The house was obviously in need of a grand-scale makeover, which combined with the asking price had been a bit of a stretch. But happily they’d paid off the mortgage on their London property years ago and Tobias needed something on which to spend his bonus. It was either that or give it all to the taxman.
Now, as she looks about at the high ceilings, the marble fireplaces, the large windows, they are all that’s left of the original building they first viewed. Most of the walls have been stripped back to the bare bones, the hideous carpets torn up to reveal beautiful herringbone wood flooring, which will be lovingly sanded and restored. She hopes the builders are being careful to protect all these features – the true spirit of the house, as she likes to imagine it. As soon as she had stepped inside this place, she felt it was right. It had a good energy. This was her future. She could be happy here, finally.
Olivia continues down the stairs to the main floor as Bella and Drew explore the upper level, choosing what will eventually be their bedrooms. As she descends, her husband’s imperious tones waft up to meet her.
‘Why hasn’t there been more progress?’ says Tobias pointedly. He wanders around pulling at random wires sprouting from the walls, toeing piles of debris on the floor. ‘I thought we’d agreed that these rooms would all be replastered by now and the first fix on the wiring was supposed to have been in place last week. Why are we behind schedule?’
There is no real need to shout now, as all the tools and machines have been turned off in honour of their visit, the various workmen congregating outside in the garden to take advantage of the break.
The foreman rocks backwards and forwards on his heels.
‘Two of the lads have been off sick,’ he answers. ‘One of them was testing positive for Covid so he was off for a while.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ says Tobias. ‘It’s no more than a common cold. Everyone with half a brain is fully vaccinated these days, anyway. Must they really take so much time off?’
Olivia joins her husband and places what she hopes is a calming hand on his shoulder. She hates it when his skin takes on this livid, mottled hue. The foreman, whose name is actually Bill, she believes (though Tobias never seems to remember this) shrugs in a ‘what can you do?’ sort of way.
‘We’re still a bit under-staffed. I’ll see if we can’t draft in another guy. Make up some lost time,’ he says.
‘Problem?’ calls another voice behind them all and Olivia looks up to see Marcus has arrived. ‘You know, you should all be wearing hard hats in here,’ he reminds them and proffers a spare one to Olivia. She takes it shyly, placing it on her head, wondering what it will be doing to her artfully tousled updo.
‘Oh, hello, Marcus,’ says Tobias. ‘Can you have a word and make sure we pick up the slack a bit? We’ve got to make the most of the weather before autumn sets in. Especially if that roof is to be patched up in time. I promised Livvy here that we’d be finished by winter. She’s been fantasising about some alone timeby the sea, haven’t you, darling?’ He winks at the other two men. ‘Can’t wait to get away from me and the kids.’
‘Tobias,’ she scolds, feeling herself blush. She pivots between Bill and Marcus, smiling. ‘Honestly, don’t worry about me. I know how long these things can take.’
Marcus coughs.
‘Better to get the job done right first time, Mrs Woolf.’
His face is stern and she feels herself straighten, reprimanded, as she nods eagerly in agreement.
‘Of course. Exactly. Better to be safe than sorry.’
3
Lottie yanks open the door and runs up the stone steps, two at a time. She realises that all the noise has ceased for some reason, which momentarily takes the wind out of her sails, but then she sees the builders lounging around outside in the next door garden and her ire is reignited.
‘Excuse me,’ she says. ‘Hello. Hi.’ Her eyes range around the figures, trying to make contact. ‘Can I speak to someone in charge, please?’
She is standing with her arms crossed, one foot jutting out perpendicular to the other. She can see how it must look to this collection of men; some older, grizzled types with the tell-tale signs of middle-aged spread, a few younger lads who look like they are barely out of school. In their own way, they will all have classified her as difficult, problematic, a bit much. She doesn’t care. It’s something which she has long since accepted.
One of them takes up the mantle.
‘You can talk to Bill,’ he says. ‘Inside.’ He indicates with a nod of his long, leathery face.
Lottie is aware that Tim is hanging back, staying on the other side of the divide, holding on to Josh’s hand before they both disappear back into the apartment. Fine, she thinks. I’ll handle this myself. She’s long since grown used to that as well.
Crossing into the house, she registers mild curiosity at the difference in the interiors. For a start, this house is entire and consequently enormous in comparison to their rental. She is amazed at how the space sprawls out above and below as she descends aflight of steps. The air is dusty. Scraps of old wallpaper lie strewn at her feet, the old plaster hanging off the walls in places.
Pausing halfway down, she realises she is encroaching on a conversation and, unsure how to proceed, she knocks on the wall beside the staircase as though it is a doorway, announcing her presence. Four figures spin around and look up at her. The owners, she guesses, are the couple, the same age and smartly dressed in summer clothing while the other two men, one younger, one older, wear fluorescent vests and seem to work here. They all consider her with surprise and an air of confusion, even irritation.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she starts, though really she’s not sorry at all. ‘Me and my husband and our little boy have just arrived at the holiday let next door and well, what can I say, we’re really not happy about the situation.’ There is an uncomfortable pause and glances are exchanged. Lottie feels she must fill this silence, make her point while she has the floor. ‘I mean the noise levels, the disruption. We can’t even open the windows or sit in the garden.’
The husband – he’s wearing the traditional middle-class uniform of polo shirt, brightly coloured shorts and deck shoes – turns his body fully towards her.
‘Right,’ he says, drawing out the word. ‘And how is that our problem, exactly?’
‘Tobias,’ says the wife – she looks wafty, insubstantial in comparison – reproaches him under her breath. As she looks up at Lottie with large worried eyes, her hooped earrings entwine in the strands of her blonde wispy hair.
