by Sue Margolis
A few days later the estimates began dropping into my in-box. There wasn’t one that came in below twelve grand. It struck me that they’d all bumped up their quotes because they reckoned that running a business behind Selfridges meant I was probably good for it.
By now I’d paid the aunties three thousand pounds, which left me with six or so. Mugford’s two-and-a-half grand bumped it back up to more than eight—my total for the refurb and living expenses. I deleted the estimates.
I found Kandoo Building and Decorating on the notice board in my local newsagent’s window. It was crammed with “situations wanted” postcards—mainly foreign au pairs and cleaners looking for work. Among them were a few landscape gardeners and carpenters offering their services. There appeared to be one builder, but his postcard was written in smudged pencil and full of spelling mistakes. I was about to give up when a printed card on the bottom row caught my eye: Kandoo Building and Decorating—also basic plumbing and electrics. I am experienced, honest, hardworking. Reasonable rates. Excellent references.
The moment I got home, I called the number.
“Kandoo. Hugh Fanshaw speaking.” Posh name. Ditto the accent. Flashy gentleman builder. I could see little point in pursuing this conversation. Strange, though, that he was advertising in the newsagent’s window. Maybe the recession was hitting high-end tradesmen harder than I’d thought. Even so, his prices would still be way out of my league.
Since I was too polite to put the phone down on Hugh Fanshaw, I had no option other than to describe the parlous state of the shop and gave him a rough outline of the work I thought was needed.
“The thing is, I’m on a very tight budget,” I said. “I really don’t have tens of thousands to spend.”
Bound to put him off, I thought.
“And I’m a widow,” I blurted. Great. Now he’d assume I’d just come into hundreds of thousands in life insurance.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Can’t be easy. OK, why don’t I come and take a look and we can take it from there?”
“Fine, but as I say, my funds are quite limited.”
“Not to worry. These days everybody’s being forced to cut corners.”
I didn’t buy his sympathy line. He was simply trying to snare me, but hell, I’d gone this far. What was the harm in letting him give me a quote? He could use all the strong-arm tactics he liked, but he couldn’t make me spend money I didn’t have. And there was always the chance—however slim—that his estimate might be reasonable. I gave him the address and we agreed that he would stop by around ten the following morning.
I expected a chinless toff in the regulation rugby shirt and Shambhala bracelets. Not only did Hugh Fanshaw turn out to have a rather well-defined chin, but he arrived wearing baggy cargo shorts—a spanner sticking out of one of the pockets—a discolored, misshapen tee and beaten-up Cat boots. Bog-standard builders’ wear. Clearly I was out of touch. These days gentlemen builders were adopting a man-of-the-people image.
“Hi. I’m Hugh. Pleased to meet you.” I was struck by his voice. It wasn’t that posh actually—more BBC news anchor. He held out his hand. It was spattered in green paint.
“Sarah.”
“Excuse the paint,” he said as we shook hands. “I’ve run out of white spirit. In my defense, it is Chadwick and Dalton.”
“Is that good?”
“The best.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“Sorry, too, if I’m late.” If he was, it was only by a minute or two. “I had a nightmare parking. In the end I found a loading bay, which should give me twenty minutes or so.”
Two apologies in less than a minute. He was clearly trying to win me over with the self-deprecating charm that was so typical of the upper classes.
“Right, why don’t I give you the tour?” I had no intention of engaging in unnecessary banter. The sooner he was out of here, the sooner I could get back to work. Today I was aiming to pack up all the stock and load it into my car.
I showed him round. “As I said on the phone, I don’t have much cash. All I’m looking for is a cheap flash-up job.”
“Piece of cake,” he said when we’d finished.
“Really? Nobody else has said that.”
“Look, I’m not going to lie to you … ,” he said, rubbing his hand over the dark, well-tended stubble on his perfectly defined chin. OK … wait for it. Now for the hard sell.
