The Forever House: A feel-good summer page-turner

by Veronica Henry

  Sitting behind the desk was Cathy, her right-hand woman. She was an empty nester who had begged Belinda to let her help with viewings.

  ‘I’m so bored,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve been a stay-at-home mum for twenty years and I’ve got no skills except for sewing in name tapes and making toad-in-the-hole. But I can’t stay at home in an empty house another day or I’ll go mad. You won’t even have to pay me.’

  Belinda had been charmed by her warmth and her enthusiasm and had taken her on. Cathy had been so enthusiastic she had taken herself to night classes and got herself computer savvy. More than savvy. She knew more than Belinda about social media and databases. Now she was her right-hand woman. She was motherly, eagle-eyed and ferociously competitive. She had a matronly bosom, stick thin legs and wore short skirts and capacious jumpers that she knitted herself. Today’s featured a rearing stallion.

  ‘Well? Did you get Hunter’s Moon?’ she demanded.

  ‘She’s going to let us know.’

  ‘Who else has been out?’

  ‘She didn’t say. The usual suspects, I imagine.’

  ‘Ugh.’ Cathy regularly stuck pins in a little crocheted figure of Giles Mortlake whenever he won a house over them. And that was without her knowing the real reason for Belinda’s misgivings about Giles.

  ‘It’s very sad. The husband has just been diagnosed with motor neurone disease.’

  ‘Oh, how awful.’

  ‘Yes. You can see it’s going to be a real wrench. And they don’t want too much publicity. Very under the radar.’

  ‘Damn. I was going to do the window with a load of Margot Willoughby books. And an old typewriter.’

  Belinda had to smile. ‘Save your creative energy. If we do get it, I think we’re going to go with an open house.’

  Cathy looked excited. They loved an open house. It was an event; a spectacle. Belinda felt a rush of affection for her, and hoped they would get Hunter’s Moon. It would be something they could throw themselves into together.

  ‘So what’s been going on?’

  Cathy leafed through a pile of messages.

  ‘The Parkers have lost their buyer so they won’t get Elmfield.’

  ‘Damn. We’ll have to go back to the other people.’

  ‘Sorted. They’re going to confirm their offer tomorrow. Then that peculiar man’s put in a higher bid on The White House. Two thousand more. I’m sure he’s buying it for his mistress.’

  ‘OK. They’ll have to accept it. They can’t realistically expect more. Not on that side of town. That’s a good price.’

  ‘And Mrs Rowe’s got her mortgage offer through for Lower Pitt.’ Cathy did a little fistpump. ‘So that’s all systems go.’

  ‘Perfect. All good then.’

  ‘Oh – and there’s another valuation request come in. Not quite Hunter’s Moon, but I think it will fly. They want you to go out as soon as possible. They need a quick sale.’ She ferreted on her desk for the details. ‘It’s called The High House? One of those lovely Georgian jobs at the other end of town? Do you know it?’ She handed Belinda a piece of paper.

  For a moment, Belinda didn’t reply. She took the paper and turned away so Cathy couldn’t see her face. Did she know The High House? She knew it like the back of her hand, every nook and cranny.

  She walked through into the back office, sat down and started to read through all her messages. She was deliberately avoiding looking at the piece of paper Cathy had given her. Instead she tried to distract herself with emails: vendors chasing completion dates, solicitors chasing conveyancing details, buyers chasing their offers . . . Everyone was always in a mild state of panic and hysteria. She was the middleman, the mediator, the one who was supposed to take the stress out of the situation. It wasn’t always possible. She’d seen it all. Gazumping, gazundering, people pulling out on the day of exchange for no apparent reason, dodgy surveys, inefficient solicitors, peculiar covenants: there were myriad reasons for a sale to fall through and Belinda had seen most of them. And so often it was just one tiny piece of paper – an indemnity or a mortgage offer or a survey – holding things up.

