The Code

by Nick Thripp

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Twenty-two years.’ Her eyes finally met mine. ‘We bought it from a divorcing couple. They were only here a year or two. They’d bought it from another couple who’d split up. Not putting you off, am I? We’ve been very happy here, at least since he left.’ She nodded in the direction of the sitting-room, as though Mr Martell were ensconced there.

  ‘No, you’ve been very helpful. Of course, I’ll need a full structural survey if I decide to go ahead.’

  Before getting back in the car, I stopped to look up at the house. Nothing Mrs Martell had said had diminished my feelings for it.

  ‘Vastly over-priced,’ I told Daniels. ‘It’s virtually a slum. If something isn’t done soon the council will probably pull it down. Who else is interested?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps the temptation of not having to take people around it again and face the Martell-Simpson ordeal made him open up.

  ‘Just one, a developer. He’ll only buy it if he can get the ones on either side.’

  ‘You mean he’ll pull it down and put up a ticky-tacky development?’

  ‘That’s the idea. I don’t think it’ll work because the people on either side are retirees and don’t want to move.’

  ‘Will she take an offer?’

  ‘She’d hold out for the full asking price. Her ex-husband might be more accommodating. He’s got a young family with Mrs Martell mark two and needs the money. I don’t think Mrs M mark one has much of a leg to stand on. There’s a clause in the divorce settlement which settles the minimum price. It’s the average of three different valuations. We’re one of the valuers, the other two are also local firms. I can’t disclose anything officially of course, though I think it might be worth chancing an offer.’

  I viewed the house again the next day. During the previous evening I’d started doubting my judgment, and wanted to be certain of my feelings for it. By the end of the second visit I was sure. I was particularly excited by the south-facing garden, with its dilapidated greenhouse and its ramshackle gazebo, imagining what I could create out of it. Thorpe Barton was the house for me. Now all I had to do was persuade Rachel.

  *

  ‘Look, I’m comfortable living here. I’ve got everything sorted. We don’t need to do anything. If we buy this new place we’ll take on a large mortgage, we’ll have to pay a fortune to do it up and it’ll be a massive amount of hassle.’ Rachel didn’t look up from the documents she was reading. She turned the page and scrutinised a dense column of figures. A few moments passed. The chimes of a passing ice cream van grew and then faded into the distance. I wasn’t prepared to drop the idea as easily as that, even though I was risking the mood of one of the few Saturdays that Rachel and I had spent together in the last three months.

  ‘With our combined salaries, we can easily afford it and still lead a pleasant life. And don’t worry about getting it all done. I’ll take care of everything.’

  Rachel looked up at me as I paced around the room, my hands clasped together in front of me.

  ‘When are you going to have time? I certainly couldn’t have done it while I was an audit partner.’

  ‘I’ll manage. It’s not too busy at work right now and, besides, I can always delegate.’

  She folded the document and put it to one side, fixing me with her full stare.

  ‘There are some things you can’t delegate. A partner is more than a full-time job if you do it properly.’

  ‘It’s a question of priorities. We have to allow staff to develop; empowerment and all that.’ I was becoming adept at management jargon and, having realised it sounded definitive without actually saying anything, was using it increasingly.

  Rachel sighed.

  ‘It’s bad enough living where we do. Now you want us to move even further out. All our friends live near the centre: Kensington, Wandsworth, Pimlico. We’ll be the only ones out in the sticks.’

  ‘Ah, that’s just a phase. They’ll all be moving out when they start families.’

  She didn’t reply. She hadn’t mentioned the topic of our having a family for some time and her interest in friends’ children, of whom she was godmother to several, didn’t extend beyond buying them a birthday present.

  ‘We are going to start a family soon….aren’t we?’

  While I wasn’t particularly anxious to start a family, it suited my argument to bring it up.

  Rachel muttered something and went back to her work.

  *

  I went to see Thorpe Barton another three times, and loved it more with each visit. Once you got past the initial impression of damp and decay, a deeper, more permanent redolence of solid craftsmanship permeated the house. Like a wolf returning to its lair, I felt at home. I started to think about the possibilities. I could see it as it was going to be, and the vision filled me with energy.

  Rachel only viewed it once and was so jet lagged at the time she probably didn’t know whether she was in Surrey or the VIP lounge at JFK Airport.

  ‘It’s all right, I suppose,’ she said.

  ‘All right?’ I replied. ‘It’s a gem, or at least it could be with a bit of time and effort invested in it. It’s beautifully proportioned, and it’s even got some of its original brick fireplaces and wooden fittings. Besides, I’d give my right arm to have a garden with that potential.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she yawned. ‘It could be a lovely house if it weren’t in the wrong place and if it weren’t so big. What do we want with seven bedrooms?’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll have a large family.’ I was conscious that prediction would be unlikely to come true, bearing in mind the infrequency of our sex life. On the other hand, Rachel was renowned for her efficiency, and I wouldn’t put it past her, if she wanted a large family, to wait for the last ticking of the biological clock before popping into a clinic to have five embryos implanted simultaneously.

