by Alice Ross
‘Just saying good morning,’ Lily replied, affecting a husky timbre, and hoping the way her breath misted the sub-zero air added to the intended sultry effect.
Whether it did or didn’t, Luke appeared not to notice. ‘Whattimeisit?’
Briefly abandoning her seductress routine, Lily turned over and reached out a gloved hand to pick up the clock on the floor at the side of the bed. ‘Half past seven.’
‘Shit!’ Luke jerked upright, banging his head on the overhead cupboard. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting the lads for rugby training at eight.’
At this announcement, Lily jerked upright and banged her head on the overhead cupboard. During the five months the caravan had been their home, banging their heads on the overhead cupboard had long since established itself as part of their morning routine.
‘But you can’t,’ she gasped. ‘We have plans for today.’
Through his beanie hat, which he’d been wearing to bed since October, Luke rubbed the ever-present lump on his head as he gazed at her nonplussed. ‘Plans? What plans?’
Lily gawped. He couldn’t have forgotten. Surely. Today was momentous. Massive. Humongous. The day she’d fantasised about for months. The day she’d been looking forward to even more than the time her parents had promised to take her to the penguin parade at the zoo – even though she’d been twenty-three at the time. ‘We’re choosing the kitchen.’
Luke scrunched up his perfect nose, regarding her in the same way she imagined he would if she’d announced she’d discovered a verruca the size of Asia on her left foot. ‘Oh. I forgot.’
‘Evidently.’ Lily pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to adopt the moral high ground. No easy task given her upper-body attire of polo-neck sweater, Plymouth University hoodie, and yellow body-warmer. Luke, she’d noticed, appeared to be doing a lot of “forgetting” lately. Exclusively of house-related things. Much to Lily’s – and their Polish builder Borys’s – increasing frustration.
‘I not being funny, Leely,’ huffed Borys, scratching his head of thick blond hair, when Lily returned home from work the other day. ‘But if Luke doesn’t order new toilet from eenternet like he promise, how I suppose to fit new toilet? I think Luke fed up with house now,’ he’d added. An observation which had fuelled Lily’s already niggling suspicion.
Not that Lily could really blame Luke. Well actually, she could. And, indeed, she had. But she could at least empathise with him. Even she, with her bountiful enthusiasm and unerring vision for their still-in-the-throes-of-renovation cottage, was, if she was honest, a tad frustrated with caravan living. Three months, Borys the Builder had initially promised, before the cottage would be in a basic, but habitable, condition. But, unlike on the telly, where a wreck of a building is transformed into a sparkling state-of-the-art palace with pristinely-ironed duvet covers, built-in fish tanks, and his-and-her bars of soap within sixty minutes, the renovation of Hollyhocks, due to a plethora of “unforeseen problems” was taking significantly longer.
Still savouring the relative warmth of the bed, Lily observed Luke as, having scrambled over her and the tower of duvets, he began rummaging through the numerous piles of clothes strewn about the caravan’s tiny interior. Having evidently found what he was looking for, he rived off his layers of night-time attire, replacing them with a creased and not-too-clean-looking mismatched rugby kit. This activity was accompanied by a string of expletives about the Baltic temperature and - what had long since become his mantra - how he could “never bloody find anything”. A few minutes later, preceded by a grudging, ‘I’ll be back by lunchtime’, he disappeared with a slam of the tinny door.
At the icy blast of air which followed his departure, Lily hunkered deeper under the bedclothes, heaving a despairing sigh as she surveyed the detritus he’d left behind. Not, she realised, as her eyes swept over the piles of clothes, the mountain of dishes, the heaps of shoes and boots, and the cereal packets crammed into the most imaginative spaces, that she could blame him for the entire state of the place. The caravan’s compact interior had been designed with weekends away in mind, not months of everyday living. The reality of being cramped up in such a confined, impractical space had fallen dramatically short of the giddy romantic images she’d conjured up the first time she and Luke had set eyes on the cottage.
It had been back in late summer. Out for a sunny Sunday afternoon drive in the stunning Northumberland countryside, searching for a village pub one of Lily’s work colleagues had recommended, Luke had driven past the sign on the dry stone wall at the entrance to Lovelace Lane.
