The Home for Broken Hearts

by Rowan Coleman

  “This house is not just a pile of bricks—it’s Charlie’s home,” she stated quietly instead, sipping the frothy cappuccino that she had made with the elaborate and expensive coffee machine that Nick had bought her for her last birthday even though she mostly drank tea. “And when Nick and I bought this house it meant something special to us, it was the house we always dreamed of. The place—the place we planned to get old in together. Nick was going to do up a vintage motorbike in the garage and I was going to take up writing stories, you know, just for fun, and read them to him in the evening. And when… when we realized there would be no more children, we decided that when Charlie was old enough we were going to convert the attic rooms into a little flat for him so he could have his privacy, and we were going to get a dog, two dogs—a Labrador and a red setter. Nick always wanted a red setter.”

  Ellen glanced up at Hannah, whose features had tightened as she listened, as if just the very idea of such a mundane and domestic existence offended her. Ellen knew that Hannah understood so little of what she was saying that she might as well have been talking in a foreign language.

  “Yes, but, Ellie—none of that is going to happen now,” Hannah said impatiently. “Don’t you get it? Nick is dead.” Hannah paused for a second, disbelieving, as if she, too, were hearing the news for the first time. She swallowed and took a breath. “Your life has changed, it’s not going to be like you thought it was. You need to wake up and deal with it.”

  Ellen sucked in a sharp breath. “I think you should go,” she said, pushing her chair back and handing Hannah her bag.

  “Ellie—please—don’t.” Hannah leaned across the table and rested her hands on Ellen’s forearm. “Don’t throw me out, I’m only trying to help.”

  Ellen shook her head. “No, Hannah—you’re not trying to help. You’re trying to march in here and tell me how pointless and pathetic my life is and how I should just sweep it all away, sweep everything that I have left of Nick away and go and live in a poky little flat somewhere because that’s the sensible thing to do, and because it’s only me, it’s only quite boring Ellen—what happens to me doesn’t really matter, does it? Well, since when have you ever done the sensible thing? Just because none of what matters to me matters to you, it doesn’t mean you have the right to trample all over it. I’m not going to let you.”

  Hannah stared at her for a second, taken aback by her sister’s uncharacteristic outburst. “Is that really what you think?”

  Ellen shrugged, surprised by the rapid acceleration of her heartbeat.

  “Ellie, all the things that matter to you matter to me,” Hannah insisted. “I want the best for you and Charles. Look, you know me, Ellen—tact isn’t my strong point. Haven’t you heard of tough love? Look, I know I sound like a heartless cow—but it’s not just me that thinks this, there’s your accountant, Mum and Dad—we’re all worried about you, Ellen. You just can’t go on sticking your head in book after book, thinking that everything will turn out all right in the end—there aren’t those kind of happy endings in real life—there is no tall, dark, and handsome stranger waiting to rescue you.…” Hannah hesitated, and Ellen wondered if she heard a catch in her voice. “Or any of us. And I know it’s hard. I know Nick did every single thing for you and Charles—you’re not used to coping. But now you have to. You have to, otherwise the mess you’re in is just going to get worse and worse until there’s no way out, and what about Charles then, when your house is repossessed and you don’t even have that?”

  Ellen sank back down into her chair. Hitesh, Hannah, her dad on the phone last night—they were all right: she had to do something. But it wasn’t just that Ellen had no idea what to do, she had no idea how to do anything. She closed her eyes briefly, fighting the urge to tell Hannah to get out. Hannah was right—she had to do something, and if anyone could think of something to do, it would be Hannah, clever, resourceful Hannah. Her personal life might lurch from one catastrophe to the next, but when it came to problem solving and lateral thinking, Hannah was the expert.

  “Okay,” Ellen said. “Okay, I know you’re right. But it’s Charlie that I’m thinking about. He’s lost so much—I don’t want him to lose his home, too. There has to be another way, doesn’t there?”

  “Well, you could earn more, for a start,” Hannah said, chewing her bottom lip, the way she always had from girlhood. “I mean that job you do for that publisher, Naked Desires, or whatever it’s called—how many books do you copyedit for them?”

