by K. L. Slater
And I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.
2
We follow Dr Marsden further into the spacious entrance hall.
Skye seems entranced, looking all around her, but it’s a strange and new environment and I become aware that her small hand is feeling blindly for mine, and so I give it a reassuring squeeze.
The wood-panelled entrance is large and impressive but not so enormous that it feels impersonal. It is decorated in the manner of someone’s home, not like an apartment building at all. It’s perfect.
I step from the fitted door mat on to the gleaming wooden floorboards. The pleasant, faint odour of polish hangs in the air, and a Tiffany-style lamp on the antique console table adds a warm glow to an enclosed space that might otherwise be lacking in light.
Paintings line the walls; originals, I think, noting the brush strokes in the swirls of thick, coloured oils. Over towards the far wall there are polished mahogany stairs complete with the elegant balustrade Skye noticed earlier, snaking all the way up to the higher floors.
The three of us have fallen quiet for a few moments, and when I turn, I see that Dr Marsden is still standing near the entrance door, quietly watching us to gauge our reaction, I think.
‘It’s amazing,’ I gasp. ‘I mean, I haven’t even stepped inside a property like this before.’ Never mind lived in one, the cynical voice in my head adds.
He smiles. ‘Let’s go upstairs. Unfortunately, Adder House doesn’t have a lift. There aren’t many downsides to this property, but I suppose for some people, that might be one of them.’
It crosses my mind that without a gym membership these days, I’ll need to learn to make friends with the stairs. With the park and gardens only yards away – I’d already spotted a row of Boris Bikes at the entrance when the cab turned – I think that, finally, I might actually be in a position to shift the extra weight that has crept on with all the stress of the past eighteen months.
Sadly, I’m not the kind of person who loses interest in eating when my mood plummets. I take solace in food and treat it like an old friend, particularly bread, cheese, and anything creamy and calorie laden. Eating is one of the rare times I actually feel secure again.
We follow Dr Marsden upstairs – Skye effortlessly negotiating the steep climb while I take it a little steadier – until we emerge on a wide, spacious landing with the same polished wooden floor as downstairs and a rather attractive red-and-gold-patterned Persian rug.
Two solid, wide panelled wooden doors with shiny brass numbers and knockers lead off the landing, one at each end.
‘Mr and Mrs Woodings are in number three.’ Dr Marsden points out the door. Without delay, he begins to climb the next flight of stairs up to the second floor.
Again, two impressive wooden doors stand off the main landing.
‘Miss Brockley is at number four,’ he murmurs. ‘The residents who live at two and five are away at the moment. The third and final flight of stairs is coming up, you might be pleased to know.’ Dr Marsden smiles.
He seems fit and isn’t out of breath at all despite, I’m guessing, being in his mid-sixties. I hope he doesn’t notice my own laboured breathing; not very impressive for a thirty-two-year-old.
The landing up here on the third floor looks a little different. It has a smaller floor area but is also a much lighter space, thanks to a larger window at the front that overlooks the road.
‘Mummy, look!’
Skye is standing at the glass looking out with delight at a neat Juliet balcony filled with groomed topiary trees and other greenery. The smaller top windows are slightly ajar, and I can hear birds whistling from the nearby trees.
There are two doors up here, too. One big one without a number on the front and then towards the corner, a narrower door with a brass number six.
Dr Marsden walks towards the smaller door and waves a key card in front of the brass handle.
‘You two will be the first tenants in this apartment.’ He opens the door and signals for me to enter first. ‘See what you think.’
Holding Skye’s hand, I walk through a tiny entrance hall and into a large, spacious area that clearly serves as both a lounge and a kitchenette. Light floods in through a floor-to-ceiling window which overlooks the back of the property and the small, sheltered garden.
Skye pulls away from me and runs to the window. ‘There’s a swing down there!’ she exclaims.
‘It’s a small backyard but, I like to think, perfectly formed,’ Dr Marsden remarks, opening a door to the right. ‘And here we have the master bedroom.’
