31 Dream Street (36 page)

He had only one option. He had to put it on the market as it was, unfinished, half-baked. He had no choice.

75

Leah watched Toby materialize, foot by foot, first his big feet in thick socks, then his calves, his knees, his hips, his stomach, his shoulders, his head, as he descended the stairs. She felt a surge of pleasure and smiled.

He led her into the kitchen and she gasped. ‘Oh, my God. What an absolutely amazing kitchen.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, caressing the granite work surface. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘Stunning,’ she agreed. ‘Must have cost a fortune.’

‘Not as much as you might think. Damian got it for me at trade.’

‘Ah,’ she smiled, ‘good old Damian.’

‘Yes,’ said Toby, ‘indeed. And luckily for me he is good old Damian. Otherwise I’d be on my way to court by now.’

Leah threw him a questioning look.

‘Someone’s stolen Gus’s money. My money. All of it. Every last penny.’

‘No!’ Leah slapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Who?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I thought it might be Joanne, but I confronted her about it just now, when she got back from work, and she would have to be an extraordinarily good liar to have pulled off such a convincing denial. And then I thought maybe it
was Ruby, that she’d taken it before she left. But then I remembered that I’d seen the money on Saturday, that it was still there after she moved out. And besides, why would she need to steal my money when she’s got Tim to pay for everything? So now I’ve got no idea. There was no sign of forced entry and nothing else has gone missing.’

‘Could it have been one of the builders, perhaps?’

‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘No. The money was still there on Saturday and I realized it had gone on Monday morning before I’d been out of my room. No – whoever it was took it sometime between Saturday afternoon and Sunday night. It has to have been someone in the house. But I can’t think who.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing I can do. Damian’s taking my furniture in lieu of a third of what I owe him and he’s taking the rest when I’ve sold the house. And in the meantime I’m left, stranded, in this bare shell of a house, without a penny to my name.’

‘Aren’t you going to finish it?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ll have to put it on the market as it is, half-finished. I shouldn’t imagine it will affect the value…’

‘No, but that’s not the point, is it? It’s about the house. About knowing that you did it justice. You can’t just leave it like this. Where’s your closure?’

‘My closure?’

‘Yes. This house has been your best friend for the past fifteen years. You can’t just abandon it, half done. You need a proper ending.’

‘Well, yes. I agree. I do. But how? I can’t afford to pay anyone and it’s too big a job to take on by myself.’

‘Well, then, ask the others.’

‘No. They’ve all got full-time jobs. I can’t expect them to take time off work.’

‘Well, then, do it over the weekend. You could have a painting party.’

‘A what?’

‘A painting party. Invite everyone you know, give them a paintbrush, a beer and some pizza. The place’ll be done by Monday morning.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know quite enough people to pull that one off.’

‘Oh, surely you must. What about all the people who’ve lived here over the years. You must have stayed in touch with some of them?’

‘No,’ said Toby, ‘not really. I’m not really a staying-in-touch kind of person.’

‘But you must know where they are?’

‘Well, most people left forwarding addresses, yes.’

‘And phone numbers?’

‘In some cases.’

‘Well, then phone them up!’

‘And say what? Say, hello, remember me, well, I’d like you to come to paint my house?’

‘Yes! Tell them you’re in trouble. Remind them how you helped them out when they were in trouble. Tell them that they owe you.’

Toby shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t. Absolutely not. I would rather die. I mean, I hate the phone
as it is. The thought of phoning all those people, all the questions, the how are yous and the what are you doings and the catching up and the… the…
chatting
. It just… urgh, no, I cannot do it. I’m sorry.’

‘Well, then, I’ll do it. Give me your address book and I’ll do it.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really. I want to see this house finished every bit as much as you do. Tell me who to call, and I’ll call them.’

‘Half of them probably don’t have the same number any more, you realize. I mean, I don’t suppose you’ll really be able to track any of them down.’

‘Stop being so negative.’

‘Well, really, I just don’t want you to waste your time. It’s so nice of you to offer and I’d hate you to go to so much trouble for nothing.’

‘It’s not trouble. It really isn’t. I’ll enjoy it. It’ll take my mind off… things.’

‘Things? What sort of things?’