  “Well, it depends—Simon knows which writers I enjoy, so he waits until he’s got a new work from one of them. Somewhere between one and two every couple of months.”

  “Well, that’s crazy, for starters.” Hannah spoke quickly, words tumbling out of her mouth at a million miles an hour, as if there were never going to be enough hours in the day for her to say everything she had to. “Especially when you only get—what—fifteen quid an hour? You need to stop treating the manuscripts like a hobby and start thinking of them as cash-making opportunities. They publish hundreds of those books, don’t they? The horny old ladies can’t get enough of them, right? If you stopped actually reading them and just concentrated on crossing the ts and dotting the is, then you could probably do one or even two a week. As for that Simon—he is the one that’s gay, right?”

  “We don’t know that he’s gay, just that he’s a bachelor,” Ellen interjected, although she had to admit that the chances of a man as well dressed and attractive as Simon Merry still being single in his midforties were unlikely, unless his preferences did not include commitment-hungry females, and even then he seemed to have a distinct lack of men in his life, too. Ellen suspected that he simply liked to keep his private life private, and she respected him for that.

  “Yeah, single, forty-something, never been married, and runs a raunchy pot-boiling publisher—um, hello? If he’s not gay, then I’m not a ravishing redhead, and I obviously am. Anyway—talk to him. Maybe he could do more than just farm out bits and pieces to you. Maybe he could bring you in house—or maybe he knows someone who knows someone. You have skills, Ellen, not to mention a first-class history degree that you’ve never used since you met Nick. You need to maximize your earning potential. How much do you earn per month right now?”

  Ellen pursed her lips; Hannah’s conversational style could be somewhat relentless, but she sensed that her sister was working toward forming some idea, so she went with it. “Not enough to pay the mortgage, the bills, and keep Charlie in fish fingers. Not even if I read a book a day, which I don’t want to do. I don’t want to go through them like they’re cannon fodder. They’re books, Hannah. Wonderful books that someone has labored over for months and months and put all their care and attention into. I want to treat them with the respect that they deserve.”

  “We’re talking about romances here, Ellie, not Booker Prize nominees. Everyone knows the writers churn them out to a formula. I read in The Guardian that if the heroine isn’t being ravished every ten pages, then the so-called writer’s not doing their job.”

  “Well—that’s just ignorance and prejudice,” Ellen said crossly.

  “Okay—so if you worked a bit harder you could make up maybe half of what you need to pay the mortgage. Let’s think laterally—how can you make money with you and Charles still living in the house… well, even with you two still in situ that leaves three good-size bedrooms… that’s it!” Hannah clapped her hands together; she was clearly pleased with herself.

  “That’s what?” Ellen was alarmed.

  “You become a landlady. You take in lodgers! You said it yourself—those attic rooms are practically a self-contained flat already, what with the loo and shower that’s up there—that’s worth seven hundred a month. Six hundred for the other double, with the en suite, and I know you won’t move Charles out of his room, but even that third bedroom is worth about five hundred. That will more than cover the mortgage, and what you earn from copyediting you can use to live on. Ellen, I’ve solved all your prob
lems, you may thank me now!”

  Hannah beamed at her, her eyes burning brightly, and Ellen longed to get up and walk out, only this was her kitchen. Hannah had done exactly what Ellen knew she would—she’d come up with an idea that no one else had, that could work for Ellen if she had a few minutes to think about it—but her first instinct at being presented with the idea of filling her house with strangers was to run away. Ellen fidgeted in her seat as Hannah waited for her reaction, getting the feeling that Ellen had somewhere else that she really had to be. And then she realized that somewhere else was the book she was working on. A make-believe world that felt safer and more familiar than the one she actually existed in was her only escape route now. Ellen sighed. She was desperate to find out exactly how Eliza planned to escape the evil clutches of her nefarious uncle who had snatched her back from the captain after he’d been called away on secret business for Charles I. But her son, her bills, and her financial worries would not be solved in Civil War–torn England.

  Ellen looked up at Hannah, who was studying her intently.