“In an ideal world, you’d strip the place back to the brickwork, put in new internal walls and ceilings and pretty much start again, but I think I can patch it up for you. Should see you all right for a year or two.”
“Seriously?”
“Can’t see why not.”
“OK, but what’s it going to cost me? I need a new loo and hand basin—plus a sink and a couple of cupboards in the kitchen area.”
“Well, I can’t say off the top of my head. I need to go away and work out the figures… .”
Of course he did.
“But as far as the loo and kitchen area go, I’ve got a mate who’s a plumbers’ merchant. He’s always getting in units that are a bit chipped or damaged. I’m sure he’ll give you a deal.”
“Really?” I hadn’t been expecting that. Experience had taught me that gentlemen builders weren’t in the business of offering customers cheap deals. I thought I had the cut of Hugh Fanshaw’s jib. Now I wasn’t so sure. “That would be great,” I said. “Maybe you could give him a call?”
“Will do.”
I noticed he was looking down at the worn carpet.
“So,” he said, “what are you planning to do with the floor?”
“I don’t know. Get new carpet, I suppose.”
“You’ll need heavy-duty commercial quality. That’ll cost you.”
He bent down and lifted a corner of the old broadloom. “Hello … Have you seen what’s under here?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Parquet flooring. And it looks like it’s in pretty good shape.”
I knelt down to take a look. He wasn’t wrong. “Wow. I wonder if the whole floor is in the same condition.”
“If it is, I’d be more than happy to sand and varnish it. Save you a fortune.”
“That would be brilliant.” We both got up. I was starting to change my opinion of Hugh Fanshaw.
“Don’t suppose you’re any good at carpentry, are you? I’m in need of a shop counter. The old one was in such a bad way, I had to get rid of it.”
“Woodwork’s not really my forte,” he said, “but I tell you what would look great in here, an antique shop counter. Something heavy and Victorian, to match the mahogany shelves. Oh, and what about one of those ancient silver cash registers?”
I laughed. “You read my mind, but antiques are way beyond my budget.”
“You should try looking around junk shops. I’ve picked up loads of stuff: original film posters, a nineteenth-century phrenology head, the James Bond Aston Martin DB5—the one from Goldfinger—with the original suitcases in the trunk.”
“Hang on—you found James Bond’s Aston Martin in a junk shop?”
He started grinning. “No. I found the Corgi model.”
“The model. Of course …” He must think I’m bonkers or dumb. “I used to love wandering around junk shops and flea markets,” I said in an effort to convince him that I hadn’t lost the plot. “These days I don’t have the time.”
My mind went back to when I was decorating the old house and the kick I used to get out of combing Conran for a pair of antlers or a tacky Murano glass clown.
“Maybe take a look online,” he said.
“You’re right. I should.”
He looked at his watch. “Right—I need to get back to the van before I get a ticket. I’ll e-mail you with a quote in a couple of days.”
I thanked him for coming and we said our good-byes. With that, Hugh Fanshaw headed to the door.
• • •
Three days later he e-mailed me a quote for seven thousand pounds. It was wel
l below all the other estimates, but still beyond my budget. It didn’t help that by now I’d been onto his Web site and checked out his references. Everybody I spoke to sang his praises. He was honest, was hardworking and did a good job. One woman—who lived round the corner from the newsagent’s where he’d placed his ad—was so full of praise that she insisted I come round and see her newly decorated flat. I took one look at her perfectly hung, lump-free wallpaper, her immaculate grouting, and agreed that Hugh Fanshaw’s work was excellent. I was loath to turn him down.
“Well, if you ask me,” Rosie said after I’d explained my predicament, “I still think your first instinct was right. He’s just another one of those flash toffs who thinks he can charge the earth.”
“To be honest, I don’t think he is charging the earth. You haven’t seen what needs doing.”
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon—the weather had just started to warm up—and Rosie and I were sitting on kitchen chairs, taking tea on my strip of crazy paving that passed for a patio while Will napped in his basket and my children played upstairs.