A modestly sized room but with the same lovely view. I spot built-in wardrobes and a fitted dressing table and stool. I can visualise myself in here, taking pleasure in having an early night with a good book again like I used to before my life fell to pieces.
‘It’s perfect.’ I breathe out.
We move on to the second bedroom. It’s smaller but more than adequate and again there’s a built-in wardrobe.
‘This will be the young lady’s room, I’d imagine.’ Dr Marsden smiles.
Skye skips past us to the window and beams at one of the blossoming cherry trees she likes to call confetti trees.
‘I love it here, Mummy!’ she declares, her face open and flushed with joy. I feel my eyes prickling. Moments of unbridled joy for Skye used to be second nature, but for the last year and a half, they’ve been few and far between.
I reach for my daughter and squeeze her hand, smiling.
‘And finally, we have the bathroom.’ Dr Marsden opens the door to an ivory-tiled room with a sparkling white bathroom suite and a mirrored wall which makes it seem twice as big.
I’m mortified when I feel a tear escape from my eye, but I can’t help it. After spending so long worrying what was to become of us, it feels like a miracle that we might actually get to live in a place like this.
I swiftly wipe my face with the back of my hand and take a breath before I turn around. I really don’t want Dr Marsden to think I’m flaky.
‘Can we live here, Mummy?’ Skye tugs impatiently at my hand. ‘Can we?’
‘It’s perfect, Dr Marsden.’ I jiggle Skye’s hand, signalling for her to let me speak.
When she does, I focus on trying to keep my emotions in check and my voice level. ‘I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity, I—’
He holds up a hand. ‘There’s really no need to keep thanking me, my dear. If you genuinely think that you and Skye can be happy here, then Adder House would love to have you. But there’s no rush, so feel free to take some time to think about it. After all, it’s a big decision.’
‘It’s actually not a big decision at all.’ I laugh, feeling lighter than I’ve done for ages. ‘I’m certain we could be very happy here.’ I glance at my daughter and her eyes are wide.
Unblinking.
‘Perfect! Well, Skye and I are delighted, aren’t we, dear?’ Skye gives a single, decisive nod. ‘Let’s go back downstairs and I can give you a little more information.’
As we descend, I glance at the other doors again. ‘Does anyone else have young children here?’ I ask.
‘No, no. Most of our residents are older, their days of raising a family behind them. But the ones who are home at the moment will love to see a youngster around the place, so you mustn’t worry about that.’
Skye isn’t a boisterous child, but the quality of the silence and the ambience here speaks of a different kind of life. A hidden pocket of a more traditional way of living in a modern world.
After a chaotic and energy-sapping time, I admit I feel more than ready to embrace a calmer lifestyle. Is it hopelessly naïve to believe that for once, fate has smiled on us and at last, we’ll find a place we can begin to live again?
It’s completely natural that Skye feels a little unsure at the prospect of leaving the only home she’s really known.
But there’s no doubt in my mind that Adder House would be safe and nurturing for Skye, and kids are so adaptab
le, aren’t they? I feel sure she’d get used to the change in no time.
Sounds silly to say this so early on, but I do think we could be happy here. I’ve just got a nice warm feeling about the place, and when I turn and look back down the hallway of the apartment as we leave, I still can’t quite believe my luck.
3
Down on the ground floor again, Dr Marsden beckons us towards a dim alcove I didn’t notice when we first came in.
Partly concealed behind a cluster of tall potted ferns, I spot another of the outsize wooden doors. This one features ornately carved panels and an elaborate brass lion knocker about two-thirds of the way up.
He uses a large, old-fashioned brass key to open it.
‘Welcome to my home. Sadly, Mrs Marsden – Audrey – couldn’t be here to meet you today, but she’s very much looking forward to doing so soon.’ I hesitate in following him and look down at my footwear. ‘Oh, don’t worry about those. Leave them on.’
We walk into a large panelled hallway and then emerge into a very spacious lounge. French doors lead directly out into the garden at one end, and enormous picture windows sit at the front of the room, complete with textured beige drapes that trail stylishly on the floor.
