His 'n' Hers (23 page)

We’ve been asked to come into our solicitor’s office to sign the contracts. Now it’s all done we’re standing outside the offices of de Gray and Hampton.

‘How does it feel to be officially in debt for hundreds of thousands of pounds?’ I ask Alison.

‘Not bad, I suppose,’ she says, grinning.

‘No regrets?’

Alison shakes her head. ‘None whatsoever.’

As we head back to the flat we pass an off-licence so I go in and buy a bottle of Moët and Chandon. When we get back to the flat we drink the lot with our first Indian takeaway in months while Disco eats a very posh brand of cat food – gourmet chicken dinner, the most expensive we can find in the supermarket.

We’re in our flat. Our new home. When the estate agent handed the keys over to us half an hour ago I thought Alison was going to cry. Right now, however, she seems deliriously happy. She’s wandering around all the rooms in our poorly decorated flat squealing with delight. ‘These are our walls!’ she yells in the kitchen, so loudly that Disco runs out of the room.

‘These are our light switches!’ she screams in the hallway.

‘See this horrible 1970s brown carpet in the living room?’ she asks, pointing to it. ‘It belongs to us!’

‘And what about the smell of old ladies?’ I ask. ‘Who does that belong to?’

Alison sniffs the air. ‘You’re right. It doesn’t so much
smell
of old ladies as
reek
.’ Alison walks across to the door and sniffs the wallpaper. ‘I think it’s in the bricks, you know. I think the actual bricks that make up our home have been permeated with the essence of old lady. We’re never going to get rid of this smell, ever. It’s going to live with you, me and Disco for the rest of our lives.’

I’m about to put out the bins when the doorbell rings. I know who it is, though. It’s the builder we’re thinking of hiring. We couldn’t get anyone to recommend one because everyone we knew who had had builders said they wouldn’t recommend them to their worst enemies so I did some research. I got six from the
Yellow Pages
to come round and give us quotes so I could see what they were like face to face. Of the six we’ve waited in for, this is the only one to show up.

‘Hi,’ I say, answering the door to a tall ferret-like man with a beard.

‘I’m Mr Norman from A1 Plus Building Construction Ltd,’ he says, in a strong Essex accent, offering his hand.

I shake it and invite him in and as we walk into the living room Disco takes one look at him and disappears behind the sofa. Alison and I show him round the flat and tell him what we want done – a new kitchen, the wall knocking down between the living room and the dining room, replastering in the two bedrooms, a new bathroom and all the floorboards sanded and varnished. He doesn’t seem fazed by any of it.

‘So,’ I say, leading Mr Norman to the front door having agreed a rough estimate for the job, ‘how long do you think it’ll take you to do the work?’

He looks at his pad as if making a rough calculation. ‘Six weeks,’ he says eventually.

‘Six weeks?’ I say. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. We don’t hang around, Mr Owen. We should be done in four but I’ve said six to be on the safe side.’

‘But no matter what happens, you’ll be done in six weeks?’

‘On my mother’s life.’

‘I know I’ve just asked you this,’ I tell him, ‘but you’re one hundred per cent sure that the whole job will be finished from top to bottom in six weeks? It’s just that we’ve had a lot of friends who’ve had builders in and, well, their six weeks quite often ends up being a lot longer.’

‘They’ve probably used cowboys,’ he says. ‘There’s a lot of them about. And, frankly, they’re a blot on the face of the trade. But I guarantee you, Mr Owen, that when I say six weeks for a job I mean six weeks . . . or less.’

While Mr Norman puts away his notepad Alison and I exchange glances. I shrug, Alison nods and the deal is done.

I clear my throat as if making an announcement: ‘I’m pleased to tell you, Mr Norman, that you’ve got the job.’

‘Great,’ he replies. ‘We’ll see you bright and early Monday morning.’

The mattress that Alison and I are lying on is currently the closest thing we have to a bed as everything else is in storage. Alison is so grumpy because of the builders that I’m afraid for my life. The six-week self-imposed deadline has come and gone and they are now slowly driving us insane. They don’t listen to anything we say, they’ve installed things upside down and the wrong way round – you name it, they’ve done it. Worse still, Alison and I have been living, sleeping, eating (and dying a little on the inside) in one room – the rear bedroom – for weeks. For the past week and a half we’ve had no bathroom so we’ve been showering at the gym. We haven’t had a cooker for even longer so we’ve been eating either takeaways or microwaved food. I bought a camping-gas stove a fortnight ago but after one evening meal too many of beans on toast Alison now screams at the mere sight of the can-opener. And if that’s not enough, it’s now costing twice the original estimate to do all the necessary work. We had to go back to the mortgage-lenders a month ago and practically beg them for some more money. For a while, it was touch and go as to whether they’d give it to us.

‘I’m going to go to sleep,’ I tell Alison, and I turn off my light. She doesn’t reply. Regardless, I reach across to kiss her goodnight and she pulls away.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ I ask short-temperedly.

‘Nothing,’ hisses Alison.

‘Fine,’ I snap.

‘I feel like the builders are taking over our lives,’ says Alison, unprompted.

‘That’s because they are.’

‘Well, it’s all your fault that things are like this.’

‘My fault?’

‘You let them walk all over you. You’re a man, you should be standing up to them.’

‘Hang on. Whatever happened to sexual equality? Why don’t you bloody well stand up to them if I’m such a lady-boy?’

‘I’m just saying you should stand up to them. I’d do it myself but they never take me seriously. I don’t see why I should do everything.’

‘But you don’t do everything.’

‘This is just great,’ snaps Alison. ‘You’d much rather lie here arguing with me than argue with the builders.’

‘I tell you what, you’re wrong. At this exact moment in time I’d rather be in bed with one of the builders than with you. They might be a bit rough around the edges but at least they’d have the decency not to be a walking gob on legs.’

Once again we’re lying in neither of our usual positions that involve touching or spooning but rather we’re silently fuming with each other.

‘Jim?’ whispers Alison.

Here we go again. It’s our post-row, pre-making up ritual, only this time . . .

‘Hmm?’ I mutter noncommittally.

‘Are you talking to me?’

I say nothing because I’m not talking to her.

‘So you’re not talking to me?’

I allow myself to shrug because it’s not really talking.

‘Well, listen,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s okay.’ I sigh. ‘I’m sorry too.’

‘Friends?’ she says, rubbing my calf with her foot.

I don’t reply, but Alison takes my silence as an affirmative.

‘I hate those sodding builders,’ says Alison vengefully. ‘I’m not just saying that. I do, really. I
hate
them. Any excuse and they stop work – a national shortage of trained plasterers, suppliers sending the wrong parts, adverse weather conditions, too cold, too wet, too hot, too windy, mysterious electrical faults . . . The list is endless. Do you know what? I came home tonight and it looked like the only thing they’d moved all day was the kettle so that they could make themselves a cup of tea.’

‘I think that’s what they do all day – drink tea and read the sodding
Daily Star
.’

‘What I’d give to have five minutes with them with their hands tied behind their backs and me armed with a blunt instrument.’

‘That’s a bit violent,’ I say, coolly.

‘That’s how they make me feel. I feel like they’re taking our dream and smashing it. Honestly, they’re like the children in that Graham Greene short story where the kids systematically vandalise a house just for the sheer fun of it. What’s it called again? It’s going to bug me all night if I can’t remember.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never read any Graham Greene.’

‘I thought everyone did that story at school. It’s like Shakespeare. Didn’t you do it?’