Conditional Love

by Cathy Bramley

  I had a sudden vision of him as a solemn-faced little boy, advising his mum and dad on how to maximise the space in their loft. While other boys were out getting muddy, he would no doubt have been inside, trying to draw the perfect skyscraper.

  A bit like me and my doll’s house.

  ‘It’s amazing what can be done,’ he was saying, pointing to a photograph of a house with a massive extension, ‘even with the most unpromising properties.’

  I sucked my teeth.

  ‘Not that… I mean, yours isn’t. Yours is very promising.’ Nick gave his glasses a quick polish. ‘More coffee?’

  I shook my head. It was delicious but I couldn’t see a loo and didn’t want to have to ‘go’ before I left.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said, changing the subject charitably. I pointed to a country cottage with a huge glass extension on the back.

  ‘Ah! Now, that’s in Woodby! Mr and Mrs Lafleur. One of my favourite projects. We salvaged a rundown cottage and brought it into the twenty-first century.’

  Nick was staring at the photographs wistfully. Maybe I’d been a bit harsh with the Doc Martin comparison. He was quite capable of talking to people, as long as the subject matter remained strictly business.

  It was far too soon to know what I was going to do with the bungalow. Heavens, I’d still got to get over the hurdle of meeting my father yet! But if I did do something, I had a feeling that he was the right man for the job.

  Thirty minutes had flown by. I dislodged the dog from my feet, stood up and shook his hand. I had a good look at it, you could tell a lot by a person’s hands. It was dry and warm, his nails were clean and short. Nick coughed. I blushed and dropped his hand quickly.

  ‘So what are your plans now?’ asked Nick, showing me to the gate.

  I pulled a face. ‘Gosh! I don’t plan.’

  Why did I just make apostrophes round the word plan? Next I’ll be dropping in moronic phrases like ‘blue-sky thinking,’ and ‘out of the loop’ and ‘going forward’.

  Nick nodded, although his expression was one of confusion. I bet he was a planner. I bet he had a diary with everyone’s birthday in it and recorded the number of miles to the gallon he’d done every time he put petrol in his car. I was more of a ‘seat of the pants’ kind of gal.

  ‘I’d be happy to pull a few ideas together, if you decide to go ahead.’ He pushed the gate open a little way and then stretched a leg across the gap to stop Norman escaping.

  I smiled. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  That came out wrong. It sounded all flirty. As if he’s asked me out on a date and I’m playing hard to get. Why are my eyes burning?

  ‘Well, keep me in the loop. And bear in mind going forward, that planning approval can take months, so it’s best to be prepared.’

  I gulped down air to stifle my laughter. For the love of garlic, this man needs to lighten up.

  ‘Bye,’ I mumbled and tripped over his outstretched leg, landing face first on the tarmac drive.

  ‘I’m fine!’ I yelled, leaping to my feet before Nick had a chance to react. ‘Absolutely fine! Bye.’

  And I scarpered.

  sixteen

  I scrutinised the contents of my wardrobe despondently. Where were all the striking, look-at-me-I’m-one-to-watch outfits? I was aiming for smart with a trendy twist. Whatever that was.

  I was supposed to be the pioneering young executive in charge of bringing The Herald into the digital age. I represented the cutting edge of media.

  I sighed and pulled the least awful suit off its hanger.

  Today I was presenting the social media strategy to the rest of the team and I wanted to impress.

  The project had taken me weeks to get off the ground. At a second appearance in the boardroom – this time without a single expletive – my action plan and budget had been approved. Then I’d received my first ever memo from the Managing Director instructing me to ensure I did things properly. On further investigation, I had discovered that this meant writing a new policy. Apparently, companies had had to sack employees after they had posted insults on their social media pages. I was to ensure that all newspaper staff were made aware of the consequences of such actions.

  Two training courses and several hours with the legal department later and I had created a shiny new social media policy. The powers that be rubberstamped it, Human Resources inserted it into the staff handbook and I had learned more new tricks to attract followers than I could shake a stick at.

