Conditional Love (16 page)

What possessed me? I muttered, wincing and mincing my way along the main thoroughfare. All around me, women were bouncing along on their comfy air-filled soles, fully prepared for a day on their feet. At this rate, I would be on my knees by noon.

The lecture theatre was, naturally, right at the opposite end of the show and by the time I arrived, there were barely any seats free. I hovered at the entrance, deciding where to sit. I did a rough count up. There must have been over a hundred people in the audience!

I wondered how Nick was feeling. Waiting in the wings, probably, having a last minute rehearsal. I couldn’t imagine him speaking in public, in front of an audience of humans.

‘Excuse me, dear.’ A tiny old lady squeezed past me and eased herself into the last seat in the back row.

Now there was only one space left. Front row obviously. I took a deep breath and tiptoed self-consciously up towards the remaining seat, which was directly in front of the podium. So much for remaining unobtrusive and making an early exit. Never mind, I would pretend to make notes and avoid eye contact.

I joined in with the applause as a tanned compère appeared.

‘Put your hands together and give a warm welcome to architect Nick Cromwell. As he says, “Let there be light”.’

Nick appeared on stage, looking very professional in a smart grey suit and a purple tie. He stood at the podium and I saw his hands shake as the compère passed him the controller for the projector. My seat was a mere two metres away from Nick’s trembling trousers.

He was going to think I was a stalker. I slumped down in my seat.

Nick turned to the audience. Maybe he had intended to smile, but a grimace was as much as he managed.

Oh bless! I felt nervous for him. Come on, Nick, illuminate us!

As if he had read my mind, he looked straight at me. The controller slipped out of his hands and clattered to the floor near my feet. The projector screen came to life, flipping through image after image, racing through Nick’s presentation. His mouth fell open and a look of panic crossed his face.

I jumped out of my seat and handed it up to him, giving my widest, most encouraging grin. He smiled back, mouthed his thanks and blew his cheeks out in a gesture of composure.

‘Of all the elements that combine to create the ambiance of your home, light is the most magical,’ began Nick.

And he was off. His thirty minute speech flew by. I was enthralled. He was a different person, with his dazzling delivery, brilliant observations and expert knowledge. I felt like a proud parent.

That’s my architect, I wanted to say to the lady next to me, isn’t he good?

I glanced round at the audience; they were hanging on his every word. It was obvious from his delivery how much he loved being an architect. I felt quite envious. I wished I was in a job where passion for my work spilled out so much that I inspired others like he did! What could I talk about with such intensity, such passion? I dredged the outer recesses of my brain for a few seconds, but other than being able to name all of Take That’s number ones, I came up empty-handed.

I would whisk him off for a coffee to celebrate when he’d finished and tell him just how marvellous he was.

‘Thank you so much,’ concluded a beaming Nick.

The audience was clapping, some people already on their feet, keen to move on to the next event. A couple approached Nick and he fished a business card out of his pocket. I pretended to check my phone to give me an excuse for not leaving straight away. The couple moved away and I saw my chance. I dropped my phone back into my bag and was just about to go over when a woman in a denim jacket and a flowery miniskirt pounced on him.

How annoying, I’d been gazumped!

I’d have to leave now. Failure to do so would make me look like an adoring fan and it looked like he already had one of those.

I looked over at him one last time. He seemed relaxed, with his arms folded, leaning against the podium, nodding and smiling. I could only see her from behind, but could tell from her stance that she was much younger than me. She had her hands clasped in front of her, pivoting from the knees like a child.

I turned away in disgust. Trollop.

Back outside in the main hall, I consulted the show guide. High heels notwithstanding, I would spend the next two hours scouring the show for ideas, stop for some lunch and then rest my weary legs in the Grand Theatre to hear what TV presenter Kevin McCloud had to say.

By lunchtime, I was exhausted. I plonked a tray with a mug of milky tea and an over-priced and under-filled baguette down on the table with relief. The balls of my feet throbbed as if I’d ground them into hot coals, but I didn’t care. My arms were aching under the weight of the brochures I’d collected, but I barely registered the pain. I was in my element.

