by Joy Richards
Claire’s mobile rang.
It was the estate agent. They had a viewing, now. They would be over in an hour. There was no time to run around, make the place look nice.
“We’ll just go for curb appeal,” Aaron decreed. “Be honest. If they want this place, it’s to renovate it. Totally gut it and redo it. They won’t care it’s a little messy.”
Claire felt wounded that her son couldn’t even conceive of someone loving their house as it was. Looking at Michael, she could tell he was too. They had done everything to make this a magical family home for Aaron, and he seemed to not care much for it other than a form of income.
Yet, he was right. The couple who came were in their late thirties and seemed to be much happier than the first couple who had put in an offer. They held hands and talked about how they would change the house to make it their own. It was clear from the sparkle in the wife’s eyes that she was in love with the place.
“I know I shouldn’t say this,” she whispered conspiratorially, “but this really does already feel like home.”
Her husband told her off, gently, but Claire could tell he was smiling at the corners of his mouth. “Could we keep chickens?” he asked.
“Of course! We used to have a chicken coop, right in that corner by the pear tree.”
“How wonderful for the kids!” The wife squealed.
Claire and Michael looked at each other. It was done. They had them in the bag. They offered tea, and the estate agent and viewers spent a few more minutes standing in the middle of the garden, sipping from their mismatched cups and pointing at the back of the house. Claire, after a lifetime of living with Michael, could read lips very well.
“Oh honey, I love this,” said the woman.
“Me too,” replied the man. “I just don’t want to be too impulsive. It would need work.”
“We can afford it!” she replied. Her cheeks were flushed in the autumnal air. “And we can do it bit by bit. It may take a few years, but it will be so worth it!”
He laughed and put his arm around her shoulder. Claire turned round and smiled to her husband and son.
“I don’t want to be too cocky,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “But I think it’s done.”
They put in an offer a week later. It was incredibly low, well below asking price, but it was a start.
“They probably just want to play hardball,” said Elijah. He had come down with his son, Lukas, to stay with his parents for a long weekend. Elijah’s husband, Tom, was at a stag weekend and Lukas loved to spend time with his grandparents. Claire was pleased, as Elijah had a steady head and generally gave good advice. He and Tom ran a successful GP practice, and he was a volunteer governor at his local primary school.
“Should we play hardball, too?” asked Michael.
“I don’t think so, Dad.” Elijah exhaled, and sat down. He looked as though he was exercising patience. “Mum, Dad, you know how much I love this house. I love everything about it, because it’s my childhood home. And to me, it’s an extension of you, and I love you so much.”
Claire smiled. Quite a change from how Aaron had tried to say the same thing. She would never cease to marvel at how her children had turned out so different from one another.
“But even though I love it, we love it,” continued Elijah. “This house is not what people my age want to buy. I know it sucks, but that’s just the way it is.”
Michael put his hand on his son’s shoulder. He smiled. “Son, we know.”
Elijah sighed with relief. “I reckon, call them back and counteroffer something reasonable. Like halfway between what they said and asking price.”
Claire obeyed. She found it increasingly soothing to let go, allow her children to take control of things. Jacob had recently accompanied them to one of Michael’s doctor’s appointments and had asked very good questions. Elijah had mostly emptied their house, culling their possessions ruthlessly just as she wished she could do herself. She was so proud of her sons, of what great help they were. She could relax and let go a little.
In the evening, Claire and Elijah cooked together. It was another of their shared passions. It was more than a hobby, it was a way of showing love. They cooked and baked together, no matter what else was going on in the world. It had all started with home-schooling: Elijah struggled with reading and Claire had asked him to read recipes out loud as she cooked. She would purposefully forget details so he had to go back quickly and figure out how many onions and how much flour was needed. From there, it was their special bonding time. In a family of six, one-on-one time was precious.
Elijah had come out to her when he was seventeen in that very kitchen, as they were baking a cake. Claire had been very surprised: he’d always had girlfriends wherever they went, leaving a trail of broken hearts in the homes of aid workers and diplomats across the Third World. Claire had never cared about whether her son was gay or straight, but she had always been afraid he would not be able to find the same kind of bond she had found with Michael, and that he would not be able to experience being a father.
As they stood in the kitchen, making polenta with a rich beef stew, she watched Elijah teach his son how to peel shallots. She smiled. She had been so wrong. Elijah had found true happiness with Tom, and since having Lukas he had shown what a wonderful caring father he was. She should never have worried about him. He was such a kind resourceful man. He had been relentless with the adoption system, fighting to get on the right lists, demanding to be heard and to be seen. Lukas had come to them a baby of six months, terrified of strangers and getting over a heartbreaking drug addiction he had developed in his birth mother’s womb. Six months later, he was a happy and confident one-year-old safe in the firm love of his parents. Now, as a four-year-old, he was the light of their lives. He was a giggly, mischievous boy who loved to play with his truck toys and who astounded them all with an expansive vocabulary.
They had just finished peeling the pink shallots for the stew when the phone rang. It was the landline. Elijah picked it up and frowned. He gestured to get her to come over.