  Yet still she loved it, because when it went right, when that call came through to say contracts had been exchanged, there was no better feeling in the world. She loved handing over a set of keys to a new owner and sending them off on their new adventure.

  Eventually, she came to the end of her inbox. She had to grasp the nettle. She picked up the message and looked at the number.

  The High House. She had sworn the day she’d left that she would never cross the threshold again. She had almost been tempted to leave Peasebrook altogether, but in the end she didn’t have to. It was ten years ago, but she could still remember the desolation.

  If she didn’t take it on, The High House would go to Giles. She would be cutting off her nose to spite her face by losing the commission. She couldn’t afford to turn her back on that kind of money. She had to try, at least.

  For a moment, she was tempted to ask Cathy to go and value it. She could give her a guide price. She knew exactly what it was worth. But Cathy would ask too many questions. It had all happened long ago, and she didn’t want anyone’s sympathy.

  Could she face going back there? It was only a house. Four walls. It couldn’t hurt her. Although the memories might. She had worked so hard not to let what had happened break her, but instead to rebuild and prove her worth, to herself and everyone else.

  She turned the paper over in her hand. She realised her fingers were trembling. Maybe she needed to go back and confront her past, to stop it haunting her. She had always known The High House would come on to the market one day; that she would probably have to face this dilemma.

  She put her head in her hands. Come on, girl, she told herself. Where’s your fighting spirit? You can’t let Giles walk away with this one just because you feel a bit emotional about it. It’s a house, not a person. It can do you no harm.

  In fact, maybe it would help her to go back in there and confront her demons.

  She picked up her phone and dialled the number. ‘Mrs Blenheim? It’s Belinda Baxter speaking. You wanted to make an appointment for me to value The High House?’

  7

  At Peasebrook station, Sally searched anxiously amongst the London commuters streaming off the train for Alexander. Finally, she saw him, with his distinguished sweep of grey hair and his long stone-coloured mac in case of spring showers. He looked like someone, she thought. He still carried himself with a certain grace. It hadn’t taken his presence away from him yet.

  Her heart squeezed with love and concern. She worried about him when he was out of her orbit, yet she didn’t want to smother him. The urge to protect him was monumental. He’d always been agile rather than overtly strong – quick-thinking and quick on his feet, able to avoid danger. The diagnosis weighed heavy on him. His reaction times, his thought processes – they were all slower. Sally thought it was the shock rather than the disease itself.

  He saw her and his face brightened and they embraced on the platform amidst the crowds. She took his arm without asking.

  ‘I got a good parking space,’ she told him. She wasn’t going to ask questions yet.

  ‘I had to stand half the way.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone give you their seat?’

  Alexander grinned. ‘I’d have been insulted if they had. I’ve still got it, you know.’

  She laughed, pleased he was showing some of his old spirit.

  They got to the car. Sally put on her seatbelt and her glasses and waited for Alexander to buckle up. She had to ask. She cleared her throat.

  ‘So . . . how was Leo?’

  ‘On good form. We had lunch at Borough Market.’ Alexander paused. ‘I couldn’t tell him.’

  She sighed. ‘No . . .’ She’d been afraid this might happen. But she understood.

  ‘I don’t see the point. Not at this stage. I mean, why worry him? He’s just picked up a new client – a small chain of gluten-free bakeries
. He’s really found his feet. He’s doing so well. I don’t want to spoil it for him.’ There was a crack in Alexander’s voice.

  ‘But he’ll be angry with us if we don’t tell him. And it means we can’t tell Jess either.’

  ‘Then so be it,’ said Alexander. ‘It’s my disease. I’ll decide what I want to do with the bloody thing.’

  ‘But it’s not yours,’ said Sally sadly. ‘It’s all of ours.’

  He gave a grunt of exasperation. She knew how frustrating Alexander found it all. ‘I know. Of course I know. But . . . can we talk about it when we get back? I’m tired.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He leant his head back in the car seat and shut his eyes. ‘Now isn’t the right time. Not yet. The bloody awful bad news can wait. I just wanted to spend some time with my son.’

