Chapter Five
‘Six months?’ My shrill voice cut through the overgrown garden to the point I was sure the neighbours four doors down probably heard.
‘Yeah, I’m afraid so.’ Mac’s tinkling laughter came down my phone. ‘We’ve got a load of jobs on the go as it is. Six months is a best-case scenario. It could be longer; we can’t always predict problems. I’m sorry.’
Mackenzie’s Construction was the third company I’d rung up, and it seemed the safest bet.
Mac was an experienced builder, with generations of builders in her family.
Unlike the first builder I’d called, she came with a load of recommendations; she’d quoted for the work without seeing the house and wanted the total paid upfront before she’d even started.
Sure, I didn’t know what I was doing for the most part, but I could spot a cowboy builder when I saw one.
Renovation TV shows were always my go-to when I was home sick from school: Grand Designs, DIY SOS, Location, Location, Location.
I used to revel at the moment the materials arrived late; they were over budget by a hundred grand, or the project got rained off.
Who didn’t love some Schadenfreude on a rainy Wednesday afternoon when you couldn’t breathe out of your left nostril?
I’d always loved the idea of managing a renovation project; obviously, I could do it so much better than the people on TV.
But I was stumbling at the first fucking hurdle – finding a builder.
‘Is there any chance of… speeding things up? I can pay a premium.’ I cringed at the desperation in my voice.
And at the idea of spending more money than needed.
Dad had left some money to renovate in his will, but it wasn’t unlimited.
I needed all the cash I could get if I wanted to buy somewhere in London.
Mac’s reply was instant. ‘Nothin’ I can do, I’m afraid.
A lot of the projects have contracts and have paid deposits.
You’d struggle to find any builder ready to start as soon as possible.
I certainly wouldn’t trust anyone who could, if I’m honest. Things have really picked up in the last year.
Unless you can find someone whose arm you can twist, or you could try blackmail. ’ Mac chuckled.
Broad shoulders and deep brown eyes came to mind.
The only person I could have leveraged or strong-armed into helping me, I had now threatened with a light fitting, pissed off, and sent packing.
I paced back and forth in the garden, creating a pathway through the overgrown grass.
Panic tightened my throat. I needed to refurb the house and sell it in two months.
Two months.
As if sensing my self-doubt, my phone rang, and the caller ID read Mum.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I squeaked.
I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m an adult. I make my own choices.
‘What’s wrong?’ My mum’s voice was laced with concern. Fuck. How did she know already? It was my voice. Or maybe being a headteacher for the last fifteen years had engrained some ‘shit’s about to hit the fan’ sixth sense into my mother.
‘Nothing, nothing. I’m fine.’ I kept my voice as even as possible.
All fine, apart from the fact I’m lying to you. I’ve moved two hundred miles to renovate a house with no builder, and I’ve managed to royally piss off the only one who might do me a favour. Other than that, I’m fine.
Totally fine.
‘Hm.’ I hadn’t convinced her. ‘What are you up to at the weekend? Graham and I were thinking we might come into London –’
‘Oh,’ I said, shock in my voice. They never visited London, so of course, now was the weekend they wanted to visit. ‘I’m busy, I’m afraid, Mum.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, sorry.’
‘You can’t reschedule? What are you up to?’ The tone had panic rising in my chest. Had she caught me?
‘I’m – ah. I’m with Willa.’
‘Oh, that’s no problem. Just bring her along. On Saturday? Because we could come in on Sunday –’
‘Sunday, I’m helping her with some work. All weekend, we are working. Some client pitches that she’s panicking about. She’s having some problems, you know, with clients leaving.’
If I threw Mum a bone and gave her something to worry about in my life that wasn’t this house, she’d focus on that. Divert.
‘Okay.’
‘Actually, we’ll be doing that for quite a few weekends.’ I bit my lip. God, I hated lying. ‘See, Willa is doing a lot of away days. And the weekends work best for all of us.’
If I said I was busy on the weekends, Mum had no choice but to accept I was busy for the next few months. She was a teacher, so she couldn’t arrange to see me in the week.
