Page 64 of Second Chances at the Board Game Café

He held his hands up. ‘It’s none of my business.’

‘Well, it wasn’t. His zip had got stuck and he couldn’t get his jeans off. That was all. Harry and I are friends. Nothing more.’

‘Like I said, none of my business,’ said Mr B. ‘Although Harry is a lovely man. Anyway, I came to talk to you about my wedding, I was hoping you might make me a waistcoat with a matching bow tie.’ He glanced around the room, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘I’ve found the perfect fabric on the interweb. But are you still sewing, my dear?’

‘Yes, I’ve moved the machine upstairs. It was… easier. Fewer distractions. I’d love to make you a waistcoat and tie. As long as you don’t want them next week. I’m a bit snowed under at the moment with the fashion show.’

‘Oh yes, I’ll be coming along to that with my lovely fiancée. There’s no rush for the waistcoat. We haven’t fixed a date yet. Hopefully within the next six months as we’re not getting any younger. In fact…’ He stepped a little closer to her and lowered his voice. ‘In fact, we’re thinking of doing things the modern way and moving in together before the wedding.’

‘Very modern,’ she said.

Would it be too forward, she wondered, to tell Mr B that she could also make a wedding dress if his fiancée hadn’t already chosen something? Bridesmaids’ dresses too.

‘And who’s the lucky…’

An almighty crash from behind interrupted her. Mr B’s eyebrows shot towards the top of his head, and she turned to see that the bath now sat in the middle of the kitchen floor. There was a cloud of dust, and loose pieces of wood and plasterboard hung down from the kitchen ceiling. And there was water everywhere; what was more, it was still pouring out.

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‘Shit,’ Taylor said.

A second later, she looked at Mr B and said, ‘Sorry. Excuse my language.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Mr B. ‘Shit seems very appropriate under the circumstances.’

They stood looking at the dust. The water pouring out. The bathroom floorboards hanging down through the kitchen ceiling.

Taylor took a step forwards and peered up through the hole into the room above. She could see the toilet. She was standing in her lounge and she could see the toilet. She watched as a loo roll dropped down into the kitchen onto the microwave.

‘Where’s your stopcock?’ Mr B said. ‘We need to turn the water off quickly.’

She thought back to Harry fixing the leaking washing machine. She’d might never have known if it weren’t for him. ‘It’s outside. In the backyard.’

They both looked towards the ruined kitchen. There was no way either of them could clamber through to get out of the back door.

‘Is there another way?’ said Mr B.

‘There’s a gate off the ginnel round the back. The bin men are the only ones who ever use it.’

‘I’ll go round,’ said Mr B. ‘I think you should wait outside.’ He glanced up at the ceiling. ‘I don’t think anything else is going to come down but you never know. Leave all your stuff, Taylor. Just in case.’

He took hold of her hand, and led her outside onto the pavement, before leaving her to go round to the back to turn off the water.

Taylor stood on the pavement, her mind whirring. Where would they sleep tonight? Where would they live? What would the landlord say? Oh God, she’d have to ring Tarquin. What about their stuff? Everything they owned was in that house. Wherever they ended up tonight, they’d need clean clothes.

She glanced back at the front door. Mr B was right, of course. She ought to stay outside, but on the floor in the lounge was a basket of clean laundry, waiting to be ironed. Some of Max’s school uniform. His PE kit – he’d need that. Some of her clothes. Underwear for both of them. She stood in the doorway, looking at the basket. Looking at the ceiling. She rushed in, grabbed the basket, and hurried back outside.

She began to root through the garments, seeing what was there. There were enough clothes to tide them over for a few days, but some of her favourite items were upstairs in her wardrobe. And, she realised suddenly, every single garment she’d made for the fashion show was upstairs too. Bloody Tarquin! If it weren’t for him, they’d all still be downstairs in the lounge, and she could easily have brought them out.

What if the whole building collapsed and the garments were ruined? She couldn’t bear to think about it. All her hard work for nothing.

Taylor took a deep breath and stepped back into the house. She looked at the stairs, wondering if they’d be safe. Was it worth the risk? They were only clothes, for heaven’s sake. But they weren’t only clothes to her. They hadn’t been made in a factory, one of thousands of identical items. They were unique pieces, each one crafted by her own hands. She’d poured her heart and soul into every garment she stitched.

‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Mr B. He took hold of her arm and pulled her back outside.

‘But the clothes…’ said Taylor. ‘The fashion show…’

‘Someone will come and make sure the place is safe,’ he said. ‘And then you’ll be able to go inside and collect everything. Now, I think we’d better ring your landlord. Would you like me to do that?’