‘Stop!’ Lily had squealed.
Slamming on the brakes, jerking the car to an immediate halt, Luke had turned to look at her, panic etched on his handsome chiselled face. ‘What? What is it?’
Lily had pressed a hand to her chest. ‘The name of that street. Lovelace Lane. Isn’t it gorgeous?’
Luke had shaken his head in disbelief. ‘Bloody hell, Lils! I thought you were having a heart attack or something.’
So breathless with excitement had Lily been, she wasn’t entirely convinced she wasn’t having a heart attack. ‘Come on. Let’s take a look.’
‘At what?’
‘Lovelace Lane, of course. I’ve never heard a prettier name. Imagine how fabulous it would be if someone asked where you lived and you said, “Actually, I live on Lovelace Lane”.’
Luke, evidently immune to the enthusiasm swirling about his girlfriend of three years, re-started the car. ‘Actually,’ he’d said, adopting the same supercilious tone he did whenever Lily lost her mobile phone – which, admittedly, was a frequent occurrence - ‘I don’t think anyone could give a toss where you live. Now, if we don’t find this pub soon, it’ll be closing time.’
He’d shoved the gear stick into first, but before he could pull away, Lily had opened the car door and bounced out. ‘Come on. It’ll only take a couple of minutes.’
Luke had flashed her an incredulous look, but, nonetheless, had switched off the engine and slid out of the car, amidst much muttering and chuntering, from which Lily had discerned only the words “bloody” and “mental”. She hadn’t picked him up on them. A far greater need than entering into a petty squabble had overtaken her: a weird, all-consuming need to explore Lovelace Lane; to sneak a glimpse into the lives of the folk who lived there; to discover if the place lived up to its gloriously romantic name.
It did.
‘Oh. My. God,’ she’d gushed a few minutes later, standing, transfixed, at the entrance to the street. The left-hand side was completely open to fields, while a row of detached houses lined the right. And what houses! Lily’s jaw almost brushed the pavement as she all but floated down the lane, soaking up the exquisiteness of the twenty or so beautiful abodes. Names such as Mulberry Lodge, Yew Tree House and The Granary added to the picture-perfect image. ‘It’s utterly gorgeous,’ she exclaimed. ‘And-’ spotting a ‘For Sale’ board, her heart stuttered for a few seconds, before jump-starting at a quicker-than-was-probably-healthy pace. Grabbing Luke’s hand, she’d yanked him over to the property - a tiny cottage nestling at the bottom of the lane. It lacked the Victorian splendour of its imposing neighbours. In fact, it lacked quite a few things, most glaringly a non-sagging roof, half a chimney pot, and decent window frames. Not that any of those minor details dampened Lily’s sky-high spirits. ‘-an adorable cottage, Luke. And it’s for sale.’
‘I gathered that from the sign,’ huffed Luke, reclaiming his hand from hers, before removing his sunglasses and rubbing them with the edge of his black T-shirt. ‘Now can we please go back to the car and find this pub. I’m parched.’
Lily, though, had been in no rush to leave. Bending down, she’d brushed away the stray ivy from the wooden nameplate stubbornly clinging to the fence by a solitary rusty screw. ‘Hollyhocks,’ she’d all but whispered. ‘Hollyhocks Cottage on Lovelace Lane.’ She’d straightened and swung around to face Luke. ‘How perfect would it be living here?’
&nb
sp; Repositioning his aviators on his nose Luke had given a derisive snort. ‘Get real, Lils. In case you hadn’t noticed, the place is practically falling down.’
Lily hadn’t replied. Having creaked open the gate – a trickier manoeuvre than anticipated given it hung on one hinge - she was already halfway down the weed-ridden path.
‘Er, I think you’ll find you’re trespassing,’ Luke had hollered after her, his righteous tone indicating he had no intention of committing the same offence.