‘Well, I do hope everything is okay, Katherine. If your job is at risk –’
‘It’s not. Really, it’s fine. You know Willa’s dad would never let anything happen.’
Mum gave a satisfied hum down the phone.
‘So, the house,’ my mum said, and I jumped like she’d appeared beside me. ‘Where are we up to with the estate agent? Do you need me to help look at some documents?’
I absentmindedly kicked over a ceramic hedgehog in the grass.
As much as I resented how my mum approached my disability, I did appreciate having her look over dense documents for me.
My dyslexia meant I missed a lot of detail, and my ADHD meant I hated boring tasks.
Thanks to my eReader’s large print, I could read a book in a whole evening, but if you asked me to read over a client contract, I’d rather throw myself out of the office window, thirteen floors up.
‘It’s all under control,’ I said firmly.
‘Are you sure? I can call them.’
‘Mum. Come on. It’s fine. I can sort it.’
‘Okay.’ She sounded unconvinced.
‘I know you’re there if I need you.’
That was a bit too emotional for Mum, so all I got was a stiff, ‘Good.’
‘Katerina!’ Graham’s voice boomed down the phone. He was usually soft-spoken, but he was being silly, probably to defuse the tension between me and my mum.
‘Hi, Graham.’ I smiled.
‘It’s lovely to hear your voice, but your mother and I are leaving. We’re going foraging in Greenmoor Wood. I’m wrestling the phone from her as we speak.’
I laughed. ‘That’s fine! Thanks for checking in.’
‘Okay, darling. We will speak to you soon. Your mum sends kisses.’
My mum never sends kisses. Not even on texts.
But I respected Graham’s attempt to soften her phone call.
When I first met Graham at fourteen, I was resistant.
In my defence, fourteen-year-olds don’t like anyone.
But he won me over eventually, with his warm eyes set behind round spectacles like a benevolent library teacher that might help you save the world.
Unlike my dad, he was academic. He worked as a curator of the Egyptian collection at the Ashmolean Museum at the University of Oxford, so he and Mum understood working in education and the bureaucracy that came with it.
They shared the same passions and eccentric hobbies – foraging for Mum and bouldering for Graham.
They planned to retire in a few years, downsize and use the money to travel for the year – Egypt, Peru and South America.
It was the absolute opposite of my idea of a holiday, but I was so excited for them. Mum had never visited anywhere.
I said my goodbyes to Mum and Graham and stood in the garden, twisting my watch from side to side. I needed a new plan – one that might include persuading a pissed-off builder to help me. I bit my lip. I needed to persuade Liam to reconsider.
I would happily exchange my pride for the ability to say ‘I told you so’ to my mum.
Before I could begin hatching my new charm offensive, a chubby little fawn pug entered the garden through the open gate.
Its buggy eyes looked at me as if it was surprised to see me there, gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘Oh well’, and it brought its front and back paws together to take a dump on my lawn. My mouth was agape.
‘Noodle!’ A panicked voice came from the front drive.
Around the corner came a woman who must have been in her early sixties.
She had light grey hair styled in cornrows and stylish cat-eye frames adorning her face.
She wore blue jeans, a bright orange jumper, and walking boots.
A dog lead was hanging around her shoulders.
‘Noodle!’ She gasped as she took in her pug, now squatting around my garden, looking slightly constipated.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. He’s never done this before.
He doesn’t usually run off, especially into a neighbour’s garden.
This is so embarrassing. Wait until I tell our Steve.
He’s going to be so mortified. He prides himself on Noodle’s good behaviour.
When we took him to puppy training, he was the best in the class.
’ She rushed over to Noodle, pulling green dog poo bags out of her back pocket. ‘I am sorry.’
She spoke all this at Gilmore Girls-level speed, and it took me a while to process what was happening.
I smiled – because what else could I do – and said, ‘Don’t worry about it. The garden’s a mess anyway. What’s a bit of dog poo?’
The woman laughed, glancing around at the overgrown garden.
‘Don’t you worry. You’ll get it sorted in no time.
