Finding Home (20 page)

Just then, I hear the crunch of gravel. My clients! I'd practically forgotten about them.

I rush to the window. A silver Aston Martin pulls up in front of the house.

I spring into action, running down the stairs, rifling in my pocket for the paper with the client's name – a Mr O'Brien – leaving a trail of water dripping behind me.

As I reach the door, the car is moving again. It reverses in the drive, like they've taken one look and seen enough.

I run towards the car, waving my arms. ‘Mr O'Brien,' I shout. ‘Stop! I'm Amy Wood, the estate agent. Please don't leave. I'm here!'

The car stops. The driver door opens and a man gets out. He's wearing a black hooded tracksuit and looks much younger than I expected – about my age, I would say. Other than that he's fairly nondescript. But the woman who gets out of the passenger side is anything but. Tall and bleached blonde, she's wearing a micro skirt, lace tights, and gold stiletto heels. On top, she has on a fitted leather jacket that augments her impressive, oversized chest. Everything about her – nails, make-up, lips drawn in a little red pout – seems in perfect fabricated order.

‘Hello Mr O'Brien,' I say. ‘I'm really glad you came.'

‘It's Ronan Keene, actually,' the man says as we shake hands. ‘O'Brien's my agent.' The woman looks at me and sniffs.

‘Oh, of course,' I say. Agent?

‘And this is my girlfriend, Crystal.'

The woman looks at me with an irritated pout; like I'm a complete moron for not recognising her – or acting more impressed – or maybe it's because I stopped them from leaving – or maybe it's because I'm drenched and dripping from head to toe with rusty water. I rack my brain, trying to recall if I've seen either of them before. If the man is a celebrity, I definitely don't recognise him. The woman looks like someone who could have graced page 3 of the
Sun
, or perhaps a Z-lister from
Celebrity Love Island
. I'm not awed, but I give her a friendly smile. ‘Nice to meet you,' I say.

Introductions complete (though I still can't place either one of them), I run back to the car and grab my papers. As we walk to the door, I begin my spiel. ‘This house is truly special,' I say. ‘It's one of a kind. And with a little TLC, it could be amazing. Every feature is a piece of history.' I point out some of the decorative plasterwork on the outside of the house. The woman wrinkles her nose.

They step inside the front door and crane their necks looking around. I allow them a moment to be ‘awed' by the faded grandeur of the main hall, and then enthusiastically launch into a brief history of the house. ‘Rosemont Hall was built in 1765,' I say. ‘It's one of the finest examples of Georgian Palladian architecture in the region – maybe even the whole country. It's been in the Windham family for over 200 years. The first Windham won the house in a game of whist.'

As we embark upon the ‘tour', I watch them closely for any sign that they're awed, overwhelmed or impressed – anything I can connect with. The woman, Crystal, takes out a handkerchief and puts it over her nose as we go through the ground floor rooms.

‘Cracking place,' Ronan says. But if anything, he looks slightly puzzled by the surroundings.

‘We've had a quantity surveyor around,' I say, persevering with my sales pitch. ‘He's just doing a final report on how much the renovations are likely to cost. I know the house is in a bit of a state right now, but just think how much value you could add.'

Ronan shrugs. ‘Money's not really an issue, as long as we can do what we like, eh cupcake,' he flaps his elbow at the woman. ‘We'd need to be able to put in a full-size swimming pool, sauna, and gym, and clear those fields to build tennis-courts and the football pitch, of course.'

‘Of course.' I echo half-heartedly.

‘And Crystal wants one of those big open-plan kitchen diners with bi-fold doors and a breakfast bar,' he adds. ‘So we'd want to knock down some walls.' He swings an imaginary sledgehammer.

‘The house is listed, so there'd be some restrictions.' I say through my teeth. ‘But there's still a lot of scope to put your own stamp on it without altering the basic structure…'

‘Is bulldozing it altering the structure?' Crystal asks. She pulls out a compact mirror and reapplies her lipstick. ‘Because it's so dark and draughty – it would never do at all.'

‘Crystal…' Ronan says, ‘you said you'd keep an open mind.'

‘But why?' She pouts. ‘You know how much I loved that new-build mansion in Gerrards Cross. That pink marble Turkish bath was to die for. And the cinema wing…' She sighs. ‘I hate these horrible old houses. I mean – someone else has
lived
here.'

