4
‘Blimey,’ Adam says as I open up the back of the hire van on Saturday morning to reveal neat rows of cardboard boxes and protective paper. ‘It looks like a professional removals company you’re running here.’
‘It is a professional company, thank you,’ I say, climbing up into the vehicle I’ve rented from Cox’s van rental in Cambridge, and I get ready to pass him down all the packing supplies. ‘I have done this before, you know?’
That was a bit of a white lie. I have never taken on a house clearance quite as big or as valuable as this one is going to be. But what I do have is confidence that we’ll be able to get the majority of the house packed up with a couple of days of hard work.
I was a little hesitant when Adam offered to help me with the packing – I’m used to doing that part on my own.
But I quickly realised it was going to be impossible to get the house cleared completely within two days if I didn’t have help, and other than Barney, who is in charge of the shop for the weekend, I don’t have anyone else. So Adam will have to do.
Adam helps me carry the boxes and paper into the hallway of the house, and we stack them neatly at the bottom of the staircase that curves elegantly up to the second floor.
Today Adam is wearing jeans again – black ones this time – along with a long-sleeved black T-shirt advertising the band Metallica, and a plaid green-and-black shirt.
He has the same amount of stubble as yesterday and I find myself wondering if he keeps it that length at all times, and, if so, how?
Is there a special razor that men use to achieve the perfect length of stubble?
‘Where do you want to start?’ he asks, pushing the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms in a determined fashion.
‘Hmm?’ I ask absent-mindedly, still thinking about razors.
‘Where do you want to get going?’
‘Oh, right yes. How about in one of the bedrooms?’ I say, looking up the staircase.
Adam doesn’t answer, so I glance back at him – he’s grinning. I immediately understand his amusement at my answer, but I choose not to react to it.
‘ Because there’s less stuff in them, and it will feel like we’re making more progress than if we start down here on the bigger rooms.’
Adam’s amused face drops a little.
‘Look, we’ve got a lot of stuff to get through today,’ I tell him kindly. ‘There’s not going to be a lot of time for joking around.’
‘You’re in charge of course,’ Adam says, saluting. ‘But there might be room for both? It might keep our spirits up.’
‘Anything that gets you filling all these boxes with more speed might be worth a shot, I suppose.’ I pick up a couple of the boxes and some sheets of paper, and then I begin to climb the stairs. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ I ask, turning back, but I can’t help smiling.
‘Nothing, sir!’ Adam says, looking delighted. ‘I’m right behind you.’
We make quick progress with the bedrooms. I carefully wrap up anything I’m taking for the shop that’s precious or delicate, while Adam puts everything else into cardboard boxes labelled Personal , Sell , Donate , et cetera. Then we move on to some of the downstairs rooms.
While we’re carrying some of the full boxes through the house to stack in the hall, the doorbell rings.
‘Are you expecting anyone?’ I ask.
Adam nods. He puts down his box and hurries towards the entrance.
‘Great!’ he says, opening the door. I can’t see who’s there because the door is blocking them.
But Adam pulls his wallet from his back pocket and produces some notes.
Then he hands them to whoever is on the other side of the door, and in return is given three pizza boxes.
‘Cheers!’ he says, before kicking the door closed with his foot and spinning around. ‘Voila! Luncheon is served!’
‘You really didn’t have to do that,’ I say, putting my box down on top of his. ‘Kind though it is.’
‘What were we going to have for lunch, then? There’s nothing in the kitchen. Believe me, I’ve looked.’
‘I’ve actually brought my own.’
‘Oh, so you won’t have any of this delicious pizza, then?’ Adam closes his eyes and pretends to savour the aroma above the boxes.
Again I have to smile. Annoyingly, his constant quips and carefree attitude are actually starting to grow on me. ‘That depends on what you’ve ordered. If it’s only pepperoni, then I’m out.’
Adam grins as he carries the boxes towards the kitchen. ‘Come this way … and we’ll see if I was right with my guess.’
I follow him through to the kitchen where we both wash our hands, drying them on some clean hand towels I find in one of the kitchen drawers.
‘Shall we perch in here?’ Adam asks, gesturing to two bar stools at the end of one of the kitchen worktops. ‘The dining room seems a bit formal for pizza.’
‘Yes, let’s.’
‘Drink?’ Adam opens up the fridge. ‘I took the liberty of getting some in.’
‘I’ll take a water, please,’ I say, looking at the selection he’s chosen. ‘Sparkling.’