Thank you, thank you, Nick, for suggesting that I came!

I was buzzing with inspiration, mind-blown with the things I’d seen. From ‘smart’ this to ‘eco’ that, there was a system, a button, a gadget for everything and everyone. My list of ‘must haves’ had grown as I made my way round the show. Now my fingers were itching to sketch. I could envisage the mood boards I would pull together to give Nick, I could imagine exactly the sort of interiors I wanted to create.

I could feel myself coming alive like a new leaf unfurling in the sunshine. My creative spirit, which had been supressed for so long, was waking up. Too late to do my career any good, but at least it would come in handy for the Lilac Lane project.

I swallowed the last mouthful of my lunch and scanned the busy cafeteria for a place to stack my tray. My gaze encountered a familiar profile – thick dark tufty hair, wide forehead and slim glasses. My hand flew up in an automatic wave, but Nick was too engrossed in his companion to notice me. It was the girl from the seminar; I recognised her from the denim jacket and flirty body language. Nick smiled and I felt a spark of jealousy as his dimple appeared. I felt strangely proprietorial about that dimple.

Am I pouting? Pull yourself together, Sophie.

I relaxed my face back into neutral and took stock of my reaction. It would have been nice to share my day with another person, that was all. I was bursting with enthusiasm and ideas and wanted someone to talk to, anyone, it didn’t have to be him.

The girl flicked his tie so that it flapped up in the air. I could hear her giggle as Nick smoothed it back down.

Well, well, well, you dark horse, Nick Cromwell. And I thought you didn’t mix business with pleasure. Not so strict today, are we?

nineteen

Sunlight seeped through a chink in the curtains, waking me up early. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and sat up.

It was Sunday morning and I had work to do.

I jumped out of bed and drew back the curtains. The turquoise sky was completely unbroken by cloud. It was a perfect English summer’s day. I planned to take a rug outside and spend the whole day in the communal garden.

But first, I’d make some tea and call Mum.

With a mug in hand, I padded back to bed and fired up my laptop.

My mum had grudgingly resumed contact on Skype, although she couldn’t resist peppering her conversation with digs and sarcastic asides. I was determined to persevere; she was bound to defrost eventually. I would just have to convince her that my accepting the will wouldn’t affect our relationship one bit.

‘I suppose you’ll be off somewhere exotic this August? Spain not good enough for you now, I should imagine, with your money.’

This morning, Mum was wearing a tropical print sarong, huge sunglasses and her hair was pinned up in a neat ballerina-style bun. She sucked her cheeks in and sipped at a glass of water.

I let the side down somewhat in a Little Miss Sunshine nightshirt and matted curls.

‘Course not,’ I soothed, biting my tongue as the lies tripped off it. ‘I’m very busy at work so it might be September this year, before I can make it. When the weather has cooled a little bit.’

And your ex-husband is safely back on the other side of the pond.

‘You had your inheritance yet?’ she sniffed. ‘Taking a long time, isn’t it? That family was always slow to put their hands in their pockets.’

‘I’m surprised the old lady didn’t leave her estate to my father,’ I ventured. Over the years, I had learned that I had to pick my moments to ask Mum anything about him. On this occasion, I misjudged it.

‘I’m not. The bastard was probably as bad a nephew as he was a husband.’

Mum tutted. I closed my eyes, counted to three and changed the subject, although the topic was just as controversial.

‘I’ve asked an architect to do some work for me in Lilac Lane, Mum.’

She rolled her eyes in disgust. ‘You’re obsessed with that bungalow. Just sell it! I don’t understand why you would want to be tied down. Where’s your sense of adventure?’

I saw her shake her head and it took me right back to my childhood. She could never understand my attempts to make my bedroom more homely

‘What happened to my doll’s house, Mum, can you remember?’

I had spent hours lost in a make-believe world inside those tiny rooms. It had been my favourite ever toy.

Mum shrugged. ‘No idea.’

Now
she
was the one being economical with the truth. I could distinctly remember her handing it over to a man at the door in exchange for a handful of notes. I had cried for days.

‘You’re too old for make-believe now, Sophie,’ Mum had scolded. ‘Time to grow up.’