My hand itches to tweak her surgically altered nose. I walk over to the window and look out at the parkland, trying to remain calm and professional.

‘Crystal, we've talked about this…'

‘Yah know, I mean, why did you have to sign with Rovers? I know the money wasn't as good at Chelsea, but even Man City would have been better. Or Liverpool.'

‘Crystal—'

‘I'm sure there isn't a nail salon or a decent boutique for miles.'

It's obviously a lost cause. I'm not proud to say it, but I allow a tiny little mean streak in me to come to the surface.

‘Would you like to see the kitchen?' I ask, knowing that it's old-fashioned grottiness will horrify her. ‘It's in the basement – very spacious, if a little dated.'

‘Ugh,' Crystal says. ‘No thanks. I'll wait up here.'

Too bad.

I lead Ronan down the stairs. ‘It's a big space,' I say, ‘you could definitely do something with it.'

He seems almost to prefer the subterranean damp – or maybe he's just happy for a Crystal-free moment. ‘It's a nice house,' he says as we enter the first of the cavernous basement rooms. ‘It reminds me of my nan's house in County Down. Only a lot bigger, of course. I see that it has lots of potential.'

‘Yes it does.' I smile at him, grateful that someone finally seems to ‘get it' – on some level, at least. ‘It will be a lovely family home once it's restored. The previous owners who lived here were married for over forty years. It's a “together house” – a house for life.'

‘Yeah, but that's not really what we want.'

‘Oh?' my enthusiasm ebbs.

‘Yeah, because I'm never sure where I'll be from one season to the next.'

‘Season?'

‘The Premiership. You know – football. I signed with Bristol Rovers. We're newly promoted this season.'

‘Oh. Well, that is exciting. Maybe I've seen you when my dad… uhh… my boyfriend… watches
Match of the Day
.' (No wonder I've no idea who they are).

‘Maybe.' We check out the dank cave that houses the exploded boiler. I try not to picture this lovely house as a football party pad. Hot-tubs, WAGS, gym, football pitch, nail salon. With enough room left over for Crystal's very own live-in plastic surgeon.

Upstairs, Crystal is nowhere to be seen. ‘There's two more floors up above,' I tell him, as we make our way back to the entrance hall. ‘Would you like to see more?'

‘Sure,' he says with more enthusiasm than I had expected.

We start up the stairs, but he pauses on the landing in front of the portrait of the lady in pink.

‘Wow,' he says, ‘she's something.'

Renewed hope flickers in my mind. Maybe Mr Ronan Keene, Premiership Footballer, is not an entirely lost cause.

‘Yes she is.' I say. ‘I love the way she looks like she has a secret.'

An annoyed female voice filters up the stairs. ‘Ronan, can we go? I want to buy some flowers for Mummy.'

‘In a few minutes,' he shouts. ‘Okay,' he says to me. ‘You heard that – I've got to leave soon. So, let's see the bedrooms. I assume they're all en-suite?'

We move swiftly back in time through the bedrooms – some 70s decor, some 1950s, some 1930s or earlier. Although the proportions are lovely, I fear that the potential is lost on Ronan Keene. However, when we arrive back at the landing, I have a sudden flash of inspiration.

‘I know you need to go,' I say, ‘but there's one more room I want to show you – upstairs at the very top. I think it would make a great home cinema.'

He immediately looks interested. ‘Okay, let's see it.'

I take him up to the cavernous attic room with the round window in the pitch of the eaves. ‘You could use this room for just about anything,' I suggest. ‘A cinema, snooker room, a gym – or a pink marble Turkish bath.'

‘Yes,' he squints as he looks around. ‘I can see that. It's good.'

‘RO-NAN!'

‘I've got to go.'

I smile and gesture for him to lead the way downstairs. He pauses again at the portrait and shakes his head. I'm about to tell him that I met a real woman who is the spitting image of the girl in the picture, in case he wants to ‘trade up', but suddenly from downstairs, Crystal starts screaming.

We both rush down.

‘What is it, cupcake?' Ronan shouts.

We run to the library where Crystal is standing on an old sofa; her spike heels have ripped a hole in the upholstery and fluff is coming out.

‘I saw a mouse! There!' She points to a tiny hole at the base of one of the bookcases. ‘I hate this place. Let's go.'

