Chapter 14
Bee pulled the helmet from her head and ran her fingers through her hair.
‘Mrs Wills.’ A small man who looked somewhat like an overgrown baby bounced out of his Ford Puma and headed towards her with his hand outstretched. ‘Tony Pritchard. Did you find it all right?’
Bee rested the helmet on the seat of her bike and shook his hand. ‘No problem at all. I’ve had a lovely ride down actually.’
‘Good, good.’ He began looking around him, over her shoulder. ‘Are we expecting your husband, Mrs Wills?’
‘No,’ smiled Bee, unzipping the top portion of her leathers, ‘no – he wasn’t feeling too well. We decided it would be better if he stayed at home.’
‘Of course, of course. I perfectly understand. Well, if you’re ready?’
She followed him towards the house.
‘Wheelchair ramp,’ he said, pointing out the wheelchair ramp. ‘Handrails, as you can see, from the gate all the way through the house. Does your husband have any, er, mobility, in his legs?’
Bee shook her head.
‘I see. I see. Well – I think you’ll find everything he needs has been installed. This cottage was adapted for the needs of a paraplegic lady.’
‘Yes,’ said Bee, ‘I know.’
‘But the particularly nice thing about this paraplegic lady is that she was also an interior designer.’ He swung open the front door and for the first time since Bee had reached her decision, she felt completely convinced she was doing the right thing.
It was even nicer inside than the photographs from the estate agent had suggested.
Far from the institutional, linoleumed and stain-proofed atmosphere she’d half-expected, the cottage was stylish and snug, with higgledy-piggledy ceilings and cream carpets.
‘No expense was spared in adapting this property, and everything has been thought of. Everything is low-level, every room has an emergency contact button, the security system is state of the art. Come and look at the kitchen. I think you’ll find it very impressive.’
Bee followed him through.
‘The previous owner was a very keen cook – but so was her husband – so they had this installed. Look.’ He ran a Formica work-surface up and down on parallel tracks screwed into the wall.
‘And look. Even the hob is adjustable. There are two sinks, at different levels – so there’s no excuse for your husband not to do his share of the washing-up.
’ He laughed. ‘Now do come and see the garden. I think you’ll find it particularly delightful. ’
Bee nodded and swallowed a smile. Estate agents.
Honestly. What were they like? ‘Particularly delightful.’ Did he honestly expect Bee to believe that he used that sort of language in the normal course of things?
That after his wife served him his dinner he said, ‘Thank you darling – that was particularly delightful’?
Or while he was watching football in the pub with his mates: ‘Well – that header into goal really was particularly delightful.’ Bee had seen enough estate agents over the last few weeks to know them quite well.
The way they tidied up the loose ends of their accents, the not-quite-cool grammar-school air about them, the pastel-coloured shirts, discreet gold jewellery, unisex hairdresser hair, Lynx deodorant.
Paul. Dave. Phil. Steve. Tony. Mark. Lots of Marks.
Mainly Marks, in fact. This Tony – he wasn’t as bad as some.
He wasn’t wide. He wasn’t slick. He was wearing a wedding band and was probably a very good husband, probably had a couple of little ones and probably crawled to his mother-in-law, who even now, after all this time, still thought her daughter could have done much better than him.
‘Do you have children, Mrs Wills?’ he asked, leading her out to the garden.
Bee shook her head. ‘We’ve got a cat, though.’
‘Oh. Lovely. This is a cat’s paradise out here.’
Bee looked round her and decided. Immediately.
This was the house she wanted. A ramp extended from the back door out along a gravelled path that ran through a hilly green lawn.
To the east was a small cluster of apple trees, a few swollen, stubborn fruit still clinging to their branches.
Surrounding the lawn was a horseshoe of dahlias, geraniums, pansies and violets.
Gaudy flowers. Her mother would have hated them.
To the west was a billowing vista of patchwork fields and in the far, far distance, the bruised outline of the sea, frothy under a darkening sky.
She spun round to face the house again. Fondant pink and chunky, striped with white, like a gigantic French Fancy. And then she turned to face Tony. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she sighed, pulling a strand of hair off her face.
‘Stunning,’ he agreed. ‘Possibly one of the nicest out-of-town properties of this age we’ve ever had on our books. And all the adjustments are so unobtrusive. And as for this view …’
They both turned to look at it again, casting their eyes upwards as a few fat droplets fell from the sky. ‘Shall we go indoors?’
Tony took Bee upstairs, showed her the stair-lift, the easy-access bath, the special toilet and the spectacular view from the bedroom windows, now rain-splattered and obscured.
It was almost dark outside now as the cloud thickened overhead, and Tony switched on a few lights.
Bee paced around on her own for a while, letting the cosiness overwhelm her.
He’d love it here. This was no compromise.
This was no sad, secret, sordid place. They wouldn’t have to pretend here, pretend to be happy.
They actually could be happy. Imagine Christmas Day in front of that wonderful open fireplace with fairy-lights draped all over the place and Bing Crosby on the CD.
Imagine summer afternoons in that garden, pottering around, sunbathing, playing Frisbee.
Well – maybe not playing Frisbee. But just imagine, thought Bee, imagine the times they were going to have here. Together. Just the two of them.
‘I want it,’ she said to Tony as she descended the stairs. ‘I want to buy it. I want to offer the full asking price. And I want to pay cash.’
Tony did his best not to look overexcited and got to his feet. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘fine. That’s great. And I’ve got to say – an excellent decision. Absolutely excellent. Well – we’d better get back to the office then. Get things going.’
He wandered around, switching off lights, and saw Bee to her bike under his umbrella. As she straddled it and perched her helmet on her head he looked at her, and a small smile began to play on his plump lips. ‘Has anybody ever told you that you look like Bee Bearhorn?’ he said.
Bee smiled. ‘Bee who?’ she said.
‘You know – Bee Bearhorn. That singer from the Eighties. With the bob and the red lipstick. “I’m groooooving, for Lon-don, for Lon-don, all night.” ’ He smirked as he finished his painful rendition of her one and only hit.
Bee grimaced and laughed. ‘Never heard of her,’ she said. ‘She sounds awful, though.’
‘Yeah,’ laughed Tony, heading back towards his car in the rain, ‘yeah. She was.’