I slurped my tea and considered tackling her about her big fat lie.

‘Lost in the move, I expect,’ she added.

Which move? For her, our succession of flats and bedsits had never been important. Simply somewhere to leave her stuff. All she cared about was being on stage. She had been like a caged bird, desperate to be free. We had moved countless times while I was growing up. I knew now, that occasionally we had had to move when she couldn’t pay the rent.

I shuddered. I never wanted to live like that again.

The flat I shared with the Piper sisters was as close as I’d ever come to putting down any roots. That was what I longed to do.

Put down roots. Build a home where my friends would gravitate to at weekends, at Christmas, barbeques in the summer and movies and popcorn on dark nights.

‘Look, Sophie,’ Mum moved closer to her computer screen and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, ‘why not forget all this architect nonsense and move over here? We could maybe use your money to buy a little bar. We could rent a lovely villa.’

Good grief, much as I loved her, I couldn’t think of anything worse. Life as her side-kick was bad enough growing up, I certainly didn’t want a repeat performance.

I shook my head and attempted to keep my voice level. ‘It’s a lovely idea. But I’m a homebird, Mum. Spain isn’t for me.’

Mum dropped her sunglasses down, but I could still see the displeasure in her pinched lips. ‘Sometimes I wonder whose daughter you are.’

So do I, I reflected sadly, ending the call.

What sort of man was Terry Stone, I wondered as I showered and dressed. Was he a homebird like me? I shook my head, irritated by my whimsical thoughts. Of course he wasn’t or he wouldn’t have done a bunk.

By midday, I had arranged a pile of magazines, a heap of brochures, sheets of card, scissors, glue and pens on a picnic blanket outside.

I knelt back on my heels happily. This was utter bliss. All those years of drawing fantasy houses with spiral staircases and four-poster beds, walk-in wardrobes and bath tubs the size of swimming pools, and finally I had the chance to do it for real.

I plucked a magazine off the top of the pile and flicked through it. The blingtastic tasteless pad of a lottery millionaire filled the first ten pages. I dropped it back down with a grin and picked up my sketchpad instead.

You could keep your palatial mansions; I wasn’t interested in plush and fancy, or trendy and minimalist. I wanted my home to be a haven, like coming in from the cold to a big warm hug.

I selected a pencil, chewed the end and stared at the blank page. Nick would design the building, all I had to do was to supply the detail, the feel, the heart of the home. All of a sudden, I felt awkward. I was only an enthusiastic amateur compared to him. What if my silly scribblings weren’t good enough?

Come on, Sophie, you used to love doing this. He’s not the only one with passion. Have some confidence.

I began to draw, slowly at first, letting my hand move across the page as if it had a mind of its own. A smile spread across my face, this felt good. I felt free and more alive than I had done in years. As my excitement bubbled, the ideas came faster and faster, filling page after page.

Big, folding glass doors opening out onto the garden, perfect for summer parties. A real log fire with a rustic fireplace. A kitchen big enough to actually cook in. Yep, I might even learn how to cook. A squishy sofa under the window where I could snuggle up and read. An en suite bathroom with a power shower.

The sun was hot on my neck and I edged into the shade, pausing from my work to drink some water. I didn’t know what I’d been worried about, I was having a brilliant time and some of these drawings were quite good, even to my rusty eye.

I was sketching my bedroom now. The drawing showed a room big enough for a double bed. I sighed and pulled up a tuft of grass, letting the cool green blades fall through my fingers.

Moving out of the flat meant leaving Emma and Jess behind. I’d accepted that. Despite my pleadings, they were adamant that they didn’t want to move to Woodby. But the prospect of living on my own filled me with dread.

What was the point of having a lovely home if I had no one to share it with? Who would keep me company in that big double bed?

Marc?

Whoa, stop right there, Miss Sophie Stone. He dumped me once, who’s to say if I let him back into my heart, he wouldn’t do exactly the same thing again?

‘I am an independent, intelligent woman,’ I muttered to myself a few times.

My stomach flipped, disloyally.

But imagine waking up every morning to that body! And think how gorgeous our babies would be!