Authors: Lauren Westwood
Finding Home
Lauren Westwood
About
Finding Home
A month ago, Amy Wood had her perfect home, her perfect boyfriend and her perfect job. Now she is broken-hearted, living in her parents' tiny bungalow, and working in local estate agents in Bath.
At least her new job keeps her busy. Rosemont Hall is a crumbling mansion riddled with woodworm, dry rot â and secrets. As Amy searches for the perfect owner to restore the house to its former glory, she begins to uncover pieces of the past that some people would rather remain hidden.
In her battle to save Rosemont Hall, Amy will encounter scary housekeepers, evil property developers and handsome American heirs - and will discover whether the secrets of the past can bring her closer to the future of her dreams...
To mom and dad â with love and thanks
Author's Note and Acknowledgements
The cup of tea on arrival at a country house is a thing which, as a rule, I particularly enjoy. I like the crackling logs, the shaded lights, the scent of buttered toast, the general atmosphere of leisured cosiness.
~ PG Wodehouse â
The Code of the Woosters
âIs Thornfield Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without a tearâwithout a kissâwithout a word?'
~ Charlotte Brontë â
Jane Eyre
October, London, NWâ
On paper, the flat looks perfect.
I rummage in my bag and uncrumple the printout of the particulars. The blurb describes it as a âbolthole', âwith lots of potential' in an âup-and-coming area', âclose to transport'. However, in the short time that I've been flat-hunting, I've learned that 'estateagentspeak' is a whole different language from the Queen's English. I'm pretty sure that âbolthole' means tiny, and âlots of potential' means bad plumbing, a grotty kitchen, and no central heating. The âup-and-coming area' means no Starbucks for miles, and the blister on my heel is testament to the fact that âclose to transport' means that in the wilds of Zone 3, the Tube is a twenty-minute walk, but you can park a car in the street without a resident's permit.
I double-check the map and put the papers back in my bag. After walking for miles down the busy road from the Tube, I'm finally getting closer to the arrow that marks Thornton Gardens. I like the name because it reminds me of Thorn
field
â the house where Jane Eyre met Mr Rochester. The sign for the road is half-hidden behind a flame-coloured Boston ivy on the corner house. Turning down the road, I instantly leave behind the squeal of bus brakes and the smell of fried chips, and enter what feels like another world.
Thornton Gardens is lined with parked cars and London plane trees, and as I crunch through the yellow leaves on the pavement, I spot not one, but two blue plaques on the houses of the slightly down-at-heel Victorian terrace. I've never heard of either the composer or the Crimean war journalist that apparently lived there, but I sense a sudden crackling of electricity in the air â an undercurrent of history that seems like a good omen for my new job teaching English literature at the college.
Near the end of the terrace there's a âfor sale' sign shaped like a giant lollipop propped against the steps. I make my way towards the house. From afar, I can see that the paint on the windowsills is chipped and the brickwork needs repointing. But something flickers inside my chest as I crane my neck and look upwards at each floor of the tall, red-brick house. The flat for sale is at the very top. From the frieze of cherubs over the door to the pigeons swirling in the sky high above the Dutch gable, I have a strange feeling that I've been here before. That I'm meant to be here now.
While I'm waiting for the estate agent to arrive, I mentally rehearse how I'm going to convince my boyfriend, Simon, to come and have a look. Even with some ticks against it, the flat is still over our budget. Whilst I'm content to find a place that âjust feels right', Simon will want to crunch the numbers. I'll tell him that between cycling to work and climbing all those stairs, I won't need to pay for a gym membership to keep fit. And we can do loads of the work ourselves â it will be so much fun to strip wallpaper, sand floorboards and choose paint colours together, not to mention scouring little antique shops for period furniture. Maybe I can take a weekend course in upholstery or sewing and make the curtains and cushions myselfâ¦
The fragile autumn sun goes behind a cloud and the sudden chill jars me back to reality. I look around for the estate agent â he's a few minutes late. To be honest, I'm a little nervous to meet him. When we spoke on the phone, he hadn't sounded overly impressed with my budget or the fact that I've spent the last seven years doing my PhD. In the end, I found myself exaggerating ever so slightly about my salary and Simon's promotion prospects at the bank where he works. Surely finding the perfect home is about more than facts and figures; noughts of a bank balance. It's about finding that place you've been looking for all your life without even knowing it; a safe little nest; an island in a turbulent sea. My mum always says that âevery pot has a lid'. I can only hope that she's right.
