The Other Side of the Story (25 page)

'Yes.' I looked at my plate. 'So I'd appreciate it if we didn't discuss it.'

'Of
course
. You must want to forget it ever happened. To have someone write such appalling things and then publish it in a national paper that has a circulation of several million… If it were me, I think I should kill myself.'

'I'll save you the bother and do it for you myself,' Anton said cheerfully, 'if you don't shut up right away.'

Debs coloured. 'I beg your pardon. I was being
sympathetic
. After such a dreadful, humiliating, embarrassing —'

'That's enough,' Dad said. He sounded so firm that Debs looked momentarily uncertain, then he made the mistake of licking his butter knife and she pounced, scolding him shrilly.

Over the years Debs had done a
My Fair Lady
on what she regarded as Dad's more objectionable mannerisms: drinking milk straight from the carton, spilling lots of it down his chin and wiping it away with his sleeve. She had even managed to reduce his weight by preparing him special low-fat meals, but it pained me to see how she had literally reduced him.

It was a dreadfully hard day but at four-thirty we were given a surprise early release: Debs was playing a tennis match. She left Dad up to his elbows in sudsy water as she ran off to change. Five minutes later she skipped down the stairs in her flippy white skirt and neat, hairbanded hair.

Well,' Anton said in admiration. 'You look more like a schoolgirl than a forty-six-year-old alien.'

Debs posed jauntily with her racket over her shoulder, giggled, then frowned, 'A forty-six-year-old
what
?

'Alien,' Anton said cheerfully.

I wanted to run away.

'Irish word. Means "goddess".'

'Really?' A little uncertainly. 'I see. Well, I should go. Time waits for no man.'

'Or alien!' Anton twinkled.

'Um, yes.'

'Bye. Good luck.'

'And no going out with the girls and getting tiddly afterwards,' Anton chided. 'I know you, you naughty girl.'

She giggled again, then in grim silence ripped Joshua off her leg, flung him towards a corner of the hall, jogged out to her lemon Yaris and drove away.

'Nope,' Anton said conclusively, as we rocked on the home-bound train.

'Nope, what?'

'I just can't believe she's ever had sex. She has a brillo pad for a heart. How did little Poppy come about? Let's face it, Mr Muscle is the only man Debs seems interested in.'

'Perhaps she brings a bottle of Dettol into bed with her.'

'Oh stop. I'm having horrific thoughts. God, she's vile.'

'I know,' I said. 'But Dad is mad about her so I feel I ought to try. And in many ways she's terribly good for him.'

'How?'

'She's tempered the excesses of his financial risk-taking.'

'You mean she was astute enough to get the title of Dettol Hall put in her name.'

'At least they'll always have a roof over their heads.'

'True.'

45

Will you do something for me?' Anton asked.

'Anything,' I said. Foolishly.

'There's a house for sale in Grantham Road. Will you and Ema come to see it with me?'

After a pause I said, What's the asking price?'

'Four hundred and seventy-five thousand.'

'Why do you want to view a house that we will never be able to afford, not in a million years?'

'I see it every day on the way to the tube and I'm curious about it. It's like a fairy-tale house, it doesn't belong in London at all.'

'Why are they selling?'

'It belonged to an old man who died. His family don't want it.'

I had a sudden hard place in my stomach. Anton had researched this without telling me.

'It can't hurt to look,' he said.

I so did not agree. But Anton asked so little from me, how could I refuse him?

'This is it,' Anton said, standing before a detached, sturdy redbrick with a pointy Gothic roof. It was like a miniature castle and looked neither too big nor too small. Just right.

Arse.

'Victorian,' Anton said, pushing open a waist-high gate and extending a hand. Ema and I followed him up a short tinder path to a tiled porch with a pitched roof. The heavy blue front door was opened immediately by a young suited and booted bloke. Greg, the estate agent.

I stepped over the threshold into the hall, the door closed behind me and I was infused with calm. The light was quite different in here. The stained-glass fan-window above the front door threw coloured patterns onto the wooden floor and all was peaceful and golden.

'Most of the furniture's gone,' Greg said. 'The old man's family took it. Let's start here, shall we?'

Our feet echoed on the wooden floors as we followed him into a room that stretched the entire depth of the house. At the front was a pretty bay window and at the back, French doors leading to the garden - which looked crammed with old-fashioned, hollyhock-style foliage. A fireplace, patterned with William Morris-style ceramic tiles stood tall by the right wall.

'Original,' Greg said, knocking his knuckles on it.

There was the faintest smell of pipe tobacco and I imagined children wearing button boots, eating toffee apples and playing on a wooden rocking horse.

On the other side of the hall was a cosy little square room, also with a bay window and fireplace.

'This could be your writing room,' Anton said. 'Lily's a writer,' he told Greg.

'Oh?' he said politely. 'Have I heard of you?'

'Lily Wright,' I said shyly.