Skye sticks to me like glue. ‘Mummy, this apartment is massive,’ she whispers.
‘Sadly, this one’s not up for rent, but you can drop in any time you wish, Miss Skye.’
I’m surprised Dr Marsden heard her; he must have very keen ears for his age.
Skye seems to forget her nervousness when she sets eyes on the multitude of treasures inside the apartment and walks a few steps ahead of me. I beckon her back, terrified she’ll inadvertently knock flying some priceless vase or glass sculpture.
‘Please, don’t fret, Freya, just let her explore,’ Dr Marsden urges me.
Two long pale-gold sofas frame an imposing and ornate Adam fireplace that showcases built-in oak bookcases at either side. My eyes gravitate to a large, fancy gilt mirror that hangs above the mantelpiece and a marble-topped coffee table sitting between the sofas, scattered with large hard-backed photographic books featuring art and travel.
‘Wow, look at the elephant, Mummy!’ Skye darts over to the antique sideboard where an enormous carved wooden elephant stands regally, its tusks looking suspiciously like real ivory.
‘Don’t touch, Skye,’ I call out.
‘Really, she’s fine. I spent some years in Africa,’ Dr Marsden remarks, stepping closer to Skye and watching her reaction with interest. ‘This was one of the many treasures I brought back with me.’
Skye’s small fingers trace across the intricate gem-studded wood. I move next to her and pull her hand gently away. I can hardly blame her for being amazed; to a curious five-year-old, this place must truly seem to be an Aladdin’s cave.
I actually feel relieved that compared to this enormous living space, the vacant apartment upstairs seems like a very large, beautiful cupboard.
It sounds silly, but after living in mostly semi-detached converted properties in rather dubious areas, I know I’d struggle to feel comfortable amidst such large-scale grandeur. Dr Marsden’s home seems visually perfect, and yet something is niggling at me about the place that I can’t quite put my finger on . . . it’s as if something is missing.
I’m suddenly aware I’m openly staring. ‘Sorry, it’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place quite as beautiful.’
‘Oh, that’s very kind of you to say so,’ Dr Marsden murmurs. ‘I have dear Audrey to thank for the stylish interior design.’ He hesitates. ‘Please, Freya, won’t you sit down and relax a little while Skye takes a look around?’
I perch at the edge of one of the couches like a coiled spring, trying to make myself smaller in the perfect beige and gold oasis. The carpet is a pale biscuit colour, and I’m terrified of making a mark on it with my shoe.
I keep my beady eyes trained on Skye’s inquisitive hands as she stalks along the walls, oohing and ahhing at the contents of the shelves. Her shyness seems to have completely dissipated.
‘Can I offer you a drink . . . tea perhaps? How does Earl Grey sound?’
‘Thank you, but no,’ I reply regretfully. ‘We can’t stay too long I’m afraid, our friends are popping by later.’ That isn’t really the reason, I’m not expecting visitors. But I can’t trust myself not to spill tea or risk Skye breaking one of Dr and Mrs Marsden’s many displayed treasures, and my heart rate is definitely increasing the bolder she becomes in reaching for the numerous objets d’art.
But that’s not the only reason my shoulders feel knotted and sore. I’m continually worried my potential new landlord will soon discover his mistake in believing I’m the sort of person who can seamlessly fit in here.
I just can’t shake the feeling that this is a world I simply don’t belong in. I’m bound to show myself up somehow, and he’ll have no choice but to reconsider my suitability for such a cultured and genteel environment. How long will it take for him to notice my awkwardness?
Yet my fears appear to be unfounded.
‘If you think Adder House is somewhere you and Skye can settle, then you only need give me the word, Freya. I can then arrange for the paperwork to be drawn up without delay. You could move in as early as next weekend . . . if that suited you.’
My heart soars. Dr Marsden can’t possibly know, but the couple who’ve bought my house are pressing to move in as quickly as possible. The estate agent only advised me yesterday to find somewhere else quick, or risk losing the sale.