  ‘Darling, I know.’ Sally started the engine. The thing about catastrophe was you changed your mind about the best thing to do on a daily basis. Hourly, even. Because there was no best way.

  ‘Did you find an agent?’

  ‘Yes. I think I’m going to go with Belinda Baxter.’

  ‘Mortlake Bassett no good?’

  ‘I didn’t trust him. His eyes were everywhere. And – seriously bad breath.’ Sally wrinkled her nose. ‘I think Belinda will do a good job. She’ll be very discreet.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Maybe when we’ve got a buyer, and a moving date, we can get all the bad news over at once?’

  ‘That’ll be something to look forward to.’

  It wasn’t like Alexander to be so defeatist. But Sally supposed he’d had a long day, and seeing Leo must have brought it home to him. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel in frustration. She kept veering from anger to sadness to helplessness, and she couldn’t afford to. She had to keep it together for everyone.

  Back at Hunter’s Moon, Sally sat at the kitchen table while Alexander went to get changed.

  Her head felt fuzzy. She’d hardly slept since the diagnosis, anxiety squeezing her chest, but she didn’t want to toss and turn in case she woke Alexander, so she lay still, her mind racing during that horrible predawn time when even small problems seemed momentous. And momentous problems took your breath away. She felt as if she was lying under a mound of rocks. So by late afternoon she was nearly on her knees with tiredness, but she thought if she could keep going until bedtime she might sleep through.

  She looked around the kitchen where she had held court for so long, the scene of so many hangovers, arguments, councils of war . . . homework sessions and cakes ablaze with candles . . . hastily written letters and carefully read ones . . . champagne, cocoa, shepherd’s pie, boiled eggs, asparagus dipped in butter, toast and jam . . . comfort food and midnight snacks and celebratory dinners . . .

  And now, here she was alone at the table with her whole world crumbling around her. Her darling Alexander. Of course, in a marriage one always lived in the knowledge that one of you had to go first, and he was a man, and he was older, so . . . But why so soon? And why this?

  She didn’t want to put the house through what they were about to go through. This was a house of laughter, not tears. She had spent long enough making sure of that. It had been a Herculean task, and never dull, but it had taken a lot of time and a lot of cunning to turn things around. If she’d had one purpose in life, it was to make Hunter’s Moon a happy place.

  There was no choice. She picked up her phone and dialled the number Belinda had given her.

  ‘I’d like you to sell Hunter’s Moon for us,’ Sally told her. ‘I want to put it on the market straight away.’

  She spoke quickly, as if she might change her mind if she didn’t get the words out.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Belinda. ‘I will personally make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible for you. It will be an honour to sell Hunter’s Moon.’

  As Sally put down her phone, she looked down at the sample brochures Belinda Baxter had left and hoped she had made the right decision by going with her. It probably didn’t matter which agent she chose. Hunter’s Moon would be snapped up regardless. It was the house of everyone’s dreams. Belinda had been slick and professional, but there was also a warmth and gentleness to her the others had lacked. A genuine concern and empathy that Sally would definitely need over the next few months.

  She thought about the first time she’d seen Hunter’s Moon. Fifty years ago. As beautiful then as it was now, albeit . . . chaotic. That was really the only word to describe it. She had walked not into a house, but into chaos.

  8

  1967

  There was nothing as cold or hard as a London pavement at night. Sally walked as quickly as she could in her stockinged feet, her shoes in her right hand: with their silly high heels, they weren’t designed for walking on anything but plush carpet. She could feel the March iciness pass through her soles and seep upwards into her bones. Her shins ached with it.

  She hadn’t yet absorbed the ramifications of what she had done. It was a lot of money to give up: thirty-five pounds a week. She had thought it was too good to be true, when she’d answered the advert and they’d been all over her, taking her on on the spot. Money wasn’t everything, though, and there was definitely a limit to what she would do for it. She had been naïve. She knew that now. Her brothers had warned her, but she’d been in such a hurry to set out on her new life, she’d ignored their advice.