Lily hadn’t cared. She’d been far too entranced by the cottage. It looked exactly like the houses she’d drawn as a child – a perfect square with a window either side of the door. But while the front of the house had blown her away, the back swirled her around and flung her into the stratosphere with an unnerving force. For such a tiny dwelling, the garden was enormous – about one-third of an acre, she’d guess - stretching down to a dry stone wall at the bottom, and newly-ploughed fields beyond. Mature fruit trees stood sentry in one corner, dripping with over-ripe apples, plums and pears. Nestling snugly next to them were what she assumed must once have been raised vegetable beds. But it was the profusion of hollyhocks – towering spires of every imaginable colour – rising from every available space - that had completely taken her breath away. And to complete the idyllic scene, a butterfly had then swooped down and landed on the moss-covered water butt next to her. An avid believer in fate, and already convinced Hollyhocks Cottage was to play a significant role in her life, an overwhelming feeling of conviction had ricocheted through Lily, swiftly followed by the same fizzing excitement she experienced whenever Luke wandered around in his sexy red boxers. Tugging her mobile from her bag, she’d googled the estate agent’s website. Completely clueless about house prices in Northumberland, and having seen how adorable Lovelace Lane was, she imagined the value being firmly lodged in the “Silly” category. But it hadn’t been. Releasing the breath she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding as she’d scrolled down the list of properties, she’d almost jumped for joy when she’d spotted the price. Her brain launching into a quick round of mental arithmetic, she worked out that, thanks to her recent promotion at the clinic where she worked as a podiatrist, and Luke’s generous Marketing Director salary, they could afford it. Just about. If they secured a mortgage the size of the northern hemisphere; begged, stole and borrowed; hi-jacked several banks; and lived off bread and water for the next five years. Seriously, though, it wasn’t half as bad as she’d imagined. And, with some creative accounting, and one or two cut-backs, was infinitely do-able.
‘We absolutely have to buy it, Luke,’ she’d insisted, marching back round to the front of the house with all the resolve of a woman on a mission.
Hovering next to the gate, Luke had blown out a despairing sigh and raked a hand through his short dark hair. A couple of perfectly positioned spikes teetered slightly before springing back into place, testament to the huge amount of product applied thereto. ‘For God’s sake, Lily, will you get a grip. You don’t even know how much it is.’
‘I do. I’ve just looked it up. We can afford it. Just.’
Two dark brows had shot up above Luke’s Ray Bans. ‘It’s not just the cost of the house, though, is it?’ he’d swiftly pointed out. ‘There’s all the work to factor in. And given it practically needs knocking down and rebuilding, you’re probably looking at at least another hundred thousand. Plus, there’s no way we could afford it without selling the flat first, and no way we could live in the house while the work was going on. I think, therefore, you can write it off as a complete non-starter.’
With that crashing statement, he’d whisked around and begun retracing the route to the car.
One hand clinging to the dodgy gatepost, Lily had remained staring at the house, chewing her bottom lip. Luke was right of course. The place did need a wad of cash chucking at it. And there was absolutely no way they could live in it while it was being renovated. She’d heaved a defeated sigh and was about to turn around and follow him, when a butterfly, looking suspiciously like the one which had landed next to her earlier, fluttered onto the gatepost. At exactly the same time, a bolt of inspiration shot through her. This cottage was one in a million. If she didn’t pull out every possible stop to try and secure it, she’d regret it for the rest of her life.
Running after Luke, she’d caught him up and grabbed his arm. ‘I’m sure we can manage the finances. And we could buy a caravan to live in while the work’s being done. People on the telly do it all the time. It would only be for a few months. And it would be totally worth it.’ So choked with emotion had she been, that she couldn’t stop a tear streaming down her cheek. ‘Please, Luke. Can we at least try and buy it?’
At her pleading tone, Luke’s features had softened. ‘Look,’ he’d said, wrapping his arms around her. ‘I know you love it. And I can see what you mean about how great it could look. It’s oozing potential. But thinking about it practically, it just wouldn’t work. There’s bound to be a heap of developers after it. And even if we could afford the mortgage, there’s no way we’d ever sell the flat in time.’
‘I know,’ Lily had muttered into his chest. ‘You’re probably right. But I don’t think I could live with myself if we didn’t at least try.’
He’d nuzzled into her dark curls. ‘Okay. But don’t be too disappointed if it doesn’t come off.’
‘I won’t,’ Lily had replied, crossing her fingers behind his back.
