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‘Nice.’
‘I know. It’s all bloody glamour, this job.’
Thankfully, I’m spared the evidence of our potential home-owner’s evacuation, as Noah comes out of the show home front door just before I get there.
‘You. Site office. Now,’ I growl at him. I just have time to register the surprise on his face before I turn on my heel and practically sprint to the office.
‘Welcome ba—’ is as far as he gets before I’ve pinned him to the wall and planted my mouth on his.
‘I’m so sorry about everything,’ I tell him when we come up for air.
‘I knew you didn’t mean it. Or, at least, I was pretty certain,’ he smiles.
‘How?’
‘Your face gave you away. Promise me one thing.’
‘What?’
‘Never take up poker.’
I laugh.
‘Shall we try that conversation again?’ I suggest. ‘See if it goes the way it should this time?’
‘OK. I love you, Ella.’
‘And I love you too, Noah. How do you fancy skiving off for the rest of the afternoon?’
‘Will I get in trouble?’
‘Oh, yes. Lots, I should imagine.’
‘Sounds fun. Lead the way.’
32
SIX MONTHS LATER
‘Hurry up! We can’t afford to be late,’ Noah yells up the staircase. The house is finished and he’s already accepted an offer, so we’re off to the auction to bid on another run-down dump, allowing us to go through the whole renovation process again.
‘Mm, you look nice,’ he says, holding out my coat as I walk down the (beautifully painted) staircase in a skirt and blouse. Although we seem to live our lives in scruffy jeans and tops, Noah reckons we need to look like ‘ordinary punters’ at the auction. His view is that, if we pitch up looking like builders, people will cotton on to the potential of the property when we start bidding, and it might drive the price up. I think it’s all mumbo-jumbo, but I’m happy to go along with it for his sake.
I am excited, as I’ve never been to a house auction before, but there’s a part of me that also feels sad about selling Noah’s beautiful home and starting over with another wreck. It’s not just that it’s also been my home for the last three months; it’s that there’s so much of our story embedded in this house. Wherever I turn, there’s a reminder, whether it’s a memory of climbing the scaffolding when I look up at the front of the house, the tiles in the bathroom, or the staircase. Even though the kitchen is unrecognisable, with sleek units and lots of natural light from the bifold doors that open onto the garden, I can still remember the old layout with the bathroom at the back and Noah making one of his ludicrous sandwiches in the grotty kitchen. The buyers are a couple with a young family, and I try hard to think positively about how much they will enjoy living here.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’ Noah asks, as he folds himself into the passenger seat of the Fiat. Even though he normally moans like anything about travelling in my car, it’s all part of his bizarre psychological game today, so the van is staying behind.
‘I’ve put it into the satnav, but if you’re going to contradict it all the way like you usually do, I’ll turn it off.’
‘I don’t contradict it!’
‘Uh-huh? You believe what you want.’
As we pull out of the parking space, the disembodied voice tells me to turn right at the end of the road.
‘Why is she taking you that way?’ he queries. ‘I’d go left if I were you, and then head for the outlet centre. What?’
‘You didn’t even let her get to the end of the road. You’re getting worse, I swear.’