  I’d created The Herald’s Twitter and Facebook pages and I had my first campaign ready to roll. Today was the big reveal.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Emma, looking me up and down.

  ‘I was aiming for geek but chic.’ I twirled in front of her in my charcoal trouser suit, white t-shirt and black court shoes. My thick, unruly hair was scraped back into a high ponytail.

  ‘Ellen DeGeneres springs to mind.’

  I pouted and headed back to my bedroom.

  ‘Maybe change the jacket?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And the t-shirt.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’

  ‘See you later, Soph, I’m going to try and catch the next bus.

  ‘Fine.’

  Jason, The Herald’s graphic designer, looked up briefly from his computer screen and rocked his chair back until it was balanced on two legs.

  ‘You got another meeting with the board?’ he sneered.

  I sighed inwardly at his sarcasm. His attitude towards me had cooled over the past few weeks. We used to be mates but since I’d been given this new project, he had barely spoken to me. I missed our banter; now when he spoke, it was usually to make snide remarks.

  Jason was convinced that the social media project was rightly his; according to him he spent his whole life online and was adamant that he would have done a better job than me.

  I hadn’t liked to point out that playing Call of Duty for five hours online on his Xbox, while talking to his mates through a headset, was not what the newspaper meant by a fully integrated digital communications strategy.

  In truth, I’d begun to wish that he had been given the project instead of me. My initial enthusiasm had worn off as soon as reality had set in. I had tons more work, I was in and out of meetings constantly, Donna was breathing down my neck every five minutes and to cap it all, despite my fibs to the contrary, I hadn’t been given a pay rise or promotion for the privilege.

  ‘Yes, how can you tell?’

  ‘You always look a bit more, you know…’ He waved his hand around his face and chest, ‘when you’ve got a board meeting.’ He made apostrophes with his fingers around the word board. Very childish.

  ‘I look a bit more what?’

  Jason dropped his chair back onto four legs and squinted at his screen. ‘Tarty,’ he smirked.

  I gasped and reached for my compact mirror but my mobile rang before I had chance to inspect my face.

  ‘Tut tut. Taking personal calls. What would the board say about that?’ said Jason slyly.

  It was Mr Whelan. My pulse started to race.

  Grabbing the phone, I disappeared to a quiet corner of the department. Recent redundancies meant that there were plenty of empty chairs to choose from and I sat down in a comfy swivel seat as far away from Jason as I could.

  We were waiting for my father to confirm when he would be arriving in the country, but despite Mr Whelan’s chasing we hadn’t heard anything for several weeks. I turned into a gibbering wreck whenever the solicitor’s number flashed up on my phone. Even the thought of talking about the impending meeting with my father was enough to send my blood pressure skywards.

  I knew that at some point Mr Whelan would be ringing with news of the time and place. This call could be it.

  ‘Bad news I’m afraid. Mr Stone can’t make it to the UK until August,’ said Mr Whelan.

  A lump in my throat throbbed and I wilted in my chair. Three months? I was going to have this hanging over me like a storm cloud for twelve weeks?


  ‘He’s trying to get out of it, isn’t he?’ I said, my heart hardening by the second.

  As far as I was concerned, it was fine for me to procrastinate about meeting Terry Stone, but unforgivable if he were to try and do the same. I was an abandoned child, after all.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The solicitor was being cagey. I knew him well enough by now. Certainly better than I was ever going to know my own father, by the looks of things.

  ‘He has absolutely no idea what this means to me.’ I frowned down the phone.

  Honestly, the nerve of the man! My father, not Mr Whelan. Meet him and move on. That had been my plan. Ha! That’s what happens when you plan. It backfires.

  I wasn’t sure I could maintain my web of deceit with my mum that long. And I was due to visit her in August. How was that going to work?

  I swivelled my chair from side to side, pushing off from the wall and grimacing at the black marks I’d made on the white paint.