'Oh,' he repeated, my name clearly meaning nothing to him. 'Er, well done.'

The floorboards by the window creaked and suddenly I remembered reading about an American woman who had wanted to recreate a Victorian house, so had paid for authentically squeaking floorboards. And here they were, already installed.

'I could put my desk here,' I said, stroking the wall. A piece of plaster crumbled into my hand.

'Obviously the house needs a bit of work,' Greg said. 'Ought to be fun pulling it all together.'

'Yes.' And my assent was sincere.

Then the kitchen which was a gloomy hidey-hole. 'We could knock through,' I murmured, not really understanding what it meant, but seizing on the phrase.

I could see it already. My new knocked-through kitchen would be four times its current size and floored with warm terracotta tiles. At all times a heavy ceramic casserole would sit on a pale blue Aga, so should people drop in unexpectedly, I could wander out in my bare feet, welcome them warmly, give them dinner, then press my home-made elderberry wine on them. I would be like Nigella Lawson.

When people had crises, they would appear on my prettily tiled doorstep, knowing they could depend on me for sanctuary. I would bundle them in a mohair blanket, place them on a daybed in the bay window to watch the breeze playing on the branches and supply camomile tea in charmingly mismatched cups and saucers until their
crise
had passed.

Greg led us to the stairs and as I bent down to carry Ema I noticed pinprick holes in the floorboards. Woodworm. How charming. How… how… authentic. It would be impossible ever to be unhappy in this house.

The three bedrooms were each more delightful than the previous. Visions of iron bedsteads, embroidered quilts, rocking chairs and voile curtains billowing in the gentle breeze entranced me.

I took a brief look at the poky antediluvian bathroom and murmured once again about knocking through.

Then Greg took us downstairs for the property highlight: the charmingly overgrown garden. Along the edges a horseshoe of trees and tangled bushes leant inwards and camouflaged much of the houses and tower blocks of the outside world.

'Blackcurrant bushes. Raspberry vines,' Greg indicated. 'An apple tree. In the summer you'll have fruit.'

I had to clutch Anton.

Near the back fence there was a low, old-fashioned greenhouse growing tomatoes. Beside it was a south-facing garden seat like an old park bench, with white-painted wooden slats and wrought-iron legs.

'Hardly know you were in London,' Greg said.

'Mmmm,' I agreed, quite happy to ignore the screech of a car alarm from a street away.

I saw myself sitting in this garden, writing in a pretty notebook, a basket of freshly picked raspberries by my side. In the sunlight my hair was blonde and ripply, as if my highlights had just been done, and I was draped in a floaty white something from Ghost, or perhaps Marni.

Clearest of all was my vision of Ema playing with other children — her brothers and sisters perhaps? For some reason they all had ringlets and were happily throwing stones at the greenhouse.

I would press flowers. My French windows would have light muslin drapes which shifted in the breeze and I would meander barefoot from garden to house carrying secateurs and an overarm basket.

It smelt and felt like a half-remembered dream. As familiar as if I had been here before, even though I knew I had not.

I had never been materialistic. For as long as I remembered I had held the opinion that money plays one false: promises the world — perhaps even delivers it briefly — before removing it again.

But suddenly it was clear what an idiot I had been. I ought to have got my foot on the property ladder at the first opportunity. I should have hustled for better pay.

At that moment I wanted the house so badly, I was
avid
with greed. I would have sold my grandmother had she been still alive and had anyone wanted to buy her.

I had never before desired something so intensely. I would die without this house. But there was no need for such melodrama because it was my house already. I simply needed to find half a million pounds from somewhere.

*

I barely remember the walk home, but when I found myself once again in my poky little flat I rounded on Anton. I felt as though I had had a near-death experience and come face-to-face with the transcendent beauty of the divine, only to be returned to my body because, due to a clerical error, it was not yet my time. It had ruined me for anything else.

'Why did you show it to me? We could never afford it.'

'Listen to me a minute.' Anton was scribbling calculations on a paper bag. 'You've sold almost two hundred thousand copies, so you should get roughly one hundred thousand pounds in royalties.'

'I keep telling you, my first tranche of royalties won't be paid until the end of September and that's nearly five months away. The house will be gone by then.'

He was shaking his head. 'We can borrow against future income.'

'Can we? But Anton, the house is half a million
and
we'd need knocking-through money.'

'Think of the future,' he urged, his eyes shining. 'At some stage Eye-Kon is going to start turning a profit.'

I remained silent because I did not want to seem unsupportive. But until now all Eye-Kon had turned was my stomach when I saw on their balance sheet how much was spent on lunches in Soho buttering people up and how little work it had yielded.

'But much more importantly,' Anton said, 'you have a two-book deal.'

'Yes, but I've written only two chapters of my second one.' And no one at Dalkin Emery had cared until recently. It was only when
Mimi's Remedies
surprised them by selling so many that they even remembered I was signed up for a second book.

