say I witnessed it.’
‘And what about …’ Fiona pauses dramatically, ‘… your work in progress?’
I glance towards the window, lamplight reflected in the dark pane. Just the thought of my second novel makes my stomach tighten.
‘Still floundering in the wilderness.’
‘Will you make the deadline?’
I lift my shoulders. ‘It’s in six weeks’ time.’
Fiona assesses me closely. ‘What if you don’t?’
‘I lose the book deal.’
And then I lose this house, I think, panic beating its wings within my ribcage. I can’t let that happen.
Fiona knows the energy I’ve committed to this house, the long process of architectural drawings and planning applications, the months and months of builders clambering over scaffolding, craning in huge glass panels, drilling into rock to fit unyielding iron struts, the hours I spent studying bathroom fittings and flooring and paint charts.
It was all so unlike me – the me who drifted through my twenties owning little more than I could squeeze into a backpack. But I wanted it more than anything. Cornwall was where Fiona was. A house overlooking the sea was our mother’s dream. It was putting down roots, it was stability.
One evening, mid-build, when I’d returned to our rented flat in Bristol, Flynn kept his back to me, watching the flames dance in the fireplace, as he’d said, ‘I wonder if you’re putting too much energy into that house.’
That house. Never our house.
I wish I’d noticed the distinction back then.
I replied, ‘I want to make it perfect, so we never have to leave.’
‘Thank you for looking after things while I was away,’ I say to Fiona. ‘The house looks immaculate.’
‘Surprised?’
‘Very.’
‘It’s because I hardly had to do a thing. It was spotless.’
‘Was it? I was worrying about it while I was away. It just felt so strange knowing there was someone in my home that wasn’t me.’
‘I knew you’d be like that.’
Bill was actually the one who’d suggested I rent the house.
‘You know, if money is tight,’ he’d begun while we were barbecuing on the bay one evening, ‘you should think about putting the house on Airbnb over the summer.’
‘Remember my friend Kirsty from university?’ Fiona had asked.
I must have looked blank.
‘The English teacher. Had sex with the headmaster in his office – and a parent walked in.’
‘That Kirsty!’
‘She has a three-bed house in Twickenham and goes away over the school holidays and rents her place. She gets two grand a week for it.’
‘Two grand?’ I crouched down to examine a shell that Drake had brought to me. ‘It’s beautiful, baby,’ I said, planting a kiss on the smooth curve of his forehead, then folding my fingers around the shell. He trundled off in search of more.
‘Everyone’s doing it,’ Bill said. ‘Easy little earner.’
‘Yes, but this is Elle.’ Fiona threw me a look. ‘She took three days to choose the right handles for her doors.’
‘I can handle it,’ I said, grinning.
‘Anyway, don’t encourage her, Bill. You know who’ll have to look after it when she jets off on another book tour and some porn company decides to use it as the location for their next shoot—’
‘God, don’t!’ I laughed.
‘Contract cleaners in that case,’ Bill said.
‘Kirsty puts all their valuables in their study and locks off the room. Easy.’ Fiona plucked a piece of mint from her glass of Pimm’s and tore it between her teeth. ‘You know that place Bill and I stayed at when we went to Pembrokeshire? That was an Airbnb. They left everything. The wardrobes were full of this woman’s clothes. I think she was a ballroom dancer.’
‘Tell me you tried on something sequinned.’
‘She was more Bill’s size.’
‘I do love a leotard,’ he said, patting his stomach fondly. ‘Seriously though, you could charge a fortune for your place. You should think about it.’
And I had. I thought about it as I stared at the final invoice from the builders, my fingers trembling as I tapped numbers into my calculator. Fiona and Bill didn’t know – they still don’t – that I had to remortgage to pay the builders.
So this first Airbnb rental is a trial, a test run. The idea is that I rent out the house again in the summer and bugger off somewhere. My two best friends both live on the other side of the world; Nadia has moved to Dubai to teach English, and Sadie lives on a farm in Tasmania with her husband’s family.
I turn to Fiona, asking, ‘What were the family like who rented it?’
‘Yes, fine,’ she says, setting her wine glass on the lounge table.
‘Did they seem nice?’
‘I only met them briefly.’
I detect a tightness in her tone, which makes me ask, ‘Everything did go okay?’
‘Yes, absolutely. No breakages. I’ve released the deposit. They left a couple of bits and pieces behind.’ As Fiona unfolds herself from the sofa, I notice she’s lost weight. We’ve both always been slim, but there’s something angular about the breadth of her shoulders, her sternum pronounced at the open neckline of her shirt.
Fiona moves to the sideboard, picking up a pot of nappy rash cream, and a well-chewed plastic giraffe.
‘These were the only things I came across,’ she says, squeezing the giraffe until it squeaks.
Unexpectedly, sadness swells in my chest.
‘I’ve washed all the bedding – hot wash,’ she adds with a wink, ‘and taken Drake’s high chair home.’
‘Oh yes, thanks for the loan.’
‘I dropped it in the evening before they arrived and almost had a heart-attack as the alarm was on. I’d forgotten you’d told me you’d set it.’
‘You turned it off okay?’
‘On the sixth attempt. My eardrums bled. Right,’ Fiona says, sweeping across the lounge towards the doorway. ‘I’m going. Told Bill
