Conditional Love (41 page)

Somehow, the ‘what you’ve never had, you can’t miss’ principle didn’t work where he was concerned; I thought about him all the time.

Yesterday I was feeling mainly wistful; imagining how things could have been between us, thinking how much I would like to hold my soft body against his slender firm one and inhale his gorgeously masculine scent.

The day before I was nostalgic, remembering the laughter in the park, Norman covering me in muddy paw prints, Nick mistakenly thinking I knew all about Mies van der Rohe (I did now, thanks to a quick shuftie on Google), and me barefoot on the grass. That was the good thing about nostalgia, you could just pick out the good bits, no need to drag up the blisters or the crack on the skull.

Today, as I unpacked my new steam wallpaper stripper, I was erring on the bitter and twisted side. He hadn’t rung me because he was too busy. He was too busy to bother with little old me.

Nick was probably throwing himself into fatherhood. He’d be bonding with his offspring over a McDonalds. No – scratch that – this was Nick we were talking about. He would be taking him or her on an architectural tour of the Midlands. By the time the poor little soul was ten, there would be nothing they didn’t know about Norman Foster.

Or, I thought, as I positioned the stepladders in front of the fireplace, he could have changed his mind about working for Frannie Cooper and was busy bringing her luxury salon to life.

I subjected the chimney breast to a vicious blast of steam and scraped the wallpaper off for all I was worth; it was very therapeutic.

Anyway, I was very busy myself. I went back down the ladder, turned the radio to non-stop eighties and lost myself in the music.

I had already stripped two of the living room walls when Nick phoned. The floor was covered in tiny scraps of paper, the room was steamier than a Turkish brothel and I was down to my t-shirt and knickers.

I thumped the radio off, grabbed the phone and unplugged the wallpaper stripper in under a second. I was so elated to see his name flash up on my screen that for a moment I forgot whether I was still angry with him or not.

My voice was croaky from not speaking to anyone for hours so that instead of ‘Hello’, all that came out was a sort of growl. I tried again, keeping it cool.

‘Nick.’

‘I’m sorry for the radio silence,’ he said.

I quirked an eyebrow. Who says ‘radio silence’?

‘It’s been a bit, well, hectic,’ he explained.

I bet.

‘Good hectic or bad?’ I asked politely.

‘I’ve had a rush project on and it’s finished and, well, I’m delighted with it.’ He sounded exhilarated.

So he had taken that Frannie Cooper project! A wave of heat flooded through me and finished up as a red blotch on each cheek. Jealousy. I was glad he couldn’t see me.

‘Look, can we meet?’ his words came out in a rush. He made a noise in his throat which might have been a cough or an uncertain laugh.

I took a deep breath.

He wants to see me. He hasn’t forgotten me. He has things to say.

Oh, stuff the Ice Queen act. I was no good at keeping it up; it was marvellous to hear his voice. I’d almost forgotten what he sounded like. A sensation filtered down to the pit of my stomach as gentle as warm honey.

‘OK,’ I said.

We both spoke together: ‘In Lilac Lane.’

I chuckled and the last piece of ice melted. He laughed and that made me smile.

We fixed a date and he said, ‘Right then,’ like he was winding up the call. I didn’t want him to go.

‘Nick,’ I said suddenly, ‘can you bring Norman with you?’

‘I can,’ he replied straight away. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve missed him.’

There was a pause down the line and although he was silent, if I had to guess I would have said he was smiling.

‘He’s missed you too.’

Three days later and I’d decorated my first ever room. I’d cheated and bought easy to hang wallpaper. All I had had to do was slop wallpaper paste onto the walls, slap the paper on and snip it to the right length. A piece of cake.

Picking up stray scraps of paper from the floor, I straightened up and cast a proud eye round the room. I had picked out something neutral to suit the rental market. It wasn’t the design statement I would make for my own home – when I eventually got one – but as the letting agent had advised, it was clean and fresh. And as I was letting the bungalow unfurnished, it needed to have broad appeal.

Nothing broad about the tiny galley kitchen, though, I noted as I went through to check my refreshment supplies. Nick was due any second and I had pushed the boat out: new kettle and a tin of Millicano. Not a carton of Ribena in sight. I unpacked the mugs I had brought with me from the flat and re-boiled the kettle.

