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‘How do you come up with the names?’
‘What?’
‘The house styles. Why “Windsor” and “Eton”?’
‘It’s aspirational, isn’t it? We’re not just selling houses, you know.’
‘Aren’t we?’
‘God, no! We’re selling a lifestyle, a dream. Punters want to believe that these houses are their ticket to the good life with a couple of matching BMWs on the driveway, perfect children and no worries, rather than what they actually are, which is more space to have the same old arguments about whose turn it is to take the bin out. It’s all bollocks, but they lap it up.’
‘I guess you haven’t put your name down then?’ I laugh.
‘Not bloody likely. These are way out of my price bracket and I imagine that the sheen of buying “The Eton” will wear off pretty quickly once it’s just “Number Fourteen, The Oaks”, which is what the show home will be.’
We come to a halt and I do a slow turn, taking in everything around me. This is a totally alien landscape, with houses in various states of build. The ones nearest the gates look broadly complete but, at the far end, there are a couple which have only just started to rise from the ground. I’m incredibly intimidated by the prospect of project managing all of this, but also weirdly encouraged by the disaster of a project plan that I saw in the office.
‘Seen enough?’ Noah asks. ‘Shall I show you your digs?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
‘OK. If you hop into your car and follow me, I’ll lead you.’
We pull out of the site and I lock the gates behind us. As I follow him, I can’t help speculating on what sort of house or flat a company like Atkinson Construction would provide. We seem to be heading away from the town, so I start to imagine a little cottage with a garden that I could maybe grow a few vegetables in. When he slows and turns into a drive next to a large sign with ‘Belvedere Caravan Park’ on it in faded letters, my enthusiasm is only slightly dented. OK, it’s not the cottage I was imagining, but I’ve stayed in lots of static caravans on holiday growing up, and they were fine. It might still have a bit of garden, too. As we drive through the park, I’m encouraged. Most of the caravans here look well cared for, even if they aren’t exactly modern. The one he pulls up outside, however, has definitely seen better days. The windows are filthy and there is some sort of moss growing around them. The outside step has obviously broken off at some point, and been replaced with an upended plastic crate, and the ‘garden’ is an overgrown patch of scrubland. Above the door, a peeling label announces that this is a ‘Premier Deluxe’. It’s a long time since this caravan has been anywhere near premier or deluxe, I suspect.
‘This is you,’ he announces, handing me another key. I can sense his discomfort, as he’s shuffling from foot to foot.
The source of his disquiet becomes evident the moment I open the door and step inside. If the site office was off-putting, this is in a whole new league. Andy, whoever he is, obviously didn’t believe in tidying up or cleaning. The caravan smells musty and there’s an acrid undercurrent, which I have a nasty suspicion is coming from the kitchen area. A quick exploration leads me to a half-empty bottle of milk that has been left on the counter, presumably since Andy left. I stick my head into the filthy bathroom and a bedroom that has patently never seen a duster or vacuum cleaner and I can feel the tears bubbling up. This has to be the most stupid thing I’ve ever done. There’s no way I can bring my stuff in here with the state that this caravan is in. I’ll be smelling of God knows what for weeks. I swallow hard and try to think logically, but I’m exhausted from the long drive, and I just don’t have the mental capacity to deal with this. Glancing in the bedroom again, I notice that there are no bedclothes on the bed, not that I’d dream of sleeping under them if there were. Thankfully, despite my exhaustion, I do manage to have an idea and pull out my phone. Telling Noah that I’ve just received a message I need to deal with, I step outside, open the browser and, within minutes, I’ve booked myself into the local Premier Inn for tonight.
‘Do you want a hand unloading then?’ Noah asks from the doorway, as I slip the phone back into my pocket.
‘No, you’re OK. I’ll do it later.’ For some reason, I don’t want him to know that I’ve chickened out at the first hurdle. ‘Let’s go and get that drink, shall we? Where’s the pub?’
‘Not far, about half a mile or so. I’ll give you a lift if you like, save you driving.’
I don’t really like. I’m sure Noah’s van is going to be absolutely filthy, like everything else around here, and I also don’t want to give him the impression I’m dependent on him. He seems very keen to be helpful, but I don’t know him well enough to trust his motives.
‘I don’t want to put you out,’ I tell him.
‘You aren’t. I go straight past here on my way home, so it’ll be no trouble to drop you. Come on.’ He strides off before I have a chance to answer, so I reluctantly follow him, locking the static caravan behind me.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ he tells me as I pull open the passenger door. ‘I clean it every weekend, but by Friday, it’s usually looking a bit the worse for wear.’
After the caravan, the dusty interior of Noah’s van doesn’t bother me at all. He grabs the empty takeaway coffee cups that have accumulated in the passenger footwell and finds somewhere to store them in the back, before removing the aftermarket cover on the passenger seat to reveal pristine upholstery beneath. As soon as he starts the engine, the radio comes on at deafening volume, and he sings along to it lustily while he drives. He’s actually got quite a nice singing voice, so I find I don’t mind too much.
By the time we’re settled in the pub with our drinks, my curiosity is almost at breaking point.
‘Come on then, tell me the victim story,’ I demand.
‘Have you met Deborah?’ he replies.
‘Are you going to deflect me with a question every time I come back to this?’
‘No. It’s relevant, I promise.’
‘Yes, she was one of the people who interviewed me. Her and the CEO, Christopher Atkinson.’
‘I don’t know him. What did you make of her?’