I look at Skye, still totally absorbed in staring up at the elegant cornice with its carved cherubs and flowers. I think about the perfect apartment on offer upstairs, just down the road from one of the most beautiful royal parks in the country.
Don’t we deserve a shot at happiness?
I fold my hands on my lap and look at Dr Marsden.
‘Thank you, that would be wonderful. If you’re sure, then we’d love to come and live at Adder House.’
Skye turns from her browsing and looks at me. I hold my breath in case she bursts into tears, but a tiny smile appears on her face. My shoulders loosen a little.
‘Excellent! Then I’ll speak to Audrey and we’ll get things moving right away.’ Dr Marsden beams. He looks genuinely pleased. ‘Now, I don’t want to keep you if you’ve company coming, so let me call for the cab.’
Having someone who wants to make life easy for us feels so refreshing. It seems to have been just me against the world for so long, I have to stop myself from insisting we can sort our own transport out.
While he busies himself looking for the number, I take a last look around the doctor’s lounge, willing myself to believe that, incredibly, we’ll soon be making a new start here.
Finally, as my eyes flutter over tables and sideboards and shelves, groaning under the weight of various beautiful pieces, I realise what it is that’s missing from the room.
Photographs. There isn’t a single framed photograph perched on the furniture or hanging on the walls.
No pictures of Dr Marsden and his wife, their grown-up kids, or grandchildren playing with family pets.
Nothing of that nature at all.
4
Palace Gate seems quiet as we walk up towards the congested traffic of Kensington Gore. In the end, I asked Dr Marsden to forget the cab. We’ll get the Tube instead so I can show Skye the park.
‘Mummy, all the houses are so big and tall here!’ Skye gasps, tipping back her head to look up at the buildings.
Compared to living in Acton, in our tiny home with its minuscule backyard that’s overlooked by at least five other houses, the pads here must seem like true palaces to Skye.
‘And we’re going to live in one of them.’ I grin down at her, thinking how it still seems utterly surreal to me, too. ‘Aren’t we the lucky ones?’
She doesn’t answer but she doesn’t complain either, so I’ll take that as a positive.
I grip her hand as we wait at the crossing to enabl
e us to safely negotiate the crazily busy road at the top. Just a few minutes later, we are inside the railings of Kensington Gardens, walking up the wide path that leads towards the golden gates at the top of the incline.
Within a minute or two, the leafy calmness of the gardens works its magic, and it feels as if we’ve left the traffic behind us.
We stop at a small kiosk at the bottom of the hill, and I buy a pack of sandwiches and a bag of crisps before we carry on walking.
Skye seems quiet, her head turning this way and that, taking in everything that’s happening around her. Runners, dogs, cyclists, people picnicking on the grass . . . the place is so alive.
I feel a pincer-like grip in my chest as I realise how few places I’ve taken Skye these last few months. I’ve been so absorbed in my own problems and worries – at times it truly felt as if I might drown in negative emotions – it was all I could do to keep functioning on a basic level each day.
I forgot all about taking her to the park to feed the ducks or to the cinema to see a film together. Instead I spent my time making lists so I wouldn’t forget to complete mundane tasks like doing the laundry, paying the bills, and packing Skye’s lunchbox each evening for the next school day.
I have a lot of making up to do.
Halfway up the hill, I stop walking. ‘Close your eyes and tell me what you can hear,’ I say. It’s a game we used to play a lot when we went for walks as a family.
Skye squeezes her eyelids shut and waits for a few moments before blurting out, ‘Birds!’
‘Me, too. Birds and . . . and can you hear the leaves rustling a little in the breeze?’ Eyes still closed, Skye tilts her head and a look of concentration crosses her face.
A sudden movement to my right takes my attention from my daughter’s expression. I squint as a figure darts behind the enormous gnarled trunk of an oak tree. I felt sure that when I looked over, the person was holding up a phone as if they were about to take a picture of us.
‘I can hear the leaves rustling, Mummy!’ Skye exclaims, her eyes springing open again.