“You sure you haven’t simply been taken in by his public school charm?”
“Maybe, but by the time he left, I’d kind of changed my mind about him. He seemed really genuine. He even said he could get me a good deal on a loo and a sink … and he likes looking round junk shops.”
“Wait. You’re telling me he seems genuine because he likes looking round junk shops?”
“You had to be there. We sort of connected.”
“Of course you did.” She clearly thought I was a lost cause. “So what are you going to do?”
“What can I do? I don’t have time to shop around for more quotes. Every day the shop is shut, I’m losing money. I’ll just have to find the cash. Maybe I could find a bar job a couple of nights a week.”
“Are you crazy?” Rosie said. “First you’ll exhaust yourself and second, everything you earn will go to child care.”
I took the point.
We sipped our tea in silence. “OK … hang on … I’ve got it,” Rosie said. “I know how you can get his bill down.”
“How?”
“Well … I’m betting it’s his labor costs that are hiking up the bill. What if you helped with the work?”
“What? Don’t be daft. I don’t know a thing about plumbing or plastering.”
“I’m not suggesting you help with the major stuff—just the painting and decorating. Anybody can work sandpaper and a paint roller.”
“I guess… .”
“In fact, even better—we could make it a group effort. I could help and you could even ask those aunties of yours. I know they’re getting on, but they might be up for it, and we’d have fun. If we need to work on the weekend, my sister could take your kids and Will. She adores children—always got a houseful.”
Just then Rosie’s cell started ringing. “Crap. Do men really need to jerk off on a Sunday? It’s the Sabbath. You’d think that on the Lord’s Day their sexual urges wouldn’t have to take priority.”
“Yeah … surely even the penis needs a day of rest.”
I loved our banter, the way we made each other laugh. I’d felt a connection with Rosie from the get-go, but over weeks that was becoming much stronger. I was in no doubt that I’d found a new best friend. “Stop moaning and answer the phone,” I said. “You seem to forget that this job pays the bills.”
“I know. I know. I’d better take it inside. Don’t want the neighbors earwigging.”
Finally, she hit “connect.” I picked up the Moses basket and followed her into the kitchen.
“Harry … how are you? How are things in the corridors of Whitehall?”
I went upstairs to check on Dan and Ella. They were absorbed in a game of Connect 4 and shooed me away. As I left, I closed the bedroom door behind me. I wanted to be certain they could hear nothing from the kitchen.
I decided that while everybody was occupied, I might as well give Hugh Fanshaw a call and put Rosie’s plan to him. Still worried that the kids might come downstairs and barge into the kitchen, I thought it best to call him from the hall.
“Hugh—Sarah Green here … Look, thanks for sending the quote, but the thing is …”
“It’s more than you can afford.”
“It is. Five grand is my absolute limit.”
“Jeez … I couldn’t do it for that. That would mean slashing my labor costs and I simply can’t afford it. I’m really sorry.”
“No, I get that. Please don’t apologize. The thing is, I’ve had an idea—or at least a friend of mine has… .”
I explained.
He didn’t hesitate. “Brilliant. Having help with the painting would shave off a week or more.”
“So you could do it for the five grand?”
“Absolutely. I’ve got another job lined up after yours, and the sooner I can start, the better.”
We agreed that he would get going on the structural work in a couple of days. As soon as he reached the decoration stage, Rosie and I—and the aunties if they were up for it—would join him.
When I came off the phone, Rosie was still pleasuring Harry, her Whitehall mandarin. I was about to check on the children again when the doorbell rang. It was Betty from across the street.
“Hello Sarah, dear. Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but I was just wondering if you could spare a couple of tea bags. I’ve run out and I’m not sure my legs are up to a walk to the shops.”
“Of course. I’ll fetch you some.”
“I don’t suppose you heard the goings-on at number forty again last night. Music blaring until five in the morning. I didn’t get a wink. The guy next door to me was there. Between you and me I think he’s carrying on with her.”
