Chapter 7 #2
“I’m moving here. I just purchased number twelve.” I point to the terrace home at the end of the street. “We’re picking up the keys today and doing a walkthrough to see what improvements are going to need to be made to restore it and make it habitable.”
He slows the car and parks on the street in the spot near number twelve, then spins around in his seat. I can see the wheels turning inside his mind as he absorbs everything I’ve just told him. “I need to do a perimeter sweep before you’ll be allowed in.”
“Art, the space is probably empty. According to the listing agent, it’s been vacant for at least three years. In fact, the only person with keys is the agent. He’s supposed to meet us here at eight-fifteen.”
His jaw clenches. “It’s proper protocol.”
There it is again. The agent who wants to do everything by the book. Where’s the chap who joked with me a few nights ago?
“Fine, if you want to do your perimeter sweep, go ahead. I’ll wait in the car.”
“I can’t allow that either. You’re not to be left alone in a public space.”
“Where else am I supposed to go?” I gesture to the street. “It’s either I stay here, or I go with you.”
“I didn’t think about that.” He grits his teeth.
Reaching for his thermos, I hand it to him. “Drink more coffee and wake up,” I say. “How about this: I won’t tell anyone about not checking out the building before we go inside if you won’t.” I place a finger to my lips.
He unscrews the lid, keeping his gaze on me. It’s the first time I notice his eyes are hazel. A perfect mixture of green and golden-brown. Pouring himself a generous amount into the lid, he takes a few sips, smacking his lips together while suppressing a grimace.
“Do you need something sweet to go with that? It smells strong.” I reach into my handbag. “I have a raspberry fig bar.” I wave it under his nose.
“No thank you.”
“Then I’ll leave it here in case you change your mind.” I place it inside the empty cup holder next to the thermos.
“I won’t.”
“Did you have any breakfast this morning?”
He takes another sip of the coffee, raising the lid as if he’s toasting me. There’s my answer.
“You know, skipping breakfast is bad for your brain health.” I relocate the bar so it’s in his hands.
“Your job performance could also suffer.” I rattle off a few more facts off the top of my brain about the merits of breakfast. Some of them are made up, but as long as I sound convincing, I doubt he’ll notice.
His eyes continue to tighten until I run out of things to say. He remains quiet, continuing to drink his coffee.
I huff and run a hand through my hair, frustrated by his lack of response. “Gah. Doesn’t anything faze you?”
“No.” He smirks. A few more moments of silence pass before he sighs and rips the packaging open. He takes a few bites, chews, and swallows. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome.”
Maybe now he’ll be a little less grouchy. While Art eats, I unlock my mobile and check to see if the agent has texted me. The green bubble icon is empty, however. It’s still a little early. I sigh and rest my head against the seat.
“Ma’am?”
“Hmm?”
“Why this flat?” I open my eyes to see him squinting out the window. “The building is knackered.”
“It’s not knackered. It’s a blank canvas.” My lips twitch as I try to ignore the peeling paint, overgrown ivy coating the exterior, and mound of rubbish that’s accumulated near the front gate. “You show a building a little TLC and it’ll give it right back to you.”
“It sounds like you think the building is living.”
“It is. It’s living history.” I nod. “Besides, I’ve grown up in character properties my entire life, and I can’t ever imagine myself living somewhere modern.”
“Not a country cottage?”
Butterflies flutter in my stomach at the thought.
Art has touched on one of my long-term goals.
I’d love nothing more than to own a chocolate-box cottage with a thatched roof somewhere in a small English village.
I can picture the original wood beams and a large inglenook fireplace.
But those types of properties require a special owner.
As much as my heart might be telling me to ignore my head, I’m not at the stage of my life where I can handle it.
“No. Maybe in the future I will, but right now, I have to be practical. I need a space that will suit me while I’m in uni and to figure out how to maintain it before I can make the jump to something like a four-hundred-year-old cottage.”
“You’re passionate about it,” he notes. His hazel eyes are more alert than they were earlier. The caffeine and sugar from the food must’ve kicked in. The grump is slowly melting away into someone who is tolerable.
“I am. That’s one of the reasons I’m going for my structural engineering degree.”
“Not architecture?”
“No. I’ve never had an artistic eye for building design. I’m a problem solver. I’d much rather come up with the systems and configurations to support an architect’s designs and work with restoring older properties.”
