As I’m leaning over the rail, staring down, he turns and catches my eye. He kills the chainsaw, tilts back his goggles and lifts his ear defenders. ‘Hi there!’
‘Hi.’ I think this is the same guy that I saw out on the paddleboard in the harbour. Was it only yesterday?
Closer up, I can see that he’s very good-looking. His hair’s long, worn framing his face, and it’s a rich toffee brown with highlights which look as if they’ve been put there by years of sunshine. His skin’s bronzed too and I’m assuming that he must spend a lot of his time outdoors. He’s lean, slender, but there are taut muscles in his arms and the shape of his body beneath his clothes hints at being toned too. I’d guess that he’s younger than me, maybe mid-to-late thirties. His face looks young, carefree.
‘I thought there was no one home,’ he calls up to me. ‘Is the noise bothering you?’
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Though I confess that I’m interested in watching you too.’
‘It’s just something small I’m working on. Bread and butter stuff. You’re here on holiday?’
‘Kind of.’ He doesn’t need to know my business. ‘My brother owns this place.’
‘Ah. He’s made a great job of it. Very fancy. I came over and looked through the windows when it was empty. I’m about to stop for a coffee. Want to join me instead of shouting at each other?’
I think not and consider telling him that I have things to do. Important things. But I don’t. In fact, I don’t even know what to do with myself to quell the restlessness inside me. Plus, call me nosy, but I’d also like to have a closer look at his work. In our line of business, you never know when inspiration might strike or when you could see something that could be useful for a future project. So I’m torn between my reluctance to talk to anyone and a need to know more about this unusual form of art. I also wouldn’t mind seeing what his houseboat is like inside, compared to Bill’s – purely from an interior design point of view, you understand.
While I’m dithering, Ned puts down his chainsaw. ‘I have some new coffee that I’m going to brew, I’d be happy to share the experience. I’m only trying to be neighbourly. It’s up to you.’
‘OK,’ I hear myself say. It’s out of my mouth before my brain has chance to fully process it.
He smiles up at me. ‘Cool. Come right round. I’ll see you in a second.’
Ned goes inside and I stand there frozen at the rail, panic building inside of me. I’ve lived in London all of my life, in my current apartment for five years and I’ve barely spoken to any of my neighbours. I wouldn’t know who half of them are if I passed them in the street. I try to avoid bumping into them in our shared garden. And yet, here I am, in a quest for solitude, agreeing to coffee in the home of a stranger. I think I’ve gone mad.
Still, I can hardly tell him that I’ve changed my mind. I couldn’t just not turn up and I have no way of calling him. I’ll pop round there for long enough to knock back a coffee – the thought of which is quite appealing – have a look at his work and his boat, then I’ll politely leave. And while I’m there, I’ll reiterate my need for peace and quiet, which is, generally, not compatible with chainsaws.
Bracing myself, I take the blanket inside and throw it back on the sofa, before heading round to my neighbour’s house for coffee. I can do this. This morning I talked to a fidgety statue and a café owner and managed that OK. The conversation will be strictly on the level of inane chit-chat. We’ll pass the time of day and I’ll find out a bit more about his work. This man knows nothing about me and I’d like to keep it that way.
Chapter Eleven
Ned Haddon’s boat couldn’t be more different to Bill’s. Given the outside, I suppose that I’d expected nothing else. The front door’s already open as I walk up the gangway and onto the deck. Inside, Ned is at the sink drying cups. He turns to me and grins. ‘Welcome aboard!’
‘This is an amazing space,’ I tell him, genuinely surprised at how wonderful it is. The exterior might be a ramshackle hotchpotch of colour and untidiness, but in here you can tell, instantly, that it’s the home of an artist. It’s cluttered, filled with eclectic furnishings, clashing colours and is fabulously bohemian. Yet it isn’t what I envisaged at all. Shame on me, I thought it might be a bit grungy and unkempt. Far from it. Ned’s home is a veritable treasure trove of delights.
The main room is spacious and open, like Bill’s boat. However, the kitchen looks as if it has been hand-built, more than likely by Ned himself, I’d assume. There are only a few cupboards along one side but the doors have been exquisitely carved with oriental symbols. Hanging above the small copper sink, there are myriad glass baubles in every colour you can think of, perfectly placed to catch the light. As a result, a rainbow is reflected across the room in the sunshine, which makes me think that every room should have its own rainbow. Ahead of me there’s a wood-burning stove that’s gently warming the room. I continue my appraisal and it’s hard to take in everything at once.
Light floods in from the side windows and there’s a huge sign saying CAUTION: ADULT AT PLAY. One wall is made up of covered pegs adorned with hats – top hats, embroidered ones, a cowboy hat, a faded red fez, a tricorn edged with gold braid – enough to require further study. The other wall is decorated with a mural made entirely of driftwood, delicate pieces interlaced to form a swirling design like the crest of a wave. There’s a well-worn sofa in teal velvet opposite a blood red chesterfield, both of which have cosy-looking crochet blankets slung over them. A large rag rug covers the floorboards between them. On the far wall hangs a colourful cloth which is heavily embroidered with yin and yang symbols. In front of that is a crate with a bronze Buddha head on it and lots of candles in mosaic holders. Ned clearly favours rich, jewel colours and definitely has an eye for putting them together. Or maybe there’s a female influence here? Ida never mentioned that he had a wife or partner, but perhaps there is someone in his life.
‘You have a lot of lovely things,’ I say rather lamely, when I realise that I’m still staring and haven’t said much. In London, my apartment is minimalist, sparse, monochrome. I like to think it’s stylish but I wonder, looking round at the warmth and cosiness in this place, if Chris and I ever really made it a home? Perhaps that was part of the problem. However, I shut my mind down before I can dwell further on it.
‘Most of this stuff is collected from my travels over the years,’ Ned gestures around the living area. ‘Much of it old tat.’
‘Treasures,’ I correct. ‘Memories. You must love it or you wouldn’t hold on to it.’ I’m generally not a hoarder. I’m the opposite. An enthusiastic thrower-outer. Yet there’s one room in my home that’s filled with memories and I wonder how I’ll ever bear to part with the few precious possessions in there.
‘I have one very modern luxury,’ he says. ‘A state-of-the-art, all-singing, all-dancing coffee machine. I have a friend with a café by the beach. She got it at trade price for me.’
‘Ida? I had the pleasure of meeting her,’ I tell him. ‘I went down to the café this morning. She said you were her friend and my neighbour.’