Right on cue, there was a knock at the door.

He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

I tripped over boxes and bags in my haste to let him in. I stopped just shy of the door and raked a fluttery hand through my hair.

There he was, on the other side of the glass panel, sheltering out of the rain under the porch. He had his back to the door and his hood up, exactly where he was when we first met. It had been raining then too, he had watched as my umbrella got stuck in the branches. And then we had had some ludicrous conversation about dogs.

I flung the door open. My heart was thudding so loudly I hardly heard my own hello.

He turned, knocked his hood back and threw his arms out wide.

‘Sophie!’

‘Dad!’

forty-six

Excitement, shock, dismay, guilt at the dismay.

‘How lovely to see you!’ I cried.

What was going on? Was this a set-up? Had Nick never intended to come at all?

I peered over my dad’s shoulder as he hugged me. The lane was empty.

‘What a day!’ he was saying, removing his wet anorak and stepping into the hall.

I checked for Nick once more, shut the front door and plastered on a smile.

‘Come on through.’

I busied myself making hot beverages to hide my disappointment.

‘Bet you wonder why I’m here?’ My dad slurped his tea and gave a sigh of satisfaction. His eyes twinkled at me like he knew something I didn’t.

I wrapped my hands around my own mug and nodded. We were in the kitchen, side by side, leaning against the cupboards.

‘Nick got in touch. Your architect.’

I looked up at him sharply. Dad chuckled.

‘Nice chap,’ he said slyly.

‘Yeah,’ I said, keeping my voice light, although I needn’t have bothered, my blush told him everything I didn’t want him to know. ‘He is coming, isn’t he?’

Did that sound desperate?

Dad nodded. ‘I asked him to give me ten minutes. He’s next door with Audrey and his dog. I haven’t seen her for thirty odd years. Still as scary.’

I felt my body relax; he was coming. I felt much happier now, if confused.

‘What did Nick say?’

‘Oh,’ he waggled his head from side to side, as if to imply not much. ‘He told me about your job, about deciding not to demolish this place and build yourself a new one. He told me how much having a home of your own means to you.’

Nick said that? Bit personal. Considering.

Dad and I stared at each other until our eyes filled with tears and we both looked away, embarrassed.

He put his tea down and took his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers. He was wearing black jeans today and looked quite trim for his age.

‘I want to give you some money. A a a!’ He held up a finger to my lips as I began to protest. ‘To pay for the build. A lump sum so you don’t need a mortgage.’ He took a deep breath and held out a cheque. ‘I want my girl to have her dream home.’

I lifted my gaze to his. My heart surged with love and gratitude. I’d come a long way since meeting him last August. We both had.

Putting my tea down, I wrapped my arms round his neck and hugged him tight.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ I kissed his rough cheek and got a whiff of that cinnamon aftershave. ‘It’s a lovely offer and I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I can’t accept it.’

It would be so easy to pocket the cheque, to just follow where fate was generous enough to take me. But for once I was in the driving seat; I was navigating my own journey. And although it might take me a bit longer, I was determined to get there by myself.

Dad raised his eyebrows quizzically, but to my surprise said, ‘We thought you might say that.’

We?

There was a sharp rap of five knocks on the door. Definitely a Nick knock.

I was grinning at the thought of a Nick knock as I let him in.

Norman launched himself at me, wagging his tail and making excited little yelpy noises. I was flattered. I held out a bone-shaped chew and he disappeared off down the hall.

Nick was still on the doorstep. He searched my face with his eyes; he looked happy, excited even, but a bit on the nervous side. So he should – tracking down my family members and giving them the low down on my life. I didn’t know what he was up to, but he was playing a risky game. Very attractive though, I had to admit.

‘You’ve been busy,’ I said in a loaded way.

A large drop of water dripped off the porch and landed on his glasses.

‘May I come in?’

Stepping aside to let him in, I felt my skin tingle as he brushed past me. His hair was wet and I had to stop myself from reaching up and touching it.

I reminded myself that I was waiting for an apology.