A dark green Mini with a racing stripe down the bonnet turns into the road and nips into a tiny spot on a double yellow. A man with spiky gelled hair wearing a pinstriped suit jumps out. His eyes flick past me, and I wish I'd worn a smart suit and heels rather than a vintage skirt from Camden Market and ballet flats left over from my student days.
âHello?' I say.
Realising that I must be the client, he breezes over to me. âSorry I'm late,' he says, all charm. I recognise his drawled vowels and nasal intonation from the phone. âI'm Marcus Hyde-Smythe. And you must beâ¦'
âAmy Wood.' As we shake hands, I'm instantly annoyed with myself for forgetting the
Doctor
Amy Wood part.
âAre we waiting for anyone else, or are you on your own today?' He gives me a little wink.
âJust me today. When I find the right place, I'll bring my boyfriend round. We've been renting for a few years, but now we're hoping to buy.'
Or, I am, I don't tell him. Because when I told Simon that I'd registered us at a few local estate agents, âjust in case something comes up', he hadn't actually sounded too keen. He was even less keen when he started receiving a daily barrage of text messages with particulars of every available flat in a five-mile radius. Sometimes I worry that to him, the rented ex-council flat in Docklands with the leather and chrome three-piece suite and the 50-inch 3D TV feels a little
too
much like home.
âGood good.' Marcus Hyde-Smythe's thin lips curve into a smile. âNow do remind me again, are you looking for modern or a fixer-upper?'
âOh â nothing too modern. I'd love to find a place with lots of character and original features.' Turning away, I look again at the front of the house. I can almost picture the women who might have lived here in the past: their long silk skirts rustling as they come out of the front door; hailing a Hansom cab, rushing off to attend a fitting for a new hat on Regent's Street, followed by tea at Fortnum and Masons⦠âIn fact,' I say dreamily, âfrom the outside, this house seems perfect.'
âOriginal features.' His long nose flares at the words like there's a foul smell. âGood good.' He checks an over-sized gold watch on his wrist. âWell, let's go up then. The other viewing should be just about finished.'
âOther viewing?'
âThis flat is listed with a few different estate agents. I've been told that another couple is viewing it before you.'
âOh.' Worry clumps in my chest. Unfortunately, my perfect flat might be someone else's perfect flat too â lots of people's, in fact. People with a lot more noughts on paper than Simon and me. But I can't think about that now. âGreat,' I say briskly. âLet's go up.'
He fishes out a bundle of keys from his pocket and opens the door. I step inside reverently. The foyer is littered with junk mail, but underneath there's an original red and black tile floor in a geometric pattern. At the rear, a staircase with a railing painted in layers of white gloss rises upward below a cracked moulding of intricate plaster fruit. I breathe in the smell of Mr Sheen, old house, and a slight undernote of wet dog. It's an unfamiliar smell, but one that I could definitely get used to.
From somewhere above there's a clip-clop of heels. A moment later, a ginger-haired woman in a red trouser suit with a clashing fake-tanned face appears on the stairs.
âHello, Florence,' my estate agent smarms. âGood viewing?'
The ginger-haired woman rolls her eyes. âGive them a few more minutes,' she says. âThey can't keep their hands off each other. They like the flat so much that I think they're about to try out the bedroom before the offer's even gone in â or any furniture.'
The breath freezes in my lungs. Have I lost the flat before I've even seen it? âUm, I'd still like to view it, if that's okay,' I say.
My estate agent gives me a look like he's a bit sorry for me. But I'm determined not to be put off by the competition. Before anyone can suggest otherwise, I march up the stairs.
There are several other flats in the building off the first and second floors, with doors painted in different colours of caked-on gloss. The final flight of stairs that goes up to the attic flat is narrow and rickety. From behind the shiny black door at the top I can hear high-pitched laughter that devolves into a passionate squeal. All of a sudden, I'm reminded of the scene where Jane Eyre discovers Mr Rochester's nasty little secret locked away up in the attic and her ill-fate is sealed. My resolve begins to waiver. Maybe I should come back another dayâ¦
âDo you want me to go first?' My estate agent comes up beside me. âMake sure they're decent?' He gives me another irritating wink.