  ‘Why do you want this house so much?’ she asked, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘It’ll be my project, something I can create. You love your work, but I don’t have anything. Let me do it for us, for our family.’ I kept playing the family card as I thought the nest building aspect might just appeal to some maternal instinct buried deeply in her.

  ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’ Rachel sighed.

  ‘You’ll be at work.’ Even though the next day was Sunday, I knew she’d been summoned to a meeting at his house by her Chief Executive; something to do with a possible takeover target.

  ‘Oh yes. I’d forgotten. Well, we can talk about it next week.’

  ‘You’re in Amsterdam all next week, leaving early Monday and arriving home late on Friday. Other people are interested in this house, and if we don’t act now, we’ll lose it.’

  Rachel shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Commuting wouldn’t be an issue for her; her firm paid for a chauffeur to take her to and from the office. Although she would probably rather have lived somewhere more fashionable, the location was pleasant enough, the house could be beautiful, it was potentially a sound investment and she was hardly ever there anyway.

  ‘I’ll agree on three conditions.’ She exhaled deeply. ‘One, you organise the sale of our house in Richmond; two, we buy a small flat in the city so I don’t have to put up with the mess; three, you do everything, and I mean everything. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’ I suppressed a triumphant punch in the air and kissed her. In the past, she hadn’t even trusted me to buy my own clothes. This was either a massive vote of confidence in me or a sign of her dissociation from day-to-day life.

  We found a buyer for our house in Richmond so quickly it made us wonder whether we’d undervalued it, Rachel went ahead and bought a small, completely refurbished one bedroom flat in Smithfield and I started to negotiate to buy Thorpe Barton. To condition their thinking, I submitted a low offer, which was rejected by both Mrs Mart
ell and her husband, before increasing it by five per cent, still a long way off the asking price.

  Then the next part of my strategy came into play. Richard, having forgiven me for not turning up at the golf club, went to view Thorpe Barton and put in an offer lower than mine, taking every opportunity to talk disparagingly of its faults and saying only a madman would offer more. I waited for this information to be relayed to Mr Martell before increasing my offer slightly and, after a few days’ deliberation, it was accepted.

  When the surveyor visited the house, his report was full of dire warnings. Neglected for years, the whole of Thorpe Barton needed renovation, or at least serious attention.

  I photocopied the report and asked the estate agent to send a copy to Mr Martell, while I took the original around to Mrs Martell and reduced my offer by ten per cent.

  ‘If you don’t spend a substantial sum in the very near future, your house will become uninhabitable.’ I handed a copy of the report, marked up in yellow highlighter to her.

  ‘Most of this is cosmetic,’ she countered.

  ‘Cosmetic?’ I forced a laugh. ‘Only if you think dry rot, wet rot, beetle infestations, a leaking roof, a boiler that’s on its last legs, faulty electrics, rotten window frames and leaky plumbing are cosmetic. This house could kill you and your family.’ It was a risk talking to a virtual stranger like this, and I’d laid it on a bit thick, perhaps a little too thick. I watched her face closely. The way she swallowed hard, almost gulped, told me I’d made an impact and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  A few days later, my reduced offer was accepted. The Martells moved out, unscrewing everything that unscrewed and leaving their detritus everywhere. I was glad Rachel wasn’t there to witness the disheartening sight of Thorpe Barton, now stripped of its furniture and carpets. There were more problems and faults than I’d imagined or the surveyor identified, and my description of the state of the property to Mrs Martell had been an understatement. I spent my first night there listening to the scrabbling of an army of vermin in the loft above me, and concluded that my first appointment would be with a pest control firm. Then, still half asleep, I got up to relieve myself in the middle of the night, and was jolted awake by an electric shock from a light switch which left my whole hand tingling. If I didn’t make the electrician my first priority, I might not live to call in the rodent people.

  Over the next year, I confronted the challenges of renovation. A profound sense of accomplishment suffused my entire being as the house was moulded according to my wishes and the project moved to completion.

  *

  It was three months since Rachel had seen Thorpe Barton. We were leading separate lives; she, self-contained in her apartment, I in the slowly receding mess. I’d seen her for dinner three times in that period – all strange evenings, with both of us skirting around the topic that concerned me most, the state of our relationship, and talking about almost anything else instead. At the end of each of these dinners, I would see her home, receive a perfunctory kiss and then be sent on my way.

  The decorators had put the finishing touches to the rag-rolling in the sitting-room, leaving only the hall to decorate. I phoned her, imploring her to come down and see the work.

  ‘It looks fantastic. You’ll love it, I promise.’

  ‘I’m a bit busy right now.’ Her voice was drained of energy.

  ‘We haven’t seen each other for ages.’ I hated myself for sounding like a wheedling little boy.

  ‘Why don’t you come up here instead? I’ll take you out to dinner.’

  I couldn’t make out her exact tone. Remote? Listless? Disengaged? Was this the end of our relationship? We certainly didn’t seem to have much in common.

  ‘All right. I’ll see you about seven.’