He peeled off his wet coat and laid it on the floor. He was wearing a navy suit and a white shirt. I loved a man in a suit. I, on the other hand, was a vision in wool: a jumper that came down to my knees, thermal leggings and a thick scarf that covered most of my face.

I led him back to the kitchen. It was a tight squeeze, all three of us in a row, but it was our best option; there was not a stick of furniture in the place and at least here we could all lean. The situation was made worse when, for wont of something to do with my hands, I made us all another drink.

‘So what did
you
want to see me for?’ I smirked at Nick.

His hand hovered between the ‘Keep calm and give us a kiss’ mug and the Take That one. He opted for Take That. Wise move.

It was only then that I noticed that Nick had my sketchpad tucked under his arm.

‘As I was saying,’ continued my dad, ‘we thought you’d say that.’

The two men exchanged furtive glances. There was a whole language of eyebrow furrowing, nodding and flicking of heads and mouth twitching that I was trying and failing to translate.

‘So we’ve come up with an alternative,’ said Dad. Smug was the best word to describe his smile. He nodded at Nick. ‘Well, Nick has.’

Nick held his hands up modestly. ‘Sophie did all the hard work.’

If they didn’t spit this big mystery out soon, I was going to throttle the pair of them.

‘After I got the letter from your solicitor – thank you for clarifying the situation so professionally by the way – I happened upon your sketchbook,’ said Nick.

I rolled my eyes at ‘happened upon’.

He battled on bravely. ‘I’d meant to post it back after finishing the cowshed proposal, but didn’t get round to it. Right at the front, I found those early sketches you did.’

Early sketches? Crikey Moses, please don’t say he had found that layout with the nursery in it?

‘I seem to recall that of all the myriad times I’ve put my foot in it with you, the first was when I assumed that you wanted to demolish the bungalow.’

How could I forget? He had suggested that the building wasn’t worth preserving and then tied himself in knots trying to backtrack.

Al of a sudden I knew exactly what he was referring to: months ago – a year even – those scribbles I’d done after my first visit here. And more specifically, the sketch he had inadvertently seen after squirting Ribena all over my pad. The one entitled ‘Bungalow Extension’.

I felt my face heat up and pulled my scarf up over my nose.

‘The more I looked at your ideas, the more inspired I became, playing around with what’s already here, working with what we’ve got.’

‘Show her!’ said Dad, practically vibrating with excitement.

Nick flicked to the back of my pad and held up a drawing of his own.

I stared at the page, bewildered.

It was still my bungalow, but not as I knew it. Gone was Eeyore’s gloomy house. Instead it was a light and airy, open-plan modern home. With an upstairs! It even had an upstairs! A single-storey glass extension added masses of space to the ground floor and the front had been completely remodelled; the bay windows were gone and in their place were huge modern oak windows.

It was perfect. So perfect that it was slipping out of focus due to all the big sloppy tears that had filled my eyes.

‘It looks like a lot of work,’ said Dad. His eyes were suspiciously on the moist side too.

‘But most of it is cosmetic,’ added Nick. ‘Nowhere near the cost of building from scratch.’ He was watching me closely, observing me; I knew he was trying to work out what I was thinking.

I was thinking that more than anything, I wanted him to see me as a woman, not only as a client. And that although I loved what he had done for me, I wasn’t sure if I could work with him anymore. Being with him, but not being
with
him, might be too painful to bear. Just as well he couldn’t read my mind.

‘I know you have some money from Aunt Jane,’ said Dad, jumping back in. ‘But if you need it, I’ll lend you the rest. Loan!’ he said quickly, as I started to protest. ‘You can pay me back once you’re working again.’

‘That might take a while,’ I said, my voice husky from keeping a lid on my emotions. I explained to them both about enrolling on the interior design course after Easter.

‘That’s settled then,’ said Dad, folding his arms. ‘I’m paying for Brodie’s education and I’m paying for yours. No arguments. And I’d be insulted if you didn’t let me do all your tiling.’

‘I’ll bet there’s a practical element to the course?’ Nick turned the pages of the sketchpad until he came to my original drawing and placed it in my hands.

I nodded.

‘What better place to experiment than your own home?’ he said.