My phone chimes as Art cleans up his rubbish and screws the lid back on the thermos. “The agent?” he asks.
“Yeah, he’s about a minute away.”
Art steps out of the car and opens my door. “Thanks,” I say.
Art walks ahead of me, guided by the light of his mobile.
I’ve peeked through the photos on the website and knew going into today’s visit that the building was in rough shape, but physically seeing it still sends shockwaves through my system.
I chew on my lip. Bruce was right. I may have bitten off more than I can chew.
And it all could’ve been avoided if I’d read that darn surveyor’s report.
We enter the ground-floor sitting room. The plaster is peeling off the walls, revealing suspicious white patches that could be mildew and cracks.
Studying the angles from the corners, I think most of them are going to be cosmetic, but there are still one or two that are worrisome.
The floorboards are buckling and have begun to come up from the ground.
There is a large crack in the front window and a pane missing from the lower left corner.
“That’s not good,” I mumble.
“No.” Art joins me by my side and takes a few steps closer to examine the missing pane. “It’s probably where the moisture is coming from.”
We move deeper into the building. It’s dark and stuffy.
A cloud of dust floats around the light of his mobile as we explore.
The kitchen is in slightly less bad shape, but it’s devoid of any appliances, and all the sockets appear to be thirty or forty years old.
The entire electrical system will need to be rewired and replaced.
“The garden looks all right. Just overgrown,” Art muses.
Through a grimy window, I spy a few patches of light.
“It’s more of a jungle than a garden.” The plants have taken on a life of their own.
Vines, weeds, and other shrubs are spilling out from every spare inch of space.
We can’t see to the back fence, but I know from the map of the property that it’s long enough that I’ll be able to add a summer house and have a lawn put in so Lillian can run around.
Approaching the stairs to the first floor, I find there is no handrail. Art insists on going up the steps first, and that I hug the wall as we ascend so I don’t fall. Each step creaks as weight is placed on it.
“Should I be worried we’ll fall through?” he asks.
“No, we’ll be all right. The stairs don’t let out the type of groaning creak before a piece of wood breaks apart and splinters.”
“Uh-huh.” He shines the light in my direction. “I didn’t realize there were different types of sounds wood can make.”
“Take my word for it, there are.”
“I will, ma’am.”
We turn right and glance inside one of the bedrooms from the doorway. There’s an old metal bedframe and a wardrobe. Faded flower wallpaper is peeling from the walls. The ceiling is covered in cobwebs and yet more disturbing cracks.
I face Art. “You can call me Alice if you’d like.”
He glances away from me and becomes intrigued by the wood of the door frame, running his finger along the grain. “That’s not protocol, ma’am.”
“It might not be, but I’m giving you my royal permission,” I urge.
He doesn’t speak. Well, he may not be receptive to it, but at least I’ve put the idea out there. We’re making small strides.
“Come on, let’s see what else is up here,” I say.
We continue our tour. By the time we finish the first floor, we’ve discovered two additional bedrooms. The stairs to the second floor are narrow, missing a few boards, and also devoid of a railing.
Art doesn’t let me go up there, but rather films the space for me with my mobile.
There’s two more bedrooms and access to the eaves of the property.
“Ma’am, it appears there may be a problem with the roof. I felt a draft and there are at least two birds’ nests present. The floor was covered in animal droppings. It’s a health hazard and needs to be addressed before you can see it.”
I add those to my already long mental list of necessary repairs. I have no idea how I’m going to be able to pay for everything. “That’s the worst possible outcome. I was hoping I might be able to get away with a simple repair, but I suppose in this case, it’ll be better to get it done right.”
“Which room do you intend to set aside for the security team?”
I cock my head to the side. Security team? “What do you mean?”
He stiffens. “Ma’am, when you or any member of the royal family rehomes themselves from the palace to an outside property, you’re no longer residing in a secured location.”
“Okay,” I answer slowly, trying to understand where he’s going with this.
He fidgets. “That means a protection team officer must be on the premises with you at all times.”
“You and Angela will be living with me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Of all the scenarios that have crossed my mind, having my agents live with me wasn’t one of them. In a few months, Art is going to be under the same roof as me. I dry swallow. Oh boy. Things just got a lot more complicated.