'What about
Crystal Clear
? It was obvious that Anton had been giving this some thought. 'That's finished and it's a great book. Offer that to them.'

It was strange because the very next day, Tania called. She wanted to see my new book. 'To bring out a hardback to catch the Christmas market.'

I had to make the dreadful admission. 'Tania, there is no new book.'

'Excuse me?'

'What with the baby and the tiredness and everything, I just couldn't manage it. I've only done two chapters.'

'I seeee.' Silence. Then, 'It's just that we thought… with it being a two-book deal… it's normal to start on the new one as soon as you've finished the old one. But, yes, the baby, the tiredness and you
have
been very busy…'

But clearly she wasn't happy. Distressed, I rang Anton.

'Give her
Crystal Clear
,' he reiterated.

'But it's not good enough. I couldn't get an agent with it.'

'It
is
good enough. Those agents were gobshites. It's a great book.'

'You think?'

'I think.'

So I called Tania and explained haltingly, 'I don't know if you will like it, I sent it to lots of agents -'

Tania cut in. 'Are you telling me you've got another book?'

'Yes.'

'Hallelujah. She's got another book,' she yelled. Someone whooped. 'I'll send a bike.'

Later that night, Tania called. 'I love it. Love, love, love it!'

'You've read it? That was fast.'

'I couldn't put it down. It's a different book to
Mimi's Remedies, very
different, but still has the Lily Wright magic. Roll on our Christmas best-seller.'

Shortly after that Jojo spoke to me about signing a new contract for my third and fourth books. 'For a much higher advance than the previous one, obviously.'

'See,' Anton said gleefully.

Jojo said we could sign now while my sales were buoyant, or we could wait until late autumn when, if my new hardback stormed the best-seller lists, my bargaining position would be even stronger.

'But what if my hardback doesn't storm the best-seller lists?'

'That's always a possibility, but it's your call.'

'But what do you think?'

'I think you're in a super-strong bargaining position now but it could be even stronger in November. But Lily, you've gotta know this: there is always a risk, there are no absolutes in this game. I'm sorry, sweets, I know you don't want to, but only you can make the decision.'

Anton talked down Jojo's disclaimer. 'She's not trying to scare you but she has to cover herself. But at the end of the day the decision has to be yours because you're the one who writes the books. You know I'll support you in whatever you decide but it has to be you who makes the final choice.'

I had no clue which was best. I was terrified of making a decision because it might be the wrong one and I trusted the opinions of others more than I trusted my own.

'Anton, what do you think?'

'I don't know why, but I think we should wait.'

'Really? Why don't you want the money immediately?'

He laughed. 'You know me so well. But I'm trying to change the habits of a lifetime. Trying to think long-term, you know. And long-term I think you're likely to get more money if you wait.'

I heard myself say, 'OK, then we'll wait.'

Deciding to wait until November was less of a decision than deciding to sign a new deal now. Certainly fewer immediate consequences ensued from it. But still I felt agonized.

'Oh, poor Lily.' Anton pulled my face to his chest and stroked my hair.

'Careful,' I murmured. 'Don't rub it away, it's too thin as it is.'

'Sorry. Anyway, c'mere, this might put a smile on your little face. You know how I told you our house costs four seven five? They've dropped the asking price! By fifty grand!'

'Why?'

'It's been on the market for nearly four months, they must be getting desperate.'

'Why hasn't it sold before now?'

'Because it was overpriced. But it's not overpriced now, which is why we should get in there. Everyone else will too.'

But I could not commit to borrowing such an enormous sum of money. 'There are too many variables,' I said. 'What if
Crystal Clear
bombs? What if I can't write another book and have to return the advance?'

'
Crystal Clear
won't bomb and we'll get a nanny so that you can devote yourself to writing. We'll even have a bedroom for her in the new house.'

I made a non-committal hmmm.

'What else are we going to do when your royalties arrive?' he asked. 'Buy a one-bed flat in the back-arse of nowhere and live on top of each other for a year or so, just like we're doing here, all of us sleeping in one room? Then when more money comes in, we sell it and buy someplace else so that we end up paying two lots of stamp duty. That's three per cent of the purchase price, it adds up to plenty, it's about fifteen grand on this house alone and we'd never get that back.'

'You've really been thinking about this.'

'At the moment, I can't think of anything else.' He leant into me, conviction in his eyes. 'I think this house is exactly what we need. There's that lovely room that would be perfect for you to write in, we'd have space for a nanny and we'd never have to move again. OK, I agree with you that we don't have the money yet but
it's coming
. But if we wait until all the money is sitting in our bank account, the house will be long gone.' He stopped for breath. 'Lily, you and me, we're crap with money, am I right?'

I agreed. We were hopeless.

'But for once, let's try to get it right. Let's try looking at the bigger picture, Lily, have vision. And let me ask you one thing: do you love this house?'