  “But lodgers?” Ellen said. “Two, maybe three strangers in the house? I’m not sure that would be good for Charlie—and besides, I haven’t the first idea how to be a landlady. I mean how would I split the bills? Would I have to make them breakfast? Where would they sit?”

  “Where would they…? Ellen, it would be like a house share. They’d cook for themselves, you could add on an amount to their rent to cover bills—you need to get a tenancy agreement drawn up, but I’m sure there’s probably a boilerplate of one we could print off the internet. You’d get a deposit in advance, have a few house rules—like no nudity in the living room, for example. You’d probably hardly know they were there, I mean this is London. We’re not exactly all for hanging around making friends with each other, are we? And just think, you get to stay in your precious house, forever and ever if you want to.”

  Ellen wasn’t sure which of the words that Hannah had just sprayed her with hit home, but suddenly she knew that Hannah was right. She was the only one who’d come up with an idea that could enable her and Charlie to stay in their home and survive. Yes, it meant opening up her refuge, the haven where Nick had promised her she could always close the door on the world and feel safe, to complete strangers, but as far as Ellen could see, there was no alternative. Nick had done his best to look after her and protect her. He’d sheltered her from the world, made himself a cushion between her and its hard edges. But he was unable to continue to do that in death, no matter how carefully he’d planned to. Hannah had come up with a way out, as imperfect as it was, and despite herself Ellen was grateful that she had Hannah, a sister who could always see a way around things. There had never been any obstacle, not since Hannah was a very little girl, that she couldn’t find a way to surmount to get what she wanted. It was something that Ellen simultaneously admired and disliked about her; the way she flashed her charm, beauty, and intellect with unwavering confidence was almost indecent. Still, she got things done.

  “Okay,” Ellen said carefully. “So, explain it to me from the beginning—what would I have to do?”

  CHAPTER

  Three

  A thin, piercing trill cut through the air. Ellen sighed, pushing the manuscript of The Sword Erect back across the table. For a few blissful moments she had been lost in the passion and drama of the seventeenth century, but then the doorbell sounded, ripping through the morning with its sharp, invasive ring. Phones could always be ignored. Doorbells could often be ignored, but not this time. This time Ellen had to answer it—her first lodger had arrived, exactly on time.

  Hannah had procured Ellen her first lodger through work. Sabine Neumann was on a secondment from the Berlin office of T. Jenkins Waterford. She was to be posted in the London office for three months and needed a place to stay. As soon as Ellen had deferred to her sister’s moneymaking idea, Hannah had pounced on her BlackBerry, remembering an email requesting temporary accommodation that had been sent out the preceding day.

  “This is perfect,” Hannah chirped, pleased with herself. “She wants a recommendation, and you don’t want just any old weirdo turning up on you doorstep. I’ll sort this out now—I’ll tell her that it’s the room with the en suite that’s available. Let’s hold back on the attic rooms, we want to get as much as possible for that, put in the room rate, and presto—it’s sent.”

  “Whoa—wait a minute—how do we know that she’s not a weirdo?” Ellen asked, her panic rising as her ever-decisive sister took action on her idea within seconds of having it.

  “She works for my company.” Hannah shrugged.

  “Ted Bundy had a job, you know,” Ellen told her.

  “We do all that NLP business at the interview stage—so they’d definitely spot a psycho—then again, they gave me a job, so who knows!” Ellen did not laugh. “Anyway she’s German, so she’s bound to be tidy, efficient, quiet, and well mannered.”

  “If you choose to conform to a racial stereotype, that is,” Ellen muttered.