‘Now, cupcake, I'm sure it's more afraid of you than you are of—'

‘No! And stop calling me that. We're leaving – NOW!'

Ronan lifts Crystal off the sofa and carries her out to the main hall. Her heels skid on the pitted marble floor as he sets her down. Turning to me, he shrugs apologetically. ‘I guess we'd better look at a new-build next time.'

‘That's fine,' I say, relieved that Crystal won't be living here. ‘There are lots of nice properties out there. I'd like to help you find one that's right for you.'

‘That'd be great,' Ronan says.

As we walk to the door I have a sudden brainstorm. ‘In fact, ‘if you really want modern, I know of a cracking penthouse flat in Bristol. All glass and chrome and views to kill for.'

‘Hmmm,' Ronan says. ‘What do you think, cupcake? Could you live in Brissy, or is it too near your mum?'

‘Anything's better than here,' Crystal moans.

It takes me a few tries to get the door unlocked. I'm secretly pleased that the rain has started up again and Crystal's gelled hair is going flat. She grabs the car keys from Ronan and rushes to the Aston Martin.

‘Sorry this wasn't the house for you,' I say. ‘But good luck in your search.'

‘Thanks.' Ronan glances wearily at the car. ‘Sorry to be so… high maintenance.'

‘No worries – ring the office if you're interested in the Bristol flat. And if I see anything else come on – new-build mansions and the like – I'll let you know straight away.'

We crunch through the wet gravel.

As we reach the cars, he pauses. ‘Hey, Amy, do you think they'd sell that picture? The one on the stairs?'

I stare at him. He really is keen.

‘I don't know. I think it goes with the house. But if I hear otherwise, I'll give you a ring.'

‘Okay.' He waves and gets into the car. Tyres squelch as they drive off.

I lean against my wet car and let the rusty water trickle down my nose. All my hopes for the day have dissolved like raindrops in the sea. At this moment, all I want to do is get back to my parents' bungalow and have a very long, very hot bath.

As if three terrible viewings aren't enough for one day, there is one additional nightmare in store – the office Christmas party. I return home, sink into the tub, and check my messages: two voicemails and three texts from David Waters asking me when and where to meet. I text him to meet me at the ‘Glow Bar' in Bristol where the dreaded event is being held. I put my phone on mute and set it on the edge of the sink. I close my eyes and think back to my visit to Rosemont Hall. For some reason I keep picturing the costumes – such lovely garments, so carefully preserved and looked after. Something else floats to the surface of my mind – something that Fred and Mary Blundell were discussing on their viewing of the Bristol penthouse. A Picasso in a new frame like ‘old wine in new bottles'...

I sit bolt upright in the bath, the sudsy water streaming off my skin. All along I've assumed that the girl in the pink dress was painted in 1899, because that's the date on the frame. But what if the date on the frame is a deliberate misdirection, and the portrait is, in fact, a modern painting done to look old?

On my visit to the house with David Waters, I found a ledger that listed Sir George's paintings bought and sold. One of them – a John Singer Sargent, I think – was auctioned off in a frame listed as ‘new'. It seems farfetched, but maybe the original frame was taken off that painting and used for the girl in the pink dress. Beyond that, the painter must have been very skilful to replicate the cracked varnish of an old painting, but surely that can be done too. And if the painting is modern, then the girl could be just about anyone.

But there's one person that it's most likely to be. Henry and Arabella were in love and secretly engaged to be married. The pink dress was hanging in a closet in her room. And the letters speak of a painter hired by Sir George to paint Henry's portrait. One by one, the pieces fall into place. Instead of painting Henry, the artist painted Arabella. The painting was still up in the attic studio during the fire, so it wasn't destroyed or sold off. It makes sense that Arabella dressed up in a beautiful Victorian-style ballgown for the party in honour of Henry's 21
^st
birthday. Unlike my original idea, she didn't dress up like the portrait, but rather, she sat for the portrait. And putting it in an old frame lent it gravitas. It was
meant
to fool future generations of onlookers – people like me – into thinking that the portrait was much older. It makes sense too that the painting is the ‘birthday present' that she mentioned in her letters to Henry. And when I asked Mrs Bradford if the woman was Sir George's wife or mother, it's no wonder she sniffed disdainfully at me. The young woman in the portrait is Arabella Windham!