Adam nods and pulls out a bottle of sparkling water for me, and a can of Appletiser for him.
‘I haven’t had Appletiser for years,’ he says, carrying the drinks over to the counter and putting them down next to the pizzas.
‘But for some reason I just fancied it some. Right.’ He lifts the lids of the boxes one by one.
‘Like I said, I took a guess. We have a veggie supreme in case you’re a vegetarian, the classic Hawaiian – ham and pineapple – and a plain Margherita in case I got it all completely wrong. ’ He looks hopefully up at me.
‘I’m not a vegetarian, but they all look lovely. Thank you.’
‘But they’re not your favourite, though, right?’ Adam asks.
‘Not my favourite, but I’ll happily eat any of them.’ I reach for one of the plates Adam has put out and help myself to a slice of veggie supreme.
‘What is then?’ Adam helps himself to a slice of Hawaiian and a slice of Margherita. ‘Your favourite, I mean.’
‘Tuna and olive.’
‘Tuna!’ Adam says, screwing his face up. ‘On a pizza?’
‘Yes, I happen to like tuna. And some would say that putting pineapple on a pizza is equally as bad.’
‘Don’t you like pineapple, then?’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it. Just that some people think it’s wrong.’
Adam smiles.
‘Have I said something funny?’ I ask.
‘No, not at all. I just like the way you defend yourself and what you believe in.’
‘Oh … well, thanks, I guess. It was just a pizza.’
‘I know, but I like your passion for defending the small stuff.’
‘That’s because the small stuff is often just as important as the big.’
I open my bottle of water and take a sip. Adam watches me, doing that thing he often does when he studies my face really intently, but doesn’t say anything.
‘Why don’t you tell me about you?’ I ask quickly. I can’t put my finger on it – it’s not that I’m unnerved by his behaviour, it’s just a little odd when he does this. ‘When I was at the bar with Luca last night, you were telling the others all about your exciting life.’
‘I wouldn’t call it exciting, really.’
‘What would you call it, then?’
‘Unusual, maybe. Different, perhaps?’
‘Different how?’
‘I’m travelling nearly all the time,’ Adam says, thinking for a moment. ‘Constantly on the road. Bands live a funny, nocturnal sort of life and their roadies are similar – just not as famous or well paid!’
‘Don’t you enjoy it, then?’
‘Yes … well, I did. When I was younger it seemed like a great job. You get to travel around – not only this country, but if you’re lucky, the world.
You get to stay in some wonderful hotels if you’re on the road with a successful band, and the lifestyle can be pretty good.
’ He smiles fondly. ‘But I’ve never felt the same about the industry since … ’
He pauses as if he’s remembering something and I can’t help wondering what. He suddenly looks incredibly sad and I’m surprised when I feel something jolt sharply inside me. As if we’ve shared the same memory, the same pain.
‘Let’s just say I’d like to move away from the industry now,’ Adam says, suddenly snapping back into the present. ‘If I’m honest, I’m probably getting a bit too old these days for the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. Even if my look does suggest otherwise!’
He gestures to himself and grins, but his amused expression is quickly replaced by an anxious one as he looks up at me. ‘But I don’t know any other life than this one.’
‘Haven’t you ever done anything else? No other jobs?’ I ask, surprised again by the effect his honesty is having on me. I can see beyond his confident, slightly brash exterior right now, and there’s a vulnerability I didn’t expect.
‘Not really. I was already in a band at eighteen, so I didn’t go to uni.
I dropped out of education after my A levels because the band got signed to a big record label, and we thought we were about to hit the big time and become famous.
’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Little did we know. We were only together for about three years and during that time we never made much of a dent in the UK charts. Various things led to our break-up in 2005 and we went our separate ways. A few years later, I got my first job working on another, much more successful band’s UK tour and that was it – touring became my life and it’s what I’ve done ever since.
I’m more management now, rather than simply muscle. ’
‘That makes sense,’ I say, not thinking.
‘Thanks.’ Adam grimaces.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say hurriedly, realising how that must sound. ‘I really didn’t mean it like that. I meant with your age – it makes sense for you to be in more of a managerial role. Honestly,’ I insist, when Adam looks like he doesn’t believe me.
‘All right,’ Adam says, after apparently studying my face again. What is he doing – reading my mind or something?
‘So, what about you then?’ he asks. ‘Have you always been involved in antiques? You said yesterday it was your passion in life.’
‘Yes, it is, now. But it wasn’t always that way. I went to university and studied history because I wanted to be a social historian, not own an antiques shop.’