And she hadn’t been disappointed. Because it had come off. In rather a spooky, meant-to-be fashion …
As soon as they’d arrived home, aware that such a unique property was unlikely to be on the market long, they’d begun compiling spreadsheets and lists, identifying areas where they could cut costs – Lily almost toppling off the chair when she realised how much her skinny lattes totted up to each month. At the end, Luke had agreed that, with some serious belt-tightening, and his six-monthly bonus, they could afford it.
‘And if the worst comes to the worst,’ he’d added, ‘we can always sell it on once it’s finished, and hopefully pocket a nice little profit.’
At this suggestion, Lily had smiled sweetly and nodded. If, and she knew it was a big if, they did secure the cottage, it would take several cranes, a couple of tanks and the entire British army to extract her from it. But as the selling-on option made Luke less tetchy about the venture, she’d gone along with it.
They’d telephoned the estate agent the following day and submitted their initial offer.
It had been rejected.
As, indeed, had their second.
At home that evening, Luke, in a valiant attempt to cheer her up, had taken one look at her miserable, tear-stained face, and immediately whisked her off to her favourite Indian restaurant.
It had been a futile effort. Even her usual Chicken Korma and Cumin Naan hadn’t hit the spot.
‘Cheer up, Lils. Sometimes these things just aren’t meant to be,’ he’d soothed.
But Lily knew differently. Hollyhocks Cottage was meant to be. She could feel it in every bone in her body. Okay, she knew she got carried away sometimes; knew she could be fanciful and romantic. But something about Hollyhocks had triggered a feeling in her she’d never before experienced. The whole thing about them stumbling on Lovelace Lane, the way the name had captured her imagination, her jumping out of the car on a complete whim – within hours of the ‘For Sale’ sign going up, they’d later discovered - had all conspired to make it so … right.
So, using all her feminine wiles later that evening, she’d persuaded Luke that they should give it one more shot: up their offer by another couple of thousand. He’d agreed, on the stipulation that it would be their absolute final bid. To go any higher would mean financial suicide.
Lily had hared round to the estate agent’s office before work the next morning to submit the offer, her heart hammering like a pneumatic drill.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Matlock,’ the twelve-year-old-looking agent had informed her, ‘but the o
ther interested party has a much higher figure on the table.’
More wound up than Big Ben, Lily hadn’t been able to hold back the tears. Much to the twelve-year-old’s consternation.
‘Would you, um, like a cup of tea or something?’ he’d asked, bulging eyes and sweaty brow indicating he hoped she’d decline.
She had. ‘No, thank you,’ she’d spluttered. ‘I have to get to work.’ She’d then whipped around and staggered towards the door, tripping over a waste paper bin in the process. Thankfully, the timely intervention of another customer had broken her fall, saving her from mounting a life-size cardboard cut-out of the company’s founder.
When she’d received the call thirty minutes later, informing her that the vendor had accepted their offer, she’d been momentarily speechless.
‘That’s great,’ Luke had said, when she’d recovered her verbal ability and phoned him to pass on the news. ‘But we still need the mortgage approved. And we have to sell the flat. The chances of it not happening are still pretty high.’
But it had happened. The same day the flat went on the market, a young couple who’d just relocated to the area, had snapped it up. Much to Luke’s – and, Lily had to secretly admit, her – astonishment. Securing the mortgage had also proved stress-free. Then had come the matter of where to live while their new home was being renovated: the caravan. Luke, up-to-his-eyes at work, had left it all to Lily. On a permanent high with the excitement of their new venture, she’d been in her element browsing the mobile homes on eBay, marvelling at the innovative use of space, the nifty gadgets, the built-in laundry baskets. Unfortunately, due to their pitiful budget, all of the above were sadly missing in their temporary abode.
‘You cannot be serious,’ Luke had gasped, the day the caravan had been delivered to the site. ‘It’s tiny.’
‘The word is “cute”,’ Lily had batted back. But even she’d been dismayed at how small it was. Much smaller than it had looked on the internet. And much smaller, she was sure, than the measurements quoted. Still, it was here now. And as they had to be out of the flat the following week, it would have to do. It was only for three months, after all.