“What, the woman at number forty?”
“Yes. Apparently she’s got a boyfriend as well. Heaven only knows what they get up to. Some kind of ménage à trois if you ask me. It’s not right—not when there are kiddies.”
I had to agree that it wasn’t.
It was rude of me not to invite Betty in, but I couldn’t risk her hearing Rosie in full sexual rapture. If Betty discovered what Rosie did for a living, the news would be around the neighborhood before you could say “phone sex.”
“You don’t mind if I come in, do you? I haven’t seen the inside of this house since the last people did it up.”
“What? Er … no, of course not. Come in.”
The next moment she was standing on the hall mat. “Rosie still here? I just happened to be at the window dusting the ledge when I noticed you letting her in.”
If there were ever a burglary in this street, the perp would stand no chance.
“Actually, she is.”
“Been having a nice cup of tea and a bit of a gossip, have you?”
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Betty. For all her faults, she was a sad, lonely old soul who just wanted some company. On the other hand I simply couldn’t let her any farther into the house.
“Hasn’t the weather been glorious today?” I said, still standing my ground. “Wonderful after all that rain we’ve been having …
“So, have you been sitting in the garden, Betty?”
“Not really. The heat doesn’t agree with me. Brings me out in hives.”
“I’m taking off my panties now… .”
Please. Make it stop.
Even though Betty’s hearing wasn’t great, I knew that she would eventually cotton on. I had to get her out.
“Betty, have I shown you my new lavender plant in the front garden?”
“Actually I noticed it as I came up the path. Nice, but not much scent.”
I tried to think of another excuse to get her out the door, but by now my brain had frozen in a panic.
That was when the shrieks started—followed by the thuds. I turned around to see Ella lying at the foot of the stairs, her entire body—including her face—swaddled in several layers of Bubble Wrap. She looked like some weird modernist mummy. By now he
r brother was standing next to her and they were both laughing hysterically—Ella through a sizable hole in the Bubble Wrap.
“Again. Again,” Ella cried.
“What the … ? Good God. Ella, are you all right?”
“Now it’s my turn,” Dan said to his sister.
“What? No! It’s nobody’s turn. What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
“Falling down the stairs,” Ella said. “But it’s OK. Dan wrapped me in this special stuff so that I wouldn’t break my bones. Can Dan have his turn now?”
“No, he absolutely can’t.”
“Why not?” Dan said.
“Because it’s dangerous.”
“Not if I wrap myself up,” he pleaded.
“I’ve said no and I mean no.”
“Your mum’s right,” Betty said. “You can’t be sure you won’t break something. When I was a little girl, my brother and I used to slide down the banisters. Then one day I fell off and broke my arm. I was in plaster for six weeks.”
“Cool. Did everybody sign their names on the cast?”
“Dan, stop it. For your information, breaking your arm isn’t remotely cool.”
“That it isn’t,” Betty said. “I remember it being very painful and itchy. Especially at night when I tried to sleep.”
While I got down on my knees and started to unwrap a protesting Ella, Betty reached into her cardigan pocket and produced two KitKats. She handed one to each child. I wasn’t happy about her rewarding my children’s reckless behavior, but I didn’t have the heart to stop her.
As they thanked her and tore into the foil, I listened for sounds coming from the kitchen. Nothing. Rosie and Harry were done. Rosie had been saved by all the commotion.
“Now off you go—back to your room,” I said to the kids. “I’ll be up to talk to you about this later.”
As they trudged upstairs, Dan turned to glare at me. He was clearly furious with me for refusing to let him have a go at rolling down the stairs.
Betty turned to me. “You’re lucky,” she said.
“In what way?”
“The Lord may have taken your husband, but he left you with a house that’s filled with children’s laughter. Be thankful for that. One day they’ll leave home. If you’re anything like me, you could be a long time on your own.”