Leah paused, wondering whether or not to tell Toby about Amitabh’s proposal. She shook her head and smiled. ‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘nothing. Just, you know, work and stuff. Here,’ she said, reaching into her handbag for the cottage details, ‘I brought this back. You left it at the pub, the other day when you, er…’

‘Stormed out inexplicably?’

‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘when you stormed out inexplicably.’

‘Hmmm.’ He rubbed his chin and smiled. ‘Yes. I’m very sorry about that. And I’m afraid I can’t really offer
you a particularly satisfying explanation for it. I was just, er, feeling a bit
overwhelmed
.’

‘Overwhelmed?’

‘Yes. It’s been a strange year so far. So much has happened, so much has changed. I think something just sort of
combusted
in my head.’ He took the paper from her hand and gazed at it for a while. ‘This is the one that you liked, isn’t it?’

‘Mm-hmm,’ she nodded. ‘I’ve become a bit obsessed by it, actually. Thought I’d better give it back to you before I did something stupid like
buy
it.’ She flashed her eyes at him and laughed.

‘That wouldn’t be stupid,’ said Toby.

‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘it would, actually. I haven’t got any money, for a start. Let alone the two hundred and twenty-five other reasons I could give you for not moving to the country.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘like not having a job and not being able to get a decent curry and not being near my parents and Amitabh…’ She paused. ‘Well, he would rather gouge out his own eyeballs than live in the country. So…’

Toby nodded. ‘Yes. I see.’

It fell silent for a moment. Then Toby sighed. ‘Ah, well’ – he folded the paper back into four – ‘maybe I’ll buy it and then you can come and visit.’

She smiled. ‘Good plan,’ she said. ‘And I would like to stay in touch, you know. Once you’ve gone. It would be a shame not to.’

‘I agree,’ he nodded, ‘whole-heartedly. Utterly. Whatever happens. Let’s stay in touch.’

‘Yes,’ said Leah. ‘Let’s.’

76

Joanne bought herself a glass of red wine and took it to a table by the fire. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly eight o’clock. She took a sip of wine and waited, her heart beating quickly under her sweater. Getting dressed for this meeting had been strange. She’d forgotten what sort of clothes she liked to wear when she was just being herself. She’d had to force snapshot images into her mind of herself at various points in the past, imagine what she was wearing. She’d settled on jeans and a cashmere sweater with ankle boots and a nice belt. Her hair was still very blonde, but she’d styled it softly onto her face and worn subtle make-up in shades of brown and pink. She wanted to look nice for him, like the girl he remembered, not the peculiar person she’d become.

At exactly eight o’clock the door opened and Nick walked in.

Joanne gulped. He still looked the same. The fine, shoulder-length hair, the slight physique under a sensible jacket and scuffed old boots. He smiled at her, shyly, and headed towards her. They greeted each other with barely there kisses and gently squeezed arms.

‘How are you?’ she said.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘You look nice. I like your hair.’

‘You do? I’m going to dye it back. Its just, you know, temporary.’

He smiled and nodded. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’ll just get myself a drink. Are you all right?’ he pointed at her wine glass.

‘Mm-hmm,’ she nodded.

She watched him at the bar, remembering the shape of him, his lines, the way he looked at bars in pubs. He came back with a pint of something and put it on the table.

‘So, you got my note, then?’ he said.

‘Yes. Toby – that’s my landlord – he gave it to me a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been, er…’

‘Thinking about it?’

‘Yes,’ she smiled tightly. ‘And we’ve been busy at the house. Decorating it. Toby’s selling it and someone stole all his money and he couldn’t afford to pay the, you know, painters and decorators, so we did it ourselves. I’ve been sanding floors all the hours, day and night. Look, I’ve got blisters…’ She showed him the palms of her hands.

He winced.

‘Yes, so. It’s been a busy few days, so, er…’

‘No, that’s fine. I wasn’t expecting you to reply immediately. I mean, it’s been two years.’

‘It has.’

‘So, how are you?’

‘Yes. Fine. Tired. But, you know. How are you?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘like the note said. Pretty crap. I’ve had you down as a missing person, you know?’

‘God. Really?’

‘Yeah. Of course. I thought you were dead. Thought you might have thrown yourself off a bridge. God, I’ve just thought and thought and thought. I just never thought you might be, Christ, just
living
. Just getting on with stuff.’

