✉︎ From Stevie
Good. Long walk with Bonnie on Saturday, beers with Nick on the evening, then Sunday lunch with my Uncle George and another long walk with Meg while Uncle G slept in front of the TV farting! See you soon xx
✉︎ To Stevie
I don’t suppose you fancy
I shook my head and deleted what I’d written. Asking him out for a drink? What was I thinking? He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested anymore when he’d fled after seeing the scan.
Putting my phone down, I got into bed. I could hear Kay and Philip chatting downstairs, plus the occasional burst of laughter, and smiled as I wrapped the duvet round me. Kay had confessed over the weekend that she and Philip were an item. Apparently it had started after the Bay Trade anniversary celebrations, but they’d wanted to keep it quiet while they both adjusted to their first relationship after losing the loves of their lives. They made such a great couple and I was thrilled that Kay had finally decided to let love in after shutting herself off to it for about forty years.
Listening to another burst of laughter made me realise that I’d completely and utterly outstayed my welcome. Kay would never say anything, but the arrangement was only ever meant to be temporary and I’d already been her lodger for… what? Four-and-a-half months? It was time I moved out and found somewhere to start afresh; just bean and me. I had the money from the house sale so there was nothing to stop me. In fact, if I didn’t act fast, I could still be living at Kay’s when baby bean made an appearance, which would definitely be pushing the boundaries of her hospitality.
House-hunting alone? Scary thought. Gary and I had looked at several properties together and I vividly remembered how useful it had been to have the two perspectives. I couldn’t enlist Sarah or Kay without explaining to them why I was looking for a family home and, with the wedding fast-approaching, I really couldn’t break the news. The timing had gone from bad to appalling.
There was only one person who could help me. But was it too cheeky? He’d said to let him know if I needed anything and it would be a great excuse to see him again, even if it was only platonically. Before I had time to talk myself out of it, I picked up my phone and typed a message:
✉︎ To Stevie
Hi again. Please tell me if this is over-stepping the mark, but can I ask you a huge favour? It’s time I moved out but I’m nervous about house-hunting alone and I can’t enlist anyone without giving up my secret. If I set up some appointments for after school this week and next week, is there any chance you could accompany me & be my voice of reason?
✉︎ From Stevie
I’d be delighted to. Of course it’s not over-stepping the mark. We’re friends, right? This is the sort of thing friends do for each other. Just text me when you’ve set up any appointments x
Friends? My heart sank at the affirmation that it was purely platonic. What was done was done. I’d had my chance and I’d blown it.
‘It’s nice,’ Stevie said two nights later.
‘Nice?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Nice is a word you use to describe a puppy or a cake. It’s not the word I’m looking for to describe my future home. What’s wrong with it?’
‘It feels a bit… soulless. It’s beautifully decorated, but there’s no character to it. It’s a perfectly functional three-bed semi, but I see you in something older. I don’t think that new-builds are really you.’
‘My last house was a new-build.’
‘I know, but I think Seashell Cottage suits you better.’
In the second property, I turned in a circle round the kitchen. ‘I like the kitchen. It’s nice.’
Stevie laughed. ‘Nice? Yes, it is nice. It’s functional. It’s clean. It’s well-decorated…’
‘But…?’
‘It’s just not you, Elise. As a house, it works perfectly. But as a home…? I just don’t see it as the place of your dreams.’
We said goodbye to the estate agent and sat in Bertie for a while.
‘What made you choose your last house?’ Stevie asked.
‘Pure practicalities. It was brand new so we could just get on with life and our careers without worrying about DIY.’
‘Did you love living there?’
I shrugged. ‘I thought so, but now you’ve got me wondering. What you said about a house versus a home… well, I think it was just a house which was why selling up hasn’t really bothered me. Sorting our stuff out was emotional because of all the memories but, since moving out, I’ve missed my marriage and my friendship, but never the house.’
‘Why don’t we look at some older properties? You might be surprised.’
On Monday evening the following week, I had three back-to-back viewings lined up for older houses in very different styles, starting with a three-storey four-bedroom terraced house near town. Stevie was right about the feel of the property but I realised that three storeys, no garden, and no off-road parking wasn’t the most practical option.
Property two was in a village called Cranton, about ten minutes west of Whitsborough Bay. It was pitched as, ‘A charming cottage, ideal for a family, in need of a little TLC.’
‘A little TLC?’ Stevie whistled. ‘Who are they kidding? It needs complete gutting. In fact, it needs knocking down and starting again.’
Even the estate agent looked embarrassed. ‘I’ve not actually viewed this particular property before.’ She shuffled some papers together, keeping her eyes cast down. ‘Of course, the price does reflect the state of the property. You’re getting a lot of property for your money.’
It had potential and would make someone an amazing home. But that someone wasn’t me, not on my own with a baby. ‘Sorry, but it’s a no,’ I said to the agent. ‘I work full-time and I’m single. I can’t take on a project like this.’
The final viewing was a 1930s semi. Stevie took my hand as we walked towards the front door. I liked the feel of my hand in his. It felt comfortable. Natural. Home. But I didn’t like the house. It reminded me of my Auntie Maud’s. I hadn’t liked her. Like Mother, she’d been a drinker and her house had smelled of whisky, pickled onions, and damp dogs. She didn’t even have a dog. I clung onto Stevie’s hand as an old man showed us round. He told us that he’d lived there for sixty years but his wife had died after Easter and he’d made the decision to move into a home. I didn’t want to live in that house with the air of sadness, death, and memories of my auntie.
‘Drink?’ Stevie said as we walked down the drive towards Bertie.
‘Good plan,’ I said, trying not to feel too disappointed at having no serious contenders.
I drove to The White Horse in Little Sandby.
‘I’ve never been in here before,’ I said. ‘Am I right in thinking it’s under new ownership?’
‘About eighteen months ago. The new landlord and lady are brilliant. They’ve completely refurbished it and turned it around. The last lot drank their profits, I think, and their food was rubbish so they gradually lost all their trade. These two have worked magic.’