
.’ I say nothing. ‘But I’m sure it won’t come to that. I’m sure the sale will all go through in the end.’
I let the words jostle round in my head until the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle finally come together. ‘To confirm what you’re saying . . . Gemma agreed to pay half the cost of those repairs?’
‘Not
agreed
to – it’s already been paid. She’s paid it.’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘That’s not right. She hasn’t.’
‘Soldier, I’m telling you, it’s true. I’ve got copies of the receipts in front of me.’
I confess I feel fairly bloody upset on the way home. I wouldn’t say livid exactly, but as I weave through traffic on the M53, my mother’s VW Golf virtually has multi-coloured smoke coming out of it, like one of the Red Arrows.
I’m just . . . just bewildered. And incredulous. And, not to sound too fluffy about this,
hurt
that the woman I thought I could trust above all others has been lying through her teeth to me.
I tell myself to calm down, that there must be an innocent explanation. But it escapes me. The closer I get to Buddington, the more the pressure in my head builds – and the more resentful I become about the horrifying set-up we’ve endured for the last few months.
A set-up that I resisted right at the beginning but that I did anyway, to make Gemma happy. I knew I’d hate it, but it’s surpassed expectations.
The claustrophobia of living with my mother. The fact that we’d have more privacy shagging in the window of Primark on a Saturday afternoon. And that I haven’t been able to go for so much as a pint with Pete without feeling guilty because it’s three quid that should be in the house pot.
Now, as well as another massive cost emerging, instead of discussing it with me – because she knew I’d put the brakes on it – Gemma’s gone behind my back and paid out thousands.
And where did it come from?
I have absolutely no idea. Why would I? I’m only her boyfriend!
A thought slams into my head. A memory of her reaction after my mother again offered to give us the money for the deposit . . .
She hasn’t. She
couldn’t
.
I grip the steering wheel and screech into the driveway, feeling my chest inflate.
I find Gemma in the kitchen with my mother, laughing over a glass of wine. ‘Dan, come and join us,’ Mum says. ‘Gemma and I have just been for a swim.’
I look at this cosy scene, struggling to know how to handle this. ‘You haven’t been answering your phone,’ I tell Gemma.
‘Oh, sorry – I left it upstairs in the bedroom. What’s the matter? Everything okay?’
‘Not really.’ I don’t like the sound of my voice, but I can’t just walk in here and pretend nothing’s happened. ‘Have you got a minute?’
She flashes a look at Mum – you’d think they were best mates these days – and follows me into the dining room.
There, I find myself crossing and uncrossing my arms, trying to find a way of standing that won’t seem confrontational. But this is going to be a confrontation, there’s no avoiding it.
‘What’s the matter, Dan?’ She reaches out for my hand, but I move it out of the way. She swallows and looks at me as sweat appears on her brow. ‘What is it?’ she repeats.
‘I got a call from the estate agent.’
Weirdly, she deflates momentarily, as if she’s relieved about something. ‘What did he want?’
‘There’s a hold-up on the house.’
‘Oh God, I don’t believe it. How long?’
‘He doesn’t know.’
She shakes her head. ‘Oh well, as long as we get there in the end. This has been the day from hell.’
I can’t think of anything to say now, so I spit the first angry, sarcastic words that come out of my mouth. ‘Oh,
has it
?’
I regret this instantly, partly because I sound like a teenage girl after she’s just been grounded. ‘Sorry, I . . .’ Then I stop apologising and remind myself what she’s done. Or maybe she hasn’t. Maybe there’s an explanation. ‘Gemma. I need to ask you something.’
She searches my eyes.
‘Did you pay for half of the repairs on that house without telling me?’
A violent shade of red attacks her neck. ‘I . . . I . . .’ Then she says nothing. She just looks at the floor.
‘I take it that’s a yes,’ I say. At this point, I just want her to tell me to shut up and stop being ridiculous, slap me on the face and gasp, ‘How dare you, sir!’
But she sinks onto the edge of a chair, refusing to speak. I’m suddenly at a loss as to the right thing to say, so I stick to the default position – and launch into a good old-fashioned rant.
‘Well, for a start, you’ve probably blown all that money, because there’s every chance we might never get the house now. You’ve paid out thousands for a load of repairs on a property you may
never own.
’ She gasps. ‘Which leads me onto my second question. Did that money come from my mother?’
She rubs her forehead but again, doesn’t answer.
That honour is left to my mum, who marches in through the door with a ridiculous swagger, like she’s about to pull an Uzi out of her dressing gown and take out the lot of us. ‘Yes, it did. And what exactly is the problem with that?’