Bournemouth,’ he said, and then we both laughed because it was at least a hundred miles away.
And that was that, I was Freddie Hunter’s girl, then and always. The next morning, he slid a chocolate bar into my bag along with a note telling me he was walking me home. From someone else it could have come off as possessive; my tender teenage heart saw only thrilling directness.
I watch him move with purpose now, heading into the bathroom to switch the shower on, pulling a clean white shirt off the hanger.
‘I don’t want to jinx it, but I think this one’s in the bag,’ he’s saying, answering a work call briefly, his mobile tucked under his chin as he grabs underwear from the drawer. I watch his everyday moves, my answering smile shaky when he rolls his eyes at me because he wants whoever is on the phone to wind it up.
He disappears into the bathroom and I sit up and push the quilt back when I hear the water sluicing around his body.
‘What’s happening to me?’ I whisper, lowering my feet to the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed like a hospital patient after open-heart surgery. Because that is what this feels like. As if someone opened my chest and massaged my heart back into working order.
‘I don’t believe in fairy tales or magic beans,’ I mutter, biting down on my trembling bottom lip hard enough to taste blood, metallic and harsh.
Freddie emerges from the bathroom on a cloud of steam, shoving his shirt into his trousers as he buttons them.
‘I’d better go,’ he says, reaching for his phone. ‘If I stick the kettle on, can you make the tea? I’ll make the train if I dash.’
We chose this house for exactly this scenario, mornings when we were running late and grateful to have a train station around the corner. His city-centre job in Birmingham demands much of his time, so the less added for travel the better. My own commute to the local town hall is shorter; ten minutes and I’m in the car park at work. I love our listed building though, it reminds me of something out of a children’s storybook. It’s believed to be the oldest structure in the town, standing half-timbered and crooked at the end of the high street. Much of the architecture is similar along the rambling high street; our little Shropshire town is ancient, fiercely proud of its entry in the Domesday Book. There’s much to be said for growing up in such a tight-knit community; many families have been here from generation to generation, cradle to grave. It’s easy to dismiss the value of something like that, to feel smothered by the fact that everyone knows everyone else’s business, but there’s richness and comfort to it too, especially when someone’s in trouble.
It wasn’t just location that made us fall for the house though. We viewed it early one spring weekend morning, the sun at just the perfect height to show off the honeyed stone and deep bay window. It’s mid-terrace, and decorating it proved to be a bit of a nightmare because there isn’t a straight wall or door in the place. It all adds to the charm, I argued, every time Freddie banged his head on the low, exposed kitchen beam. I like to think the decor has echoes of Kate Winslet’s cottage in The Holiday, all stripped boards and cosy clutter. It’s a look I’ve cultivated carefully at car boots and flea markets, occasionally reined in by Freddie’s preference for more modern things. It’s a battle he was always set to lose: my magpie eye loves pretty things and my Pinterest game is strong.
A couple of days ago, after I’d forced myself to get dressed and nip round to the off-licence for wine supplies, it occurred to me that I didn’t want to go home. It’s the first time I’ve felt that way about the house since the morning we collected the keys, and another piece of my heart snapped off at the realization that home wasn’t home any more. I could never have conceived of the idea of selling the house, but in that moment I felt cut adrift and I walked in the other direction, two circuits of the children’s play park before I could face going home. And then, curiously, once I was back inside, I didn’t want to leave again. I am a mass of contradictions – it’s no wonder my family