  Hannah’s BlackBerry pinged. “See? What did I tell you, efficient. She’s replied already and… she wants the room! She’s arriving in a week. Right, now—what should I tell her about bedding, towels, et cetera—do you want her to bring her own or do you have enough? I’ll tell her she has to supply her own, after all, you don’t want to be lumbered with a load of laundry, do you?” Hannah beamed at Ellen, in her element, and briefly Ellen was reminded of her sister as a little girl, mastering riding a bike without stabilizers. It had taken Ellen a whole summer to teach Hannah how to ride a big-girl’s bike, and the look on her face as she had sailed past Ellen, who’d been whooping and clapping, was exactly the same as the one she wore now. Ellen found herself smiling; there had been a time once when the two of them had been the center of each other’s universe. What had happened to cause them to grow so far apart—when had Hannah stopped being the adoring little sister that Ellen doted on? If she stopped to think about it, Ellen knew that she would actually be able to pinpoint the exact moment, but she never stopped to think about it. She didn’t want to remember that.

  “One down, two to go,” Hannah went on, oblivious. “You should ask around, too, Ellie, but in the meantime I could draft an ad for Time Out.”

  “I don’t know, I’m not sure—that really would be a stranger,” Ellen said uncertainly, that fleeting memory of a summer morning fading rapidly.

  “Just as a backup, I’ll put my email and number on it—so you won’t have to deal with it—and I promise I’ll weed out all the weirdos, right after I’ve dated them. Let’s see… ‘Rooms to let. Well-located shared house. Must be a nonsmoker. No pets.’ Perfect. I’ll just log on to their website and… there—that’s posted. I’ll pay for it on my credit card—you can pay me back when the rent starts to roll in, along with the money for the skiing trip.”

  Ellen blinked.

  “Hannah! But I haven’t asked you to lend me any money for Charlie’s trip—wait—how do you even know about it?”

  “Charlie called me a couple of days ago and asked me if I’d spot him the cash. Of course I said yes, after I’d talked it over with you, obviously. So when do you need it? I could write you a check now if you like.” Hannah smiled brightly, clearly feeling like she was on a roll in her new position as Lady Bountiful. “You don’t mind, do you, Ellie? After the year he’s had, a change of scenery, a chance to spread his wings a bit will do him the world of good, won’t it? And it’s not as if I’m giving you the money, just lending it—that’s all.”

  Ellen felt outmaneuvered. Since Nick died, Hannah had gone out of her way to form a special relationship with her nephew. She had always been mildly fond of him, but now he had become the official apple of her eye, and Charlie loved it, loved the outings, shopping trips, and visits to the cinema. He loved his cool aunty Hannah and it rankled Ellen that he seemed more comfortable with his aunt than with his own mother. Even so, it had never occurred to Ellen that he might take it into his own ha
nds and call Hannah and ask her for money himself. Ellen was so used to knowing every aspect of her little boy’s life, it came as a shock to realize that he had a world outside of hers. More than that, she had unconsciously been glad to have a reason not to let him go so far away on the school trip, a reason other than the one that really unsettled her, the idea of him out there, vulnerable and unprotected.

  “I’m not sure if he’s ready to be so far from home…” Ellen began.

  “It must be a worry for you, to let him go,” Hannah said. “But you need to, Ellie; if anything, now is exactly the time when he should be finding his feet, finding out more about the world. We’d hate what happened to change him, wouldn’t we? To take away his joy of life.”

  “Are you saying that’s what I do? Take the joy away?” Ellen was offended.

  “No, no! I’m saying that you’re still grieving, it’s not been a year yet. It wouldn’t hurt to let Charlie have a break from that—it’s not until September anyway, is it, this trip—

  so let’s just agree that I’ll lend you the money, you’ll pay me back, and see how you feel about it nearer the time. How’s that?”

  Ellen nodded, mute.

  “So anyway, you’d better get that room sorted out. Today’s… Wednesday, and Sabine is arriving Friday—so that gives you two days to get ready.”

  “She’s coming already? Hannah, that’s too fast. I haven’t had time to think about it, to even discuss with Charlie what he thinks about strangers living in the house. Not all of us live our lives at high speed you know.”

  “You can say that again.” Hannah pursed her lips as she studied Ellen’s face for a moment, her expression opaque. “Ellie—time has run out for you—there aren’t any more opportunities for procrastination. If I know one thing, it’s when to take action, and now is that time. Besides, what is there to discuss? You’re out of options. Charles will understand that, he’s a bright boy. I could talk to him if you like.”