Rose struggled to keep on top of it towards the end.
’ She smiled sadly. ‘And then we never heard from the new owner when it sold. Sometimes, we saw a gardener come in and do a cull – but that hasn’t been for months.
’ She extended her hand. ‘My name is Pat. Patricia. I’m number twenty-four.
I live with my husband, Steve.’ As Pat hadn’t picked up the dog poo yet, I didn’t hesitate to shake her hand. Her hands were warm and soft.
I smiled. ‘I’m Kat. And it was my dad who owned the house. He passed away last summer. I think he was probably the one who arranged the gardener now and then.’
Pat’s face almost caved in on itself in sadness and pity.
Panic rose in my chest.
She held onto my hand, pulling it closer to her. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. How awful. And me blabbering on about the garden. Please ignore me.’
I shifted my weight. ‘There’s nothing to apologise for. We weren’t that close.’
Pat’s piercing brown eyes seemed to be scanning me, peeking through closed curtains, so I changed the subject quickly.
‘Noodle is very cute.’ I leaned down and petted him on the head. He rubbed his flat face into my jeans.
‘Thank you.’ She beamed down at the rotund dog. ‘We adopted him – he has a lot of health problems, like most pugs. We would never buy, especially this breed. I disagree with it.’
I nodded, and Noodle got bored of me and trotted around the garden, snorting away.
‘Have you got a hus – partner moving in with you?’ Pat stuttered through the question. Those eyes were curious, if not a little nosy. In fact, she was definitely nosy.
‘Ah, no. No husband,’ I said, giving Pat the answer to her silent question – I was straight.
‘I’ve come up to renovate the property, sell it, then I’m moving back down south.
Hopefully, I’ll buy somewhere in London.
It was my dad’s house when he was growing up, so I feel like I should –’ I didn’t know how to finish that sentence, so I left it hanging.
‘Oh, that’s lovely.’ Pat threw a palm to her chest. ‘Well, if you need any help, you know where to find us. Our Steve has a shed load of tools, and we know quite a few tradesmen. Have you found a builder?’
I gave a tight smile. ‘Almost sorted.’ There was no chance I would mention Liam, in case Pat knew him. She had the air of someone who knew everyone.
Pat smiled brightly, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had become something in her mind. A project, maybe? It made me a bit uneasy, but she was warm and friendly, and I couldn’t afford to turn away friends who might help me.
So, I gave her a morsel more.
‘I think it’s going to be a bit stressful, the renovation. But I’m hopeful I’ll get it all sorted in time.’
‘Of course you will.’ She glanced at her watch.
‘But the working day is over.’ She took on a motherly tone, which jarred against the memory of my own mother’s harsh words.
‘Why don’t you explore the high street? It’s small, but you should have a mooch.
You must visit the social club. It’s the committee meeting today, so everyone will be there.
’ Pat clapped her hands together. ‘Oh yes, we’ll get you sorted in no time.
I’ll message our Sandy. She works behind the bar and can get you in as our guest.’
‘Guest?’
‘Yes, guest.’
‘Is it like a golf club? I’m not dressed—’
Pat burst out laughing. Then heaved a breath and kept laughing.
‘No, no,’ she said between laughs. ‘Golf club.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘It’s nothing like that. It’s a social club – like a working men’s club?’
‘Oh. Like Phoenix Nights?’
I’d never watched it, but I knew the premise vaguely – a working men’s club full of balding white blokes nursing their warm pints of ale.
Pat barked a laugh. ‘I supposed it used to be a bit like that. Until we had a’ – she pinched her thumb and forefinger together – ‘little coup and kicked out the old guard. Now, it’s more…
representative of the area. It’s a pub but also a community centre, I suppose.
’ Pat touched my shoulder. ‘Trust me, you’ll have a riot and find someone to help you with this.
’ She gestured to the house with its broken roof tiles and thick, overgrown bushes that obscured the windows.
God, it looked like a mess.
I didn’t want to admit it, but Pat was right – I could do with all the help I could get.
‘Which way is the high street?’