Chapter 3
Lottie yanks open the door and runs up the stone steps, two at a time. She realises that all the noise has ceased for some reason, which momentarily takes the wind out of her sails, but then she sees the builders lounging around outside in the next door garden and her ire is reignited.
‘Excuse me,’ she says. ‘Hello. Hi.’ Her eyes range around the figures, trying to make contact. ‘Can I speak to someone in charge, please?’
She is standing with her arms crossed, one foot jutting out perpendicular to the other.
She can see how it must look to this collection of men; some older, grizzled types with the tell-tale signs of middle-aged spread, a few younger lads who look like they are barely out of school.
In their own way, they will all have classified her as difficult, problematic, a bit much.
She doesn’t care. It’s something which she has long since accepted.
One of them takes up the mantle.
‘You can talk to Bill,’ he says. ‘Inside.’ He indicates with a nod of his long, leathery face.
Lottie is aware that Tim is hanging back, staying on the other side of the divide, holding on to Josh’s hand before they both disappear back into the apartment. Fine, she thinks. I’ll handle this myself. She’s long since grown used to that as well.
Crossing into the house, she registers mild curiosity at the difference in the interiors.
For a start, this house is entire and consequently enormous in comparison to their rental.
She is amazed at how the space sprawls out above and below as she descends a flight of steps.
The air is dusty. Scraps of old wallpaper lie strewn at her feet, the old plaster hanging off the walls in places.
Pausing halfway down, she realises she is encroaching on a conversation and, unsure how to proceed, she knocks on the wall beside the staircase as though it is a doorway, announcing her presence.
Four figures spin around and look up at her.
The owners, she guesses, are the couple, the same age and smartly dressed in summer clothing while the other two men, one younger, one older, wear fluorescent vests and seem to work here.
They all consider her with surprise and an air of confusion, even irritation.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she starts, though really she’s not sorry at all.
‘Me and my husband and our little boy have just arrived at the holiday let next door and well, what can I say, we’re really not happy about the situation.
’ There is an uncomfortable pause and glances are exchanged.
Lottie feels she must fill this silence, make her point while she has the floor.
‘I mean the noise levels, the disruption. We can’t even open the windows or sit in the garden. ’
The husband – he’s wearing the traditional middle-class uniform of polo shirt, brightly coloured shorts and deck shoes – turns his body fully towards her.
‘Right,’ he says, drawing out the word. ‘And how is that our problem, exactly?’
‘Tobias,’ says the wife – she looks wafty, insubstantial in comparison – reproaches him under her breath. As she looks up at Lottie with large worried eyes, her hooped earrings entwine in the strands of her blonde wispy hair.
‘We’re so sorry,’ she intones breathily. ‘We didn’t think it would take this long. Is the noise really bothering you?’
Her husband sighs with impatience, glaring at her and then Lottie in turn.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘We’re very sorry but this is our home. We have every right to …’
‘But clearly it’s not your home, is it?’ replies Lottie, descending a couple more steps, warming to her theme. ‘You’re not actually living here, right now, are you? In this building?’
The husband rolls his eyes, looking about him.
‘Well, no, of course not but—’
‘Right, thought so. No, you’ll be staying in some fancy hotel down the road, I expect, well away from all this racket and mess. Whereas we actually are living next door, at least for the week that we’ve rented the place. Don’t we have any rights?’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he says, turning to the two other men. ‘Heaven preserve us from—’
‘Well, how would you feel if it was your holiday?’ she says, raising her voice. ‘We’ve saved up all year for this. It’s the first time my son has even been to the coast.’ She can feel a wobble in her throat and is furious to find tears lancing at her eyes.
The wife takes a step towards the balustrade.
‘You poor thing,’ she says. ‘I completely understand.’
‘Olivia, leave this to me, please,’ the husband cuts in, and turns to Lottie. ‘I suggest you take the issue up with the owners of your property, dear. It’s nothing to do with us. We have planning permission and every right …’
‘Monday to Friday. Between the hours of 8am and 6pm,’ says the younger-looking man who is wearing a hard hat. ‘Saturdays 8 until 1.’ His tone is even, giving a statement of fact.
‘Yes,’ says Lottie, ‘And today is Saturday. You should have finished by now. Besides, it’s not practical for us to be out of the property all day long with a young child. The heat, the expense …’
The husband shakes his head at this as though dumbfounded. He looks at the other two men with his hands upturned.
‘What, pray, does she expect us to do about it?’
‘Listen to me,’ says Lottie, the heat rising in her body, adrenaline suddenly coursing through her.
‘It’s not safe for a young child to be living right next door to a building site.
Anything could happen. You must know that a lot of these places round here are holiday rentals, let to young families with kids.
It’s August, for Christ’s sake. Peak fucking season. What were you thinking?’
‘Listen to the potty mouth on that,’ he sniggers. ‘Charmed, I’m sure. Do you use language like that in front of your son?’
‘Stop it, please Tobias,’ says the wife.
Lottie can feel herself shaking now, a hard lump in her throat, tears brimming. She barely trusts herself to speak.
‘All I’m saying is, could you not have scheduled your renovation for winter, at a time out of season? Is that too much to ask?’ She shakes her head, looks at them all in turn, aware that a tear has tracked its way down one of her cheeks. ‘Well, is it?’
‘Right, so we’re expected to take into account a complete stranger’s holiday schedule, are we? I’ll be sure to check in advance next time,’ says the husband, laughing sourly.
‘We’ll try to make sure the noise is kept to a minimum,’ says the wife. ‘Won’t we?’ she asks plaintively, turning to the three other men.
‘Fine.’ Her husband nods. ‘Just keep your child well away from the site. And now, if you don’t mind, would you kindly get off my property?’ He holds out a hand to her as though inviting her to disembark a vessel.
Lottie clenches her jaw and begins to climb back up the stairs. As she stalks out of the house, she sees two teenagers in her periphery — a girl and a boy.
‘Wow. Dramarama!’ she hears one of them say. ‘Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her. What a complete weapon!’
‘More like a loose cannon,’ she hears their father reply. ‘Crazy bitch.’