“It’s for you, Mum. It’s the estate agent. Your mobile is off.” Of course it was. She always forgot to charge it, it must have died in her purse. Or maybe in the hallway. Finding the damn thing now would be impossible, as she couldn’t ring it.
“Hello?” she said into the receiver.
“Hello, Claire. This is Tina with Bevindale’s Property.” Her voice was hesitant. “I’m afraid I have some not-so-great news.”
“Oh?”
“Unfortunately the buyers have rescinded their offer.” It was the second time she had to hear that in two weeks. That was just too much. Claire sat down.
“Oh, right,” she said, her mind racing. “I mean, we would be open to further negotiating the price,” she continued with a feeble voice.
“Oh Claire, I am so sorry,” said the agent. “The offer they put in was at the very top of their budget. I don’t think they have any wiggle room at all. Look,” she lowered her voice, “if I thought they could budge, I would tell you. But I really don’t think they can, all the other properties we have shown them are, well, far below yours in terms of price point.”
Claire did not know what to say.
“I’m so sorry, Claire,” the agent continued. “I know how much this meant to you and your family. But look, this isn’t over, we’ll keep trying!” She was striving to sound cheerful. That made it worse.
“Right, well thank you, Tina,” Claire said slowly. She felt like she was in a terrible dream and would wake up any minute in her new apartment in a glass building in London.
“Thank you, Claire. And don’t worry, we’ll figure something out. Have a good night.”
“You too, Tina.” Claire hung up the phone. A heavy silence had fallen on the kitchen. Michael was stood in the doorway, trying to read the emotions on her face.
Claire buried her face in her hands. “It’s over,” she said. “Elijah, please call Aaron and ask him and Pen
elope to come down.”
Michael put his arm around Claire’s shoulder and kissed her. She cleaned her face on her apron, which smelled of vanilla extract and mushrooms. She drew in a deep breath, feeling as though she had failed her son. Now she had to tell him to his face.
12
Alex
The sale had fallen through. Last minute. Well, almost. Their buyers had lost their buyer, and the estate agent had pleaded with them to allow a little time. Cash buyers don’t come every day, he’d said. He was an unpleasant man, with a gammony red face and too-wide ties in colours that should be kept for brothel neon signs. Nevertheless, Sarah agreed with him. She had taken a shine to their buyer, who was apparently somewhat of a famous writer. They had googled her name while they were dealing with all the paperwork, and it turns out she had written a lot of books. Good books, apparently, as Sarah had even found the time to read one on her Kindle during her evenings and weekends. Up until a few weeks earlier, those would be peak job-hunting hours, but no more. She had simply stopped looking. Alex knew why. It was because of their fight.
He had used her phone to look something up, and discovered she had been scouting a small family PR firm in New Jersey. Not, as she said she was doing, big names in the city, but a small firm hours away from the hustle and bustle of Tribeca. Somewhere where men didn’t have to wear a suit. A family-friendly workplace, as the “About us” section of the website promised. He had confronted her, trying not to be too direct. He had not accused her of wanting to settle down and have children, just of throwing away her career.
She came right back at him, pointing out that there were no jobs like she wanted in New York at that moment. The argument had circled right back to where he really should have suggested getting married to buy her more time to find a job. He had said nothing. She had said nothing. They had gone to bed, and they had woken up the next morning ready to reconcile. They had both apologised, and had gone for a sterile walk in Greenwich Park.
After the argument, their relationship seemed to shrink. They talked less, because they knew another argument was looming right around the corner. They still discussed their work and had meals together. They went out for brunch with their friends. They went to the movies at the BFI, and to music gigs all over London. They tried new restaurants after reading reviews online. They did all the things they normally did. But it was not the same. Alex loved her so much, but was so scared to ask her whether or not she was about to leave him for someone who would give her a baby. He felt as though she was constantly staring at him with her dark piercing eyes. Sometimes he would turn around and find her looking at him intently, furiously and quietly like a mad painting.
So they would give the buyers about a month before they looked for someone else. It didn’t really matter, Sarah said, as she was still looking for a job. Whether she did so from their flat or from her sister’s house, it was irrelevant. Alex was somehow relieved that the burden of packing and moving had been lifted from his shoulders. He still, more and more feebly, hoped that he would move and a few weeks later Sarah would surprise him at his New York apartment, throwing her arms around his neck as she told him she had found a job. Not only that, but that she had been a fool to ever doubt their life, and that she did not, after all, want three children and a dog. With every day that went by, Alex knew that would never happen. He could see it in her face, studying him with calm contempt. She must think I am a real piece of shit. She probably thinks I have taken advantage of her, and I am refusing to marry her and get her pregnant like I am supposed to. He was starting to get angry too.
