days.’ I held my breath. This had been a problem with many of the rooms I’d looked at, landlords muttering about extra bills and so on. ‘I’m going to look for a job, obviously, but also try to build up my freelance work. I used to do a bit on the side.’
‘And you like dogs?’
‘Love them.’ I stroked Max’s head. ‘I was about to get one, but then—well. Everything happened.’
‘And would you mind sort of housekeeping a little, answering the phone, getting parcels, maybe sticking dinner on?’
‘Of course. I love cooking. And I don’t smoke and I’m … fairly tidy. You mean you literally wouldn’t charge me any rent?’ I looked at him suspiciously. ‘What’s the catch?’
He laughed, and instantly he looked ten years younger, happy, even a little wicked. ‘I was wondering the same about you. I suppose I should ask for references.’
‘Well. My previous landlord is my ex-husband, and my current boss is myself. Can you prove you’re not a mad killer?’
‘It’s hard to prove a negative.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Phone a friend, tell them where you are.’
‘But I would be dead by the time they found me.’
‘True, but at least you’d have a nice funeral.’
I was still thinking when there was a noise and the back door opened, and in trudged a small child in red wellies, clutching a big muddy bunch of daffodils. He was gorgeous—dark glossy curls, brown eyes. Maybe four or five. ‘I got some more, Dad.’
‘That’s good, mate. Give them here.’ Patrick looked at me over the child’s head. ‘I may as well explain—this is the catch.’
‘Cynth!’ I hissed.
‘Hello? Who is this? I’m not interested in PPI claims, thanks. Unlike some, I wasn’t stupid enough to buy it in the first place.’
‘It’s me. Rachel.’
‘Ohh! You’re still alive, then.’ I had emailed her to tell her about the possible flat share, figuring the more people who knew the better for retrieving my murdered corpse.
‘I took the room. God, the place is gorgeous.’ The room I was sitting in had more stained glass in the window, which looked out over Hampstead Heath. It was on the third floor, filled with light. I could put a drawing table in the window. There was an old wooden bed, a thick cream carpet and an en suite with a deep claw-foot bath. On the bedside table was a jar with more daffodils.
‘Alex,’ Patrick had said when he’d shown me up. ‘He won’t stop picking them.’
Ah yes. Alex.
‘So is it really OK? How on earth can he be offering it free?’
‘Well, there’s a kid.’
‘Ugh,’ she said. Cynthia felt about children the way most people felt about mould spores—some unfortunates had to live with them, but careful vigilance could prevent them from ever taking hold in the first place.
‘The dad, he’s getting divorced, so he has the kid.’
‘Where’s the mother?’
‘I’m not sure. Gone overseas to work for a while, I think.’
‘I see. He wants a free nanny.’
‘Well, Alex will be at school during the day. I think Patrick just wants someone to be here. Answer the phone, put the washing machine on.’ He’d described it as ‘Maybe I can help you, and you can help me’. I understood, I thought.
Cynthia was talking. ‘Make sure it’s not a de facto employee post, sweetie. You know how people are. Since you’re there could you just make the dinner, and do the shopping, and re-grout that bathroom … Working from home still means working.’
‘I know. But where else can I go? This is a million times nicer than anything I could afford.’
‘Well, OK. If you’re happy.’
I realised I’d talked myself into staying here, and before I knew it I was arranging to collect my things and move in that very night. Me, my ten thousand sketchbooks, my fifteen pairs of trainers and Bob the dog-substitute bear were going to make our home here.
Alex, apparently the world’s most biddable child, had presumably gone to bed when I came back with the van, and Patrick was in the kitchen with an iPad and glass of wine. There was a smell of stew in the air and a Le Creuset dish soaking in the sink. It felt weird. Like coming home, but to a home that wasn’t mine. He jumped when I let myself in, and I wondered if he’d forgotten he’d given me a key or, worse, forgotten me entirely. ‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hi. You’ve got … things?’
‘Yes.’
‘I better help you.’
We hauled my meagre goods up the stairs. ‘What’s in here, rocks?’ Patrick asked, and I’d had to admit that yes, there were rocks in some of the boxes; I collected them for drawing practice. Dan had kept all the Ikea/Argos chipboard that furnished our marital home, so there wasn’t much. ‘Do you want a glass of wine?’ Patrick said, when the room was a mess of boxes and cheap Ikea blue bags.
I did, but I felt odd about sitting with him, and I was worried I’d been drinking too much as my marriage fell apart. ‘I’m OK, thanks. I’m very tired.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
I liked to think I was fairly spontaneous and fun. The kind of girl who’d jump on a train to Madrid with only the clothes on her back and not even book a return flight in advance. The kind of girl who bought train tickets at the station instead of getting them online for up to a third less. Who didn’t know what they were doing three weekends hence but was fairly sure it would involve a music festival and a twenty-four-hour drugathon with dubious men in goatees, and not a trip to Ikea for a new magazine rack.
I wasn’t spontaneous. Plus, I hated goatees. Things that suck about divorce, number twenty-two: nothing is where it should be. If you wanted to make your famous lemon risotto, the recipe books were still in the house, and you didn’t manage to get custody of the food processor. If you wanted to go hiking, your boots were in the car your husband/ex-husband was still driving to work every day. You wanted to wear a blue dress and realised it was at the dry cleaner’s, the ticket God knows where, and you weren’t making the thirty-mile trip for a frock from New Look anyway.
Nothing is where it should be. Not you. Not your heart. Not your life.
Finally, I’d unpacked nothing but my toothbrush and pyjamas, but I was in bed and was listening to the unfamiliar house around me. The trickle of old plumbing. The creak of the attic. I took out my phone—my screen saver was still a picture from two years ago, Dan and I doing a selfie at our wedding. He was planting a kiss on my cheek and I was smiling widely, as if I couldn’t even imagine a time when we wouldn’t be that