  ‘I don’t think it can be avoided in this instance.’

  ‘Why not? I’m the one with the most at stake here. Why can’t he put himself out?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say, Miss Stone, but I believe something has come up. A personal matter.’

  ‘Oh well, if it’s a personal matter, that’s fine then. Wouldn’t want his daughter, who he’s never even met, to stand in the way of it.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. I added ‘inconsiderate and selfish’ to the list of insults I was intending to hurl at him when he eventually deigned to get off his unreliable backside and cross the Atlantic.

  ‘I’ll just pencil it in my diary then, shall I, in case something else comes up?’ I could hear the sarcasm in my voice. A prickle of shame slithered its way down my back. Poor Mr Whelan, it wasn’t his fault.

  ‘Nothing stopping you emailing him yourself,’ the solicitor suggested. ‘I could put you in touch directly, if you wish?’

  ‘No, no. No rush,’ I said hastily.

  ‘But I thought –’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

  Despite my protestations, I did feel a sense of relief at the delay. And I certainly didn’t want any extra-curricular communications. No, I preferred to keep Terry Stone at arm’s length – Mr Whelan’s very long arm.

  On the other end of the phone, the solicitor was being uncharacteristically quiet. I put my rant on hold.

  ‘Is there something else?’

  ‘Rather awkward really. Until the conditions of your great aunt’s will have been met, I’m afraid I can’t release the funds or sign over her property to you.’

  Oh. That was a nuisance. Now that I’d finally been jolted out of my terminal apathy, I had a list of things I wanted to do which I would now have to delay. Buying a car, replacing most of my clothing, appointing Nick Cromwell… all this would have to wait. And what about Marc?

  A little voice – Emma’s probably – told me that if I needed cash to reel in the man of my dreams, then I needed a harsh wake-up call.

  If I wasn’t careful, when I eventually did have some serious money, it would disappear as fast as a Solero on a hot day. Perhaps some advice wouldn’t go amiss?

  ‘Could you recommend a good financial advisor?’ I asked.

  ‘In the post office?’ the financial advisor repeated.

  I nodded again, this time less confidently.

  We were in a small office sitting at opposite sides of a pale wooden desk. The financial advisor bounced back in a leather chair with the nervous energy of someone who does not like to stay still for long.

  What exactly was wrong with keeping your savings in the post office anyway? The way I saw it, it was the only bank where all the staff looked poor. You didn’t see the postman swanning round in a Bentley flashing his Rolex watch as he dipped his hand in and out of his big sack. Jess went out with a postman once. He turned out to be a bit dull, but had incredible calf muscles.

  I was also feeling a bit wrong-footed because I had been expecting Max Fitzgerald to be a fusty old man with tufty ear hair and a black ledger which sent clouds of dust into the air when he snapped it shut. A Gringotts employee, if you will. Instead Maxine was an impeccably-coiffed thirty-something, with a sharp suit, sharp tongue and a sharp retractable pencil, which following my revelation was hovering over her notepad.

  ‘You can trust the post office,’ I said darkly.

  I remember trooping down to the post office to open my first savings account when I was eleven. I had proudly handed over my red plastic moneybox filled with coins. The adults flashed indulgent smiles at me and my mum as I signed my name in the box for the first time. By the time the cashier had finished counting out all the change, however, a red-faced queue of impatient pensioners had built up and mum had hustled me out. I had been a dedicated saver ever since, squirreling away ten per cent of my earnings every month since I was eighteen.

  ‘Sophie – can I call you Sophie?’

  I nodded.

  Third nod in a row. I was going to have to assert myself soon.

  ‘You have considerable savings built up over fourteen years. The funds should be working for you. ISAs, high interest savings accounts, fixed rate bonds… Unless this money is for a particular short-term purpose?’

  I couldn’t say a rainy day, could I?

  ‘I’m saving for a deposit on a house. My ultimate goal is to own my own home.’

  Max blinked furiously as if struggling to comprehend my logic.