At any rate, the plan seemed to be going ahead. Alex would move to New York on his original date, Sarah would sort out things in London, get a job and follow as soon as possible. It was becoming ridiculous they weren’t getting married. They had lived together for fourteen years, and now they were about to live apart for an unspecified period of time. Could be years. Their friends seemed surprised, many confused. They inquired, politely, and after a few drinks more and more cheekily. Kelly, his best friend at the firm, got very drunk one night and told him square to his face he was ruining his life. She had just come out of a bad long-distance relationship and was jaded about it all from the start. She adored Sarah, and was angry at him for not doing the sane thing.
“Rent the flat out, get married and hop over the pond, man,” she said, slamming her chubby hand on the back of his perfectly manicured head. “Long distance never works. It never, ever works,” she repeated, with a slither of bitterness. He believed her, but felt powerless to do otherwise. To ask Sarah to marry him now, he felt, was to sign up for a life he did not want. A large house in New Jersey, white picket fence, Labrador puppy and two children. He would commute every day into the city and hate himself so hard he might actually jump off from a tall building. And there was always that tiny hope that Sarah would appear at his door, happy and elated, eager to resume their old lives.
He was thinking about Kelly’s words in the cab he was sharing with Sarah as it slowly made its way to the airport. Sarah had insisted on coming with him to say goodbye, which is sweet in films but an absolute nightmare in real life. The car sat in traffic somewhere near Hounslow, inching forward with a gentle back-and-forth motion that made Alex sick. Sarah was leaning over, furiously typing away on her Blackberry. She was technically off work, but work never stopped.
Alex looked up from his own email-filled phone at her beautiful, thin, symmetrical face. The thick brown fringe that covered her forehead made her eyes look huge, like a doe’s. He would miss her, he thought. He already missed her, he realised. The old, happy, ambitious, funny Sarah who had gone missing slowly, day by day, over the past few months. He thought about saying something. This could all be a terrible misunderstanding. But of course it wouldn’t be, and if he said something now they would have a fight and not have enough time to make up, which would be a horrible start to their long-distance relationship.
Instead, they sat in silence, listening to each other’s typing and to the driver’s screeching LBC until they got to the airport.
“Would you like to go for a coffee?” Alex asked, thinking of the Costa outside of Terminal 5. “I have time.”
“I’d better not,” she replied, an infinite sadness in her voice. “I need to get back.”
They stood in front of each other. She was wearing a teal coloured jumpsuit under her black coat, and a black suede belt that matched her shoes. Her eyes were full of tears, and so were his.
“I love you.” Come with me, he thought. I don’t care about this anymore. Let’s get married and have a baby, if that’s what you need.
“I love you too,” she said, her voice breaking. They held each other, their bodies slowly shaking. Alex could feel a solid lump in his throat.
She came apart, looked at him and raised her hand, slowly wiggling her fingers.
“I love you,” she said. “Goodbye.”
“I’d better go, before I can’t anymore.” He turned and started walking towards the terminal, dragging his heavy suitcase. Stop me, he thought, run after me and stop me. Kiss me and tell me not to go and I will stay, and we will get married in a small church in Cornwall and buy a three-bed semi-detached in Canada Water and raise two sets of twins.
She didn’t stop him.
He made it until past security before he broke down. He cried for a few minutes in the men’s toilets. Then he splashed some cold water on his face, and made his way out onto the terminal. He could go to Wagamama’s, Soba noodles for a broken heart.
His phone rang. It was Sarah.
“Listen,” she said, before he could say anything. “Listen and don’t interrupt, because I don’t think I can do it otherwise.”
“Okay,” he said, knowing what was coming. He sat down on the ground, next to his hand luggage.
“I love you,” she said, with a broken voice. “I love you so much it hurts. But I don’t think we want the same things in life anymore, and I don’t think it’s fair on eit
her of us to stay together.”
He swallowed hard. He thought he would be devastated, but he felt oddly calm. He felt hot though, boiling under his suit. His face felt like it was on fire. “I know,” he said softly.
“I’m so sad,” she whimpered, a small voice at the end of the line.
“We should talk more tomorrow. But you’re right. This is not fair, and I love you and want you to be happy.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow to sort things out.” Her voice was flat, completely monotone.
“Any time.” He leaned his head against the phone. “Sarah?”
“Yes?” There was a glint of hope in her voice that broke his heart.
“I’ll miss you, Sarah,” he said softly.
“I’ll miss you too.” She hung up. It was done. He felt a sense of relief. His heart was pounding, but he felt as though the Damocles sword that had been hanging over his head for months was finally gone. He had to break it off with the woman he loved, his partner in life. It was horrible. At least it was done. He got up slowly and limped towards Wagamama’s like a wounded toy soldier.
The subsequent week was filled with more phone calls. They were mostly about the admin required to disentangle a fifteen-year relationship. They had a shared expense account they needed to close, and of course there was the matter of selling the flat and splitting the equity. Sarah seemed cold over the phone, detached, as though she was speaking to him through a mirror. He knew what she was like, he knew that was how she protected herself from the pain. The day her grandma had died, she had insisted they stick with their previous commitment of going to a hip-hop brunch in east London, and then pints with friends. She had acted entirely naturally, as though nothing had happened.