  The restaurant was ‘typically Rachel’. The main dining-room was a sizeable conservatory, wreathed in Purple Bell Vine, its dark green foliage studded with purple-red pendent flowers with black centres. The furniture was angular bamboo and the cuisine a melange of disparate ingredients – pease pudding laced with cumin seeds and lemon grass was the first to catch my eye on the menu – in minute, intricately arranged portions. In the corner, a male TV actor from one of the soaps was dining with a heavily made-up brunette sporting a deep, sun-baked cleavage, who presented the breakfast news. The editor of a tabloid sat in another corner, surrounded by a simpering coterie of indeterminate sex.

  ‘It’s the ambience,’ Rachel said, gazing around as though in wonder. ‘It’s so airy and leafy, you feel as though you’re out in the country, even though we’re in Kensington.’

  ‘Come to our house and you will be out in the country.’

  ‘As if!’ she sniffed histrionically. ‘Outer suburbs, more like.’

  ‘Well it’s a bloody sight closer to the country than this poncey restaurant.’

  I regretted the words as soon as I’d uttered them. She looked at me coldly, one thin eyebrow arched.

  ‘Don’t you at least like the food?’

  ‘Ghastly.’ I decided not to back down. ‘This place is phoney, from the menu to the people eating in it. The only thing that’s real is the bill. I’d rather have a Big Mac any day.’

  ‘I’m sorry you don’t like my choice of restaurant. Perhaps we should pay and leave before it offends you further.’ She waved a gold card at a waiter. Having gathered her things together and retrieved her coat, she stalked ahead of me onto the pavement.

  ‘I’ll take a taxi. There’s no need to see me home.’ She extended a cheek for me to kiss and then, seeing a cab on the other side of the road, summoned it.

  ‘Is that it?’ I wasn’t sure whether I was referring to the evening or our marriage.

  She didn’t look at me. As she opened the taxi’s door, she said over her shoulder, ‘That’s rather up to you.’ The evening was over already so it seemed clear what she was referring to.

  Weeks passed and I didn’t bother to contact her. I was still irate at the off-hand way in which I’d been treated. I presumed that my comments about the restaurant were still rankling, though from time to time the thought occurred to me that I was flattering myself and she’d probably been so immersed in work she hadn’t given me a second thought.

  I had, some months before, booked us on a summer holiday in Turkey and now needed to discuss arrangements with her. I was engrossed in reading some draft reports one sultry afternoon, the sun streaming through my office window, when the phone rang.

  ‘It’s Wendy,’ the voice said. Wendy was Rachel’s secretary. ‘Rachel asked me to phone you. She’s on an aeroplane to Sydney; she’ll call you when she can. She’s asked me to pass on a message. She won’t be able to come to Turkey after all because it looks as though she’ll be in Australia for some time. If you incur a loss cashing in the tickets, SD will reimburse you.’

  I gulped, struggling for air.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Wendy asked. I forced a cough to give me time to compose myself.

  ‘Frog in my throat.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Replacing the receiver, I stood up, took careful aim and, with a deft kick, sent my wastepaper basket hurtling against the wall, its contents spilling across the floor. I slumped back onto my chair, my head in my hands. I still couldn’t believe Rachel hadn’t spoken to me herself.

  There’s only one turkey around here, I thought, and that’s our marriage.

  When Rachel did call, the line was poor and her voice kept breaking up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, just audible amidst the crackling, ‘that’s the way it is. I have to do my job and, after all, it’s only a holiday.’

  It might only have been a holiday to her. To me it could have been the opportunity to rebuild our failing marriage. In a bout of self-pity, I went to the pub where it took two hours to deaden, albeit temporarily, my pain.

  The next day, with my head throbbing, I carefully
constructed a letter, hoping I’d do better this time than I had when writing to Mrs Beart.

  “Dear Rachel,

  Welcome home. Even though we hardly see anything of each other these days, I’ve missed you while you’ve been out of the country. Usually it’s a comfort to know you aren’t that far away, at least geographically.

  I know things haven’t been going well between us for some time. I’m not trying to blame you, just to lay it out clearly, and I’m sure you’re as concerned as I am.

  We had a great relationship till life got in the way. I really think we ought to spend some time together, deciding what we both want. We owe it to each other.

  Please let’s go away for a weekend, with the understanding we’ll return home more certain about our future together.

  Although it may not always show, I still love you, and hope you feel the same about me.

  I’ll phone you.”

  I struggled how to finish it, eventually settling on “With much love, as ever” and despatched the letter.

  The day she got back, Rachel phoned me. Adrenaline pumped through my body at the sound of her voice and my hands trembled.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been very stressed by problems at SD. I agree we need a new start. Let’s go away for that weekend and work things out.’

  I let out a deep sigh and my shoulders, previously up around my ears, gradually sank back to their normal position.

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Were you expecting a different answer?’

  ‘No, I’m delighted. When will you be free?’

  ‘Next weekend? Let’s not wait.’

  ‘OK, I’ll find us a nice place in the country.’

  ‘Mind you do. I’ve had to endure some of the so-called deals you’ve come up with in the past. Let’s do this properly.’

  I felt buoyed up by the conversation. I’d thought our marriage was in injury time. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely hopeless to believe we could rebuild our relationship, just as I’d renovated our property. I’d dedicate all my restoration work to her. Thorpe Barton would be a shrine to our union.