  She’d loved the Kitten Club when she started working there. It was impossibly sophisticated, with thick white carpet, curved white leather banquettes and smoked glass tables. Chunky chandeliers hung overhead, casting a low light around the silver walls. The uniform she and the other cocktail waitresses wore was a little on the revealing side – black velvet corsets over fishnet tights, very high heels and of course a pair of kitten ears on a headband. But the outfits looked fun and glamorous and Sally knew she looked good in hers: she had a tiny waist and long legs, which was the perfect combination. And Morag, the hatchet-faced Scottish woman who had hired her, and who was in charge of making sure all the girls looked their best and had eaten properly, liked her because she was a natural blonde.

  ‘They like a fresh-faced beauty, some of them.’

  Sally wasn’t sure that the spiky false eyelashes and frosted pink lipstick she was made to wear were terribly fresh-faced, but it was the look. And the customers did seem to like her. They were very friendly and welcoming, as were the other girls. She felt as if she had fallen on her feet straight away. She’d sent a postcard to the boys, of a soldier outside Buckingham Palace: Feel like a proper Londoner. Flat in Kensington and a glitzy job at the famous Kitten Club – you won’t recognise me! Love to all – send sausages!! Sal xx

  She put it in an envelope so her mum couldn’t see it, and sent her one of the Palace itself. Hope you are well, Mum. I’m managing OK. Working hard. See you soon, I hope. Love Sally x

  The club was hard work because it was always busy, and being a good cocktail waitress meant making sure no one’s glass was ever empty, so Sally spent each night on her feet running between the customers and the bar as they all drank like fish. The waitresses had to do a little curtsey with a purr when they served a drink. It was the club’s signature move, and the men seemed to lap it up. Still, Sally had thought it was harmless enough.

  How wrong she was.

  What she hadn’t realised was the purr indicated a certain willingness. Looking back now it had been obvious, but she had been too green to pick up on it. Of course, no one had spelled it out, because the Kitten Club had a veneer of class and wouldn’t want to openly advertise. The transactions were discreet. They had to be or they would be shut down.

  She shuddered now at the memory of the moment the penny had dropped. The man had been charm itself the first few times she had served him, but tonight something had changed. She sensed it after she brought over his second Rémy Martin, and his fingers had brushed hers as he took the heavy crystal tumbler from her. He had taken her hand and pulled her down
on to the banquette next to him.

  ‘It takes me a while to decide if I like a girl or not,’ he said. ‘But I knew as soon as I saw you that you were a contender.’

  She crossed her legs and smiled. ‘Contender?’

  He held her gaze, then laughed. ‘Is playing hard to get part of the game?’

  He was an unattractive man, with a head of sheep-like curls, flared nostrils and a florid complexion, and his chin disappeared into his shirt collar as if he had no neck. On one little finger was a huge gold ring with three fat diamonds stuck into it. She knew he’d made a fortune after the war selling packing crates, though she couldn’t really imagine what anyone would want them for.

  ‘There’s no game,’ she said to him, eyes wide, then recoiled when his hand gripped her knee. She put her hand down to prise off his fingers, but he squeezed even tighter.

  ‘I’ve got a room at the Dorchester,’ he told her. ‘You’ll like it there.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand.’

  His gaze was flat and hard. ‘I don’t think you understand. Come on, sweetheart. I’ll get them to call us a cab.’

  She stood up. ‘I don’t think so.’ She knew she sounded prim. She was just doing the most dignified turn on her heel when the man stood up and grabbed her arm. His face was red with fury. He started pulling her across the room.

  ‘You’re coming with me. You don’t get to choose. That’s my prerogative.’

  She kicked him, hard. Right in the shin with the toe of her shoe. Immediately she found herself surrounded by the two men who were employed to deal with difficult and drunk customers. They took her by the elbows and escorted her out of the club. Then bundled her down to the back door where Morag was waiting with a face like thunder.