Bricking It (20 page)

He looks up in thought. ‘At least we probably know who hid the stuff in the chimney now.’

I’m instantly incensed. ‘Are you suggesting that the butt plug belonged to my grandmother? My elderly and lovely grandma, who used to buy me sweets, and always told me what a wonderful little girl I was? My elderly,
frail
grandma, who had trouble making it up the stairs in the last years of her life, but would always have the strength to give Danny and me a hug whenever we went to see her?!’ My rage is absolute. ‘Do you think a woman like that would own a gigantic butt plug, Gerard?’

He rocks one hand to and fro and looks at the projector.

‘Out!’ I scream. ‘Get out!’

‘But Hayley—’

‘No, Gerard! No buts!’ I realise what I’ve just said. ‘Especially of the metal plug kind! Leave me alone!’

Gerard is quicker about his exit than Corporal Smith.

Once he’s gone, the anger drains from my body, and is replaced by ice-cold shock.

All at once I realise that I have no idea who my Grandma actually was before her death – and more importantly, before my birth. To me she’s always been the doting old woman in the armchair, ready to dole out kisses and bedtime stories whenever either was needed.

But now . . .

Now I see a whole different side to her. My grandmother actually had a
life
before I came along.

And what a bloody life it was!

Butt plugs, handcuffs, sex tapes . . .

What exactly went on in this house fifty years ago, and what part did my grandmother play in all of it?

This has gone quite, quite far enough! I have to find out, and I have to find out
now
!

DANNY

October

£138,321.17 spent

S
o it looks like I’m renovating a brothel.

At least that’s what Hayley tells me.

This wouldn’t bother me too much, if it weren’t for the fact that it looks like the brothel could have been run by my
grandmother
. This is an indescribably awful concept that I have decided to pretend doesn’t exist so I can get on with my life. I know the saying goes that you shouldn’t stick your head in the sand, but that saying obviously wasn’t invented by someone who just found out that their deceased relative liked to whip people with a riding crop in their spare time. If I could permanently walk around with my head in a helmet full of half the contents of the Sahara, I would.

Things had been going pretty well before this recent revelation, as well.

Not only did I not make an idiot of myself on national TV, but I’ve also broken up an illegal drugs ring.

My self-confidence and sense of self-satisfaction have been at an all-time high, and I’m not going to let a little thing like having an ex-madam for a grandmother ruin my good mood. After all, she’s the one responsible for leaving me this house and getting me off my arse to do something constructive with my life, so I’m not about to let a little thing like some light BDSM cloud my judgement of her.

I’ll leave the hunt for the truth about Grandma Genevieve to my sister and concentrate on more immediate concerns instead.

Namely, the quest for Mischa.

My life took a turn for the unexpected when Mitchell and Mischa turned up at the farmhouse on a very auspicious day for the build. It was the day the kitchen was due to be completed.
Finally.
After several months of wrangling between very stubborn parties.

The design of the kitchen has proved a thorny issue, and there have been several . . . let’s just call them ‘heated discussions’ between Hayley and Mitchell over what it should look like. Hayley has pretty much just accepted Mitchell’s lead on all the big chunky architectural stuff, like the extension, en suite, new roof, and so on, but when it comes to the more aesthetic aspects of the farmhouse’s new look, she’s less willing to let him have free rein.

The main issue over the kitchen has been the colour. It was decided early on that the thing should be in keeping with the rest of the house, so a nice Shaker style design was agreed upon, with the main highlights being a large island, deep white butler sink and an enormous gas range. What was more contentious was the colour. I’ve never seen two full-grown human beings nearly come to blows over such a simple issue as colour before. It is truly a sight to behold
.

Mitchell wanted to go with a deep green shade that was
a very bold statement of intent
, as he referred to it. Quite what the intent was, I don’t know. Possibly to remind people of Kermit the Frog. Hayley on the other hand, wanted a more conventional cream colour. I have to say I agreed with her, but I stayed right out of it, as I am not a complete cretin. Besides, Mischa was in the room for most of the argument, which left me more or less struck dumb, as usual.

In the end, they compromised on a far lighter shade of creamy green that looked much more sensible. It goes particularly well with the white marble counter tops, I think. This is most certainly what I told the pair of them when they showed me the compromised design. In fact I made more of a big deal out of it that I needed to, just to shut the pair of them up.

It is with some relief then that we get to the day of the kitchen fitting. Given how important a part of the renovation it has become, it’s not really surprising that everyone wants to be on hand to see its unveiling. Even Fred and the crew have got into the spirit of things, by putting a sheet across the patio doors and the archway between the kitchen and the lounge two days ago, so that none of us could see the thing until it was completely finished, and ready for its moment in the sun.

