A Hundred Pieces of Me (10 page)

Gina blinked in dismay at the pages, unable to reconcile this man with the soppy new boyfriend who’d surprised her with the Love and Kisses mug. Thank God I don’t have to look at that any more, she thought. Before the memory of the rose petals that had filled it swam into proper focus, the phone rang.

She grabbed it, relieved. ‘Hello, Stone Green Project Management—’

‘Good morning. Am I speaking to Gina Horsfield?’ It was a woman’s voice. She sounded pleasant but no nonsense, and Gina hoped this wasn’t anything to do with her last tax return.

‘Yes.’ She shoved the letter under a catalogue from a stationery supplier so she wouldn’t have to be reminded of Stuart’s demands to see her pension provision, then something made her add, ‘It’s actually Gina Bellamy.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry? I’m looking at your feature here online and it says Gina Horsfield.’

From that, Gina knew there were two possible online features the caller could have been looking at. One was the interiors spread featuring an unusually tidy Dryden Road, showcasing her ‘faithful but very personal renovation of a four-bedroom Victorian family home’, Stuart in crisp chinos, her in a polka-dot pinny. The cats standing in for the ‘family’. The other was the eco-barn. Gina sort of hoped they’d be discussing the barn. ‘Yes, well, it was then. It’s Bellamy now.’ She made an ‘argh’ face at the window. That didn’t sound right either. Gina Bellamy had plaits, or a student-union pint glass in her hand. But, then, she’d only been Gina Bellamy since she was eleven when Terry had formally adopted her. Maybe she should go right back to Gina Pritchard now. But who was Gina Pritchard? She barely knew who Huw Pritchard had been.

A sudden swaying sensation rushed through her, a feeling of being unattached to anything.

‘Still Stone Green, though! How can I help you?’ she asked quickly.

‘I’m looking for a project manager to help me with a renovation in your area. My name’s Amanda Rowntree, I’ve just been looking at your house in
25 Dream Homes
, and it’s really lovely.’ There was the sound of a mouse clicking. ‘Definitely a dream home. And no hand-stitched bunting in sight, which is a plus.’

Gina’s heart sank. It was Dryden Road. She made herself think positively about it: it
had
been a lovely place. ‘Thank you. I’m not a big fan of bunting.’

‘And I like the way you’ve brought out the period features but at the same time not made it look . . . cutesy. It actually looks like a real person lives there, not Miss Marple or Jane Austen or someone.’ More clicking. ‘The kitchen’s great. Is it Fired Earth?’

‘No, it was made specially for us by a local carpenter.’ Gina tried not to think about her soft-closing tulipwood cabinets, her butcher’s block. ‘I designed it myself with him. We worked out exactly how far I needed to reach from the oven to those handmade cooling racks for cakes and roasts. It’s not that much more expensive to get things exactly as you want them, and details are what make it
your
house, in the end.’

‘Perfect. That’s just what I wanted to hear. I need someone with a good eye for detail because ours is going to be a big renovation, and I’m not going to be able to spend as much time as I want on site, unfortunately.’

‘That’s not a problem,’ said Gina. ‘I’m a bit of a detail freak. I named my company after my favourite paint shade in that house. The pantry?’

‘Did you? Ah, I see the one you mean. Nice. Well, to be honest, the décor’s the least of our problems at the moment.’ Amanda was starting to sound a little more relaxed. ‘We bought the property several months ago and, what with one thing or another, we’ve only just got the plans back from the architect and it looks like it’s going to be more complicated than we initially thought.’

‘It’s listed?’ Gina started flipping through the various local properties that fell under that heading. There were a handful of big houses, mostly in the leafy outskirts of Longhampton, but they didn’t come on the market often. Ashington Hall? The Dower House?

‘How did you know? Yes, it is. Grade Two.’

‘Oh. Well, that will make things more complicated. The preservation element can get a bit tricky, but it’s very rewarding in the end. Listed buildings are full of stories – you’re not just buying a house, you’re living in a little moment of history.’

‘Have you had much experience with them?’

‘Yes, I’ve project-managed several listed renovations for clients who felt they needed some extra support with the red tape. And actually, I used to work on the other side of the fence, as it were, in the council planning department.’

There was a long groan at the other end, which told Gina exactly where Amanda had got to already with her application: the Listed Building Consent form.

‘No, don’t panic! I’ve always felt quite strongly that houses are supposed to be lived in, whatever their age,’ she went on. ‘You can’t create museums, you’ve got to work out ways of supporting them as living spaces. Old houses can be surprisingly robust. The fact that they’re still standing says a lot.’

She meant it too. There’d been plenty of snippy inter-departmental emails between her boss, Ray, and the conservation officers, about which was more important: the building or the human beings living in it. Gina had always tried to find ways to keep everyone happy. Secretly, she’d been on the side of the houses, but not for the same reasons as the conservation purists. Houses without people in them felt lonely to her. Humans were the blood moving around their rooms, the air in their chimneys, the sound of laughter and conversation in their halls. What was the point of keeping them intact but lifeless?

Amanda Rowntree made a hmm noise. ‘Well, this one doesn’t seem that robust. It’s going to need a lot of work, according to the architect.’

‘They all say that. Have you engaged a builder yet?’

‘No. No, my architect’s in London but I thought it’d be a good idea to get local builders and a local project manager. You know the reliable tradesmen and you’d co-ordinate them so it’s as efficient as possible. And it’s nice to have that continuity within the house. Local craftsmen and materials and so on.’

‘It is,’ agreed Gina. They’d probably also be cheaper than a team of London trades. Amanda didn’t sound like the kind of owner who’d have missed that advantage. She pulled out her day book and opened it to a fresh page, her mood lifting with the prospect of a decent project. This was karma, rewarding her mug sacrifice with some work. ‘So tell me more about the house. What period is it?’

‘It’s a mish-mash. Some Georgian, some Victorian. Some maybe older. Seven bedrooms, not enough bathrooms, some nice outbuildings, which we’re hoping to get planning permission to convert into a studio for my husband . . .’

‘Recording studio?’

‘No, he’s a photographer.’

‘Oh, really? How interesting.’

‘Mm.’ Amanda brushed over it before Gina could ask what kind of photography. Obviously it wasn’t
that
interesting in the circles she moved in. ‘Anyway, he’ll be there most of the time to oversee the work, answer questions, and so on. I’m based in London but I’m abroad a lot, and my diary is really hectic for the rest of this year. Obviously I want to be as involved as I can be but . . .’ Her voice trailed off as if this required no further explanation.

‘Well, sometimes it’s better to be off site while it’s chaotic,’ said Gina. ‘You can keep in touch with Skype and FaceTime . . .’

‘No, I mean it’s more that I’m busy than not in the country,’ said Amanda. ‘I can’t leave meetings to make decisions about electrical sockets. I need someone I can rely on to do that for me.’

Not the husband? Maybe he was the sort of arty photographer who didn’t get involved in electrical sockets. Or maybe he was too busy as well. Gina pushed it to one side: it was a mistake to pre-judge clients. ‘I think the best thing is for us to have a meeting at the property so I can get a sense of what you’re aiming to achieve,’ she said. ‘You’ve had a look at my website, but I can send you some more details of other projects I’ve worked on, if you’d like to see what experience I’ve got with similar houses.’

‘That would be great. I’m going to be back in Longhampton on . . .’ more clicking, and a muffled hand-over-phone instruction to an assistant ‘. . . on Thursday morning to meet the conservation officer for some – what he calls – guidance.’ There was a pause and when Amanda spoke again she sounded almost despairing. ‘Just for my own information . . . Do they treat everyone as if you’re about to bulldoze the house and build a car park over the top?’

‘Generally, yes.’ Gina could guess exactly which conservation officer Amanda had spoken to: Keith Hurst. Or ‘Hurst Case Scenario’, as he was known in the office, on account of his oft-repeated theory that a good conservation officer assumed the worst and worked backwards. ‘But don’t worry, I know how to handle them.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Would you like me to arrange to have a builder come out too?’ Gina woke up her laptop, checking to see when Lorcan Hennessey was back from his holiday. He was her first-choice builder: thorough, easy-going, and sympathetic to the quirks of old houses. ‘I’ve got a couple of experienced foremen I’ve worked with on listed properties. They could give you some idea of costs, maybe put the conservation officer’s mind at rest that you’re not bringing in the bulldozers.’

‘You’re going to need more than that with this guy. When I told him I was based in London, he almost shut the conversation down then and there.’

‘Oh dear.’ Gina knew what that was about: Hartstone Hall out by Much Larton, bought by a London developer, green-lit by Keith, abandoned after six months, due to lack of cash. Fifteen years ago. It still rankled. ‘But I can help you shape your application so it’s as appealing as possible from their point of view. We can talk about it. No obligation, obviously.’

‘Thanks. It’s not as if we’re planning to
ruin
the place. I just want to be able to
live
in it.’

‘I know exactly what you mean. So whereabouts is the house?’ Gina’s mouse clicked on her favourite property website; she was normally obsessive about monitoring the local fantasy home market but she’d lost track of it a bit lately.

‘I’ll send you a link. It’s called the Magistrate’s House.’

Gina’s hand stopped moving. Of course it would be the Magistrate’s House. Her heart plunged inside her chest like a shot bird, falling blackly into the pit of her stomach. The elegantly proportioned double façade of the Magistrate’s House rose in front of her mind’s eye, three storeys, with long Georgian windows, red-streaked ivy winding around the central porthole window, the old brickwork now cleaned and repointed, the sashes replaced and the glass polished . . . ‘I didn’t know that was on the market,’ she said.

‘No? We found it through a private search agency. It might not have been advertised. Is it a house you know?’

‘Um, yes.’ Gina swallowed. First someone else had snaffled her husband from under her nose, now someone else had bagged her dream house. ‘It’s one of the nicest properties in the area. One of the oldest. I’ve always . . . always liked it. Congratulations. It’s got the potential to be stunning.’

‘Good.’ Amanda seemed pleased. ‘Well, I’ll email over some contact details, and I’ll look forward to meeting you on Thursday.’

‘You too,’ said Gina, but Amanda had hung up while she was still staring out at the canal, where two interloping seagulls were skimming greedily across the water. They seemed too big for the canal, too opaque and white. The ducks were nowhere to be seen.

A few minutes later, Amanda’s email popped up on the corner of Gina’s screen with directions and notes, but Gina didn’t need a map reference – she knew exactly where the house was.

The Magistrate’s House lay on the outskirts of a village called Langley St Michael, and its location – opposite the old Norman church and surrounded by cider-apple orchards, untouched by modern estates or mobile phone masts – summed up its comfortable position in the social hierarchy of the area. Most of Langley St Michael was a designated conservation area; houses there were lovingly returned to their former lime-rendered glory, not improved with extensions. If anything, extensions were discreetly nipped off, like unsightly warts.

Gina knew the history of the Magistrate’s House; she’d traced it at her council desk, while pretending to update her project files. It had been the family seat of the Warwicks, wealthy eighteenth-century wine merchants who’d first imported sherry and Madeira into the county, and exported the local cider. The house had been passed proudly from one red-nosed Sir Henry to another, until a persistent outbreak of daughters had disrupted the line in the middle of Queen Victoria’s reign, and it had been sold to a Birmingham couple who’d made their substantial fortune in bicycle parts. They’d had no children to carry it through the strained post-war years, and during the Blitz, clutches of bewildered refugees from London had been packed into makeshift dorms where housemaids had once slept three to a bed. In the Fifties, a local doctor had rolled up his sleeves and taken on the now shabby house, and it had become the epicentre of cocktail parties and parish-council meetings, until his widow had sold it after his death in 1998. A developer had proposed converting it into a hotel but plans had (been) stalled, twice, and the Magistrate’s House had slowly fallen into a state of magnificent decay.

Gina and Stuart had been out to see the house three times, once with the estate agent, once with her mother, who had loved the address but shuddered at the damp wine cellars (‘Too dark, and that pond’s dangerous for children’) and once with their builder, Lorcan. Like Gina, Lorcan saw the possibilities in ramshackle buildings, and talked about them as if they were wayward old relatives who could be set right with a bit of attention.