  ‘What’s stopping you?’

  Cut to the chase, why don’t you? Good question. What was stopping me?

  Keep saving. Make sure you’re secure. You never know what the future’s going to bring. This was my mantra and I’d been chanting it for so long, I didn’t even think about it anymore.

  ‘If I buy a house, I won’t have any money left and I won’t feel safe.’ The words sounded feeble even to my ears.

  Max sighed and a shadow of irritation crossed her face.

  ‘You are sitting on savings of twenty thousand pounds. I could easily have secured you a mortgage by now. Have you never done any financial planning? Have you thought about the future?’

  I shuffled in my hard-backed, unbouncy chair.

  What was it with these people and their plans? The solicitor, the architect and now her – they were obsessed with my future.

  How could I put into words that I hadn’t met the right future yet? My life hadn’t really moved on in the last ten years. And that was down to me, I accepted that. But something was still missing and I couldn’t put my finger on what that was. I’d always assumed that when it came along I would recognise it and – whoosh – I’d be off. Until then I was jogging on the spot and going nowhere.

  Max flicked through her notes, tapped on her calculator and scribbled some figures down on her pad.

  ‘I tell you what,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘I started my property portfolio on a lot less than what you have. And that’s before we include the estimated value of your inheritance.’

  Portfolio – as in more than one?

  Max was amazing; she was precisely the sort of driven and determined woman that I needed to take charge of my finances. In fact if she could take over my entire life for the next few months, that would be perfect.

  ‘What do you suggest I do with the money?’

  My new financial advisor beamed at me. ‘Well,’ she began. ‘You have a number of options….’

  I came away with those options buzzing in my ears. The beginnings of an action plan were starting to form in my rusty brain. An action plan. I liked the sound of that. I was going to take action and make a plan. I bought the equivalent of my own body weight in glossy homes magazines, jumped on a bus and went home.

  seventeen

  There was no one in at the flat. Fantastico! Some privacy. I could get part one of the plan under way immediately. Strike while the iron was hot.

  After unloading the dishwasher, chucking out some flaccid tulips and putting the washing machine on, I sat
down at our tiny kitchen table. As I dialled Nick Cromwell’s number, I alternated between feeling triumphant and scared witless by my own tenacity.

  ‘Cromwell Associates.’

  ‘Hello, this is Sophie St–’

  ‘Yes, I know who it is. Hello, what can I do for you?’

  He didn’t sound particularly happy to hear from me, which rather took the wind out of my sails. Or perhaps he simply had no idea how the exchange of information worked in normal conversation? The latter, probably.

  I crossed one leg over the other, slurped my tea and began. ‘I wanted to talk to you about my options.’

  It was ridiculous really, I’d had all that money sitting in the post office and I’d done nothing with it. Max was right. It should have been working for me.

  I hadn’t even inherited the estate yet and so far it had done me more harm than good; I’d fallen out with my mum and the mood in the flat was still strained. As daunting as the prospect was, it was time to take the aforementioned action.

  ‘So to recap,’ Nick recapped, ‘you would like me to design a brand new house to replace the bungalow.’

  ‘Exactly. Something cottagey, like the nice ones in Woodby.’

  And commit all my money and the inheritance, and saddle myself with a mortgage from now until the next millennium. Breathe, Sophie, keep breathing. It’s only money after all.

  ‘Can you send me a brief?’

  ‘A brief?’ Not briefs. Stop sniggering.

  ‘An idea of style. Sketches, pictures, written description. However you like. It’s fairly straightforward, even for, er –’

  An idiot, he’s going to say I’m an idiot. I bit my lip.

  ‘– a novice.’

  ‘Absolutely!’ I’d been designing my perfect home in my imagination since I was a little girl. I didn’t need asking twice!

  ‘I need to see some idea of your preferences,’ he said. ‘Oh, and the Grand Designs Live show is on at the exhibition centre next week. That would give you lots of ideas. I’ve got a spare ticket if you would like to go?’