She smiled tightly. ‘I wouldn’t call it getting on with stuff.’

‘You wouldn’t? What would you call it?’

‘Existing. I’ve been existing. I’ve been pretending and acting and fooling myself and everyone else around me. I’ve been…’ Her voice caught. ‘I’ve been the unhappiest girl, in the whole wide world.’

She started to cry then, aching, primal tears that came from the deepest wells of her being. Nick moved his chair nearer to hers and held her in his arms. ‘It’s OK, Jo,’ he soothed, stroking her soft hair and kissing her juddering shoulders. ‘It’s OK. I’m here now. I’m here.’

Joanne sobbed and let Nick soothe her, his familiar hands on her hair, his warm breath on her skin, the only man she’d ever loved.

‘Come home,’ he said. ‘Please, come home.’

She thought of ‘home’, that distant place, the place she’d left behind all those months before. She thought about the front door, the number six in beaten iron, the worn-out mat inside the door, her feet wiping back and forth, the little wooden table where she dropped her keys, the brass hook on the wall where she hung her coat. She suddenly remembered everything, every detail, every smell, every picture, mirror, cushion. She suddenly remembered her home.

She turned then and buried her face in Nick’s chest, breathing in his smell, the smell of Saturday nights curled up on the sofa watching DVDs, of climbing into bed at night, the smell of his clothes before she put them in the washing machine and of impromptu hugs in the kitchen, the smell of her life before Maisie had died and taken everything good with her.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes. I want to come home.’

77

Leah’s painting party turned into a painting week. A dozen people turned up at various points throughout the following ten days, bearing brushes, ladders and floor sanders; curtains, carpets and plants. It was bizarre, emotional, nostalgic and moving. Ex-tenants who Toby hadn’t seen in more than ten years arrived at the front door, sometimes with wives and husbands and children in tow. Artists and actors and architects and singers gave up their free time to help finish the house. Leah herself came over every evening after work, sometimes alone, sometimes with Amitabh. Con and Daisy did the garden. Melinda risked her vinyl-tipped nails to help and even brought Jack along one night to finish painting her room. And Joanne – Joanne was a revelation, forgoing a week’s temping to work full time on the house. She was surprisingly strong for such a small person, hefting large pieces of furniture out of the way and sanding all the downstairs floors.

Toby had never spent so much time out of his bedroom and found the entire experience utterly exhilarating. Catching up with old friends, meeting new people, the constant hum and chatter of lively conversation, loud music, ring pulls snapped on cans of lager, sanders buzzing, lawn mowers growling, nails being knocked
into walls, curtains being hung. It was like living inside a huge stage set. The house felt thrilling and alive, a triumph of teamwork born of goodwill and humanity.

And then, finally, one Thursday afternoon, when everyone else had gone, Leah and Toby slid to the floor in the living room, opened a can of lager each, looked round and declared the house complete. Every floor was sanded and polished; the stairs and landing were carpeted; the walls were pristine and hung with carefully selected pieces of art.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Leah.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Toby. ‘Wonderful.’

‘You clever man.’

‘Clever.’ He looked at her and shook his head. ‘Not a bit of it. This is all down to you, all of it. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’m sure you’d have found a way.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t. I’m fundamentally useless, you know?’

She laughed and he smirked. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what now?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘Joanne’s moving out tomorrow, back to New Cross. Back to Nick. Con’s going to stay with Daisy at her folks’ place. Melinda’s going to stay with Jack.’

‘And your dad?’

‘He’s due on Monday. I haven’t heard from him, but…’ He shrugged.

‘Oh, he’ll come. He’s bound to.’

Toby felt strangely numb about the prospect. Not
excited; not nervous – just slightly sceptical. He couldn’t remember enough detail about his father to be able to truly imagine what it would be like for him to be there, in front of him. He could remember a kind of tarragon-y aftershave, a thick slick of silk tie, a puff of silver hair and chinks of ice-blue iris. He could remember a Home Counties accent, tinted with a hint of estuary left over from his childhood years in Rainham, and he could just about envisage tan leather shoes and a large pockmark on his chin, just inside the crease. But he couldn’t remember the whole person. He couldn’t remember what his father
felt
like.