‘I’m so excited!’ Mitchell exclaims, clapping his hands together. Today, he’s actually dressed quite conservatively for Mitchell. No hat on his head. No colourful corduroy trousers, no ridiculous cravat. Yes, I’ll concede that the suit is yellow and the same style as Rupert the Bear’s trousers, but at least the ensemble matches – what with the yellow Converse trainers and all.

Mischa is wearing a pair of blue jeans and a grey roll-neck jumper. This sounds completely unerotic, but you can’t see the way her raven-black hair tumbles down over her shoulders, or how tight the jeans are stretched over her thighs. She’s also wearing a pair of motorcycle boots, which basically makes her outfit sexier to me than a set of stockings and suspenders.

Look, I know this is sounding more and more pathetic, I’m fully aware of that fact. I’m in my late twenties for crying out loud, and have a few relationships behind me. It’s not like I’ve never seen an attractive woman before. This one, though – she’s something else. It’s not just how pretty she is, it’s everything else about her. The accent, the way she carries herself, the things she says. Mischa is the perfect package: incredibly good-looking and clever, to boot. She’s the type of woman I’ve dreamt about meeting my entire life. Is it any wonder I get tongue-tied when I’m around her?

‘It is exciting, isn’t it, Danny?’ she says to me.

‘Mfmfn.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Yes. Exciting. Nice kitchen,’ I tell her, like I’m a three-year-old boy pointing something out to his mother.

‘I helped with the design, you know,’ she says with a proud smile. ‘The layout was mainly my idea.’

‘Was it?’ I say and look at my feet.

Oh come on, dickhead, you can do better than that, surely?

‘Do you like kitchens?’ I ask – because that’ll impress her, won’t it? ‘I like kitchens,’ I add, compounding the awkwardness.

She nods a little uncertainly. ‘Yes, Danny. That is why I helped design it. Kitchens are very nice,’ she responds. Now her tone of voice is one belonging to someone speaking to a person with special needs.

Let’s just end this conversation and look back at the sheet covering the archway, shall we? It’s probably best for all concerned.

‘They’re taking their sweet time,’ Hayley remarks drily, looking at her watch. ‘Are you lot ready yet?’ she calls through.

‘Nearly!’ Baz exclaims from within.

‘Gi’s another minute!’ Spider adds.

The two of them are responsible for all this ceremony. Both have worked long and hard getting everything right in the kitchen, so I can’t really blame them. Who knew such big strapping lads could enjoy a bit of melodrama? They’ve been acting like an old married couple. It’s all rather endearing, to be honest.

‘We’re just pulling off the last of the masking tape!’ Baz tells us.

And so we wait for another five minutes. Hayley and Mitchell engage in a bit of light small talk, while Mischa and I remain silent and still as statues. It appears my awkwardness is contagious, as some of it has rubbed off onto the foreign beauty, and she stands there staring at the sheet alongside me, no doubt hoping and praying that it’ll be ripped down soon so she can get away from me.

Excruciatingly, it takes the lads another five minutes to be ready. In that time I get to smell what Mischa’s perfume is like and have a fantasy about running my hands through her hair while she kicks me lightly in the testicles with her boots.

Finally, though, we’re ready for business.

‘Okay, everyone!’ Baz shouts.

‘We’re gonna do a countdown!’ Spider adds.

Both of them start to count down from five together. ‘Five! Four! Three! Two! One!’

The sheet is ripped aside with a flourish, revealing a rather startling transformation to the large extension. I’ve seen this area in every stage of its transformation. From hole in the ground to bare brickwork. From brickwork to plasterboard. From roofless to watertight. It’s been a fascinating experience to see it come together the way it has, and this is the icing on the cake.

The kitchen is beautiful – and I’m saying this as a straight bloke who thinks that a wholesome dinner is making sure I eat an apple after my Dominos pizza. The cabinetry and work surfaces stretch along two sides of the room, with the island smack in the middle. To the far left-hand side is a dividing wall that leads to a utility area and downstairs cloakroom. On the right are those patio doors leading to what will eventually be a lovely garden, once we tackle that bit of the project properly. The whole room is light, airy and a very pleasant place to be.

‘Gosh,’ Hayley remarks.

‘Fabulous, isn’t it?’ Mitchell cries. ‘All of my hard work has come to its fruition
marvellously
.’

I see Fred roll his eyes from where he’s standing next to the massive range cooker that we’ve had installed. This, as far as I’m aware, is the first time Mitchell has stepped foot in the kitchen area, so I can understand Fred’s attitude. But he’s as used to Mitchell’s personality quirks as much as we are now, so he doesn’t choose to make more of it, thankfully.

‘It’s lovely,’ Hayley says, walking forward and running her hand over one of the gleaming marble work surfaces.

‘You see how the sink is positioned just right to be bathed in a warm glow from the skylight?’ Mitchell points out. I look up, and have to agree that the skylight in the middle of the raked ceiling does give the whole room a very atmospheric feel.

‘Yes, yes. I can see,’ Hayley says, still sounding a bit nonplussed. I’m impressed with the renovated kitchen, but she seems completely transported by it. Are those tears I can see forming at the corner of my sister’s eyes?

She turns to look pointedly at Fred and the other members of the team who have been working on our farmhouse for the past few months. ‘Thank you so much, all of you. This is the kind of kitchen everyone dreams about having. It’s wonderful.’

All of them beam back at her with pride. Even Trey, the enormous Barbadian, looks a bit giddy, and as pleased as punch – and this is a man who normally slouches around the place, exuding Caribbean coolness from every pore.

If he looks pleased, then Baz and Spider look like they’re accepting Oscars.

‘Glad you like it, girl,’ Fred says in his typical matter of fact tone, but I can even see he is delighted by Hayley’s reaction.

I step forward. ‘Yeah, thanks guys. You’ve done us proud.’

‘Thank yourself, china,’ Fred tells me. ‘You’ve been just as much a part of this as the rest of us.’

It’s my turn to beam with pride.

Yes, this is indeed getting far too cloying and sentimental, isn’t it?

Don’t worry, Mitchell is about to bring us all down to earth with a bump.

‘Oh good God, no!’ he wails.

‘What’s the bleedin’ matter with you?’ Fred snaps.

Fred’s relationship with Mitchell is what you’d have to describe as fractious. No surprise really, given that one is a flamboyant architect and designer, while the other is a roll-up smoking builder, who couldn’t do flamboyant if you threatened to set fire to his flat cap. There’s nothing guaranteed to ruin Fred Babidge’s good mood more than a visit from Mitchell Hollingsbrooke, which largely consists of him examining every new addition to the house, and tutting loudly when he sees something he doesn’t like. Given that Mitchell is actively wailing like a banshee rather than just tutting today, I think we can safely assume that something is very definitely wrong with the kitchen, as far as he’s concerned.

‘The handles!’

‘What about ’em?’ Fred asks.

Mitchell regards Fred with disgust. ‘They are incongruous!’

‘You fucking what?’

‘Incongruous, man! They are inharmonious!’

Fred looks at Mischa imploringly. ‘Can you translate, love?’

Mischa steps forward. This is usually her role in such circumstances. Mischa is as much Mitchell Hollingsbrooke’s translator as she is his design assistant. ‘Mr Hollingsbrooke means that the handles on the cabinet doors are wrong.’

‘That’s exactly what I said!’ Mitchell yowls, propping himself up next to the large butler sink.

Fred looks quizzically down at the nearest handle. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

Mitchell is actually turning red now. ‘The scallops, man! The dastardly scallops!’

‘What about the bloody scallops?’

‘They are too
obtuse
!’

‘Eh?’

‘Obtuse! Far too obtuse!’

Fred looks at Mischa.

‘Mr Hollingsbrooke means the scallops are too flared. They should be smaller.’

And she got that from obtuse? I’m pretty sure obtuse doesn’t even mean that. It’s got something to do with angles. I’ve never heard it used in reference to kitchen door handles.

‘They’re fine, Mitchell,’ Hayley butts in, trying to head things off at the pass. ‘They look lovely and fit the kitchen perfectly.’

This time the scream that emanates from Mitchell Hollingsbrooke is loud enough to make your ears hurt. ‘No! No! Philistines! You are all philistines!’ And with that he’s storming out of the room, back through into the lounge and towards the front door.

‘Well, that went well,’ I say, to no one in particular.

‘I will go and speak to him,’ Mischa says, moving to follow.

‘Go with her, captain,’ Fred tells me. ‘Just in case he starts having a tantrum. I don’t want him pulling any of the skirting boards off.’

‘Me?’ I reply.

He rolls his eyes again. ‘Yes, you. Go on. Go help the poor girl.’

Not for a second does Fred Babidge’s face betray any ulterior motive to his suggestion, but I know what he’s trying to do here. I give him a highly suspicious look that he choses to ignore completely, and set off in pursuit of Mischa and her boss.

I find them both in the front garden. Mischa is doing her best to calm her employer down, and it looks like it’s having the desired effect. I’d feel pretty soothed as well if she used that honey-filled tone of voice with me, but then she could probably scream in my ear from an inch away and I’d enjoy it.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

Mischa smiles and nods. ‘Yes indeed. Mr Hollingsbrooke is taking a . . . a more philosophical attitude now to the door-handle error.’