Yet, all this is a delaying tactic because I’m not being decisive enough to do what I really came up here for, and I’ll be frustrated if I don’t. I can’t waste any opportunity. I slide open Stuart’s bedside drawers, check beneath the bed and open the wardrobe. After a quick scan of the bathroom, my heart rate slows. There’s nothing incriminating. Which is good, because I feel slightly grubby at having poked around. But it’s not as if I can ask him what I need to know outright, so for now, stealth is necessary.
As I walk down the stairs, my footsteps are muffled by thick carpet. Nina hated her feet getting cold. A large print, one of the first she completed at our art college, is framed in the middle of the wall, exactly halfway down. I briefly stop and study it, even though I could paint it myself from memory. It’s alive, rich in primary colours.
Downstairs is child-friendly, no glass tables or sharp corners. Two giant bean bags, one green, one blue, take up space in the living room between the oval wooden coffee table and the TV. It’s not quite to my taste, yet I’ve spent many happy evenings here watching movies with the kids (Paddington being the most popular choice lately) or discussing books with Nina’s book group friends.
My favourite place, however, is the kitchen, with its black marble island, underfloor heating and built-in wine racks. Nina was a gadget person (I’m not sure what the purpose of some of them even is) but they look interior-design-magazine chic.
The guest cottage to the rear of the back courtyard is designed to be a true haven. Nina came up with the idea to rent it out as a holiday let when we first viewed this house. It’s hard to think that was less than two years ago. Before . . . we all knew. There were no obvious signs; innocent times.
Stuart was doing well, there was no reason for them not to put in an offer for the spacious five-bedroom family home, complete with an acre of childhood-heaven-like grounds. It was very late in proceedings to put a halt to the buying and selling of their old and new homes – Nina didn’t want to rent – so they went ahead. Denial? Maybe. Or perhaps it was a desire to inhabit the future family home, however briefly.
Nina had further plans: help organize family holidays, team up with a local horse riding business and a nearby canoeing club, sell artwork (prints and pottery) at local markets. She was so utterly determined to be there for her children. Ever since Felix, her eldest – my godson – started primary school, she worked hard to ensure she could control her own working hours. Life is cruel.
However, my dreams aren’t totally dissimilar to hers: I’d like to sell more prints. I could learn to enjoy horse riding, for the children’s sake. There’s no harm in being flexible; I will alter my future plans so they’re more in tune with Nina’s.
‘Hello?’
I stop. Nina’s mother is at the bottom of the stairs looking up.
My brain kicks in. ‘Hi, Deborah. Stuart asked me to take the children to school. Felix mentioned a cuddly toy he’d lost, I thought I’d search his room and leave it on his bed for when they get home.’
‘I got such a fright. Seeing you, walking down . . .’
Surely she must’ve seen my car? ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a shock.’ Still, she stares. It gives me the creeps. ‘Shall I make you some tea?’
‘What, here?’ she says.
I push my hands into my pocket and grip the smoothness of Stuart’s tie. ‘Um . . .’
‘Which toy?’ she says.
My mind races. ‘His lion,’ I say softly. Nina bought it for him on one of their last ever days out at a zoo. ‘Stuart also asked me to help out because they had an attempted break-in last night.’
‘Oh, my! Not again! Are the children all right?’
‘Yes, everything’s fine. I waited in for the locksmith. All sorted. What do you mean, again?’
‘Someone tried to break in eight or nine months ago.’
‘Stuart didn’t mention it.’
‘Well, anyway, it was nice of you to help out. I’m going to check on the guest cottage; there are people arriving tomorrow for a long weekend.’
‘I can help,’ I say.
‘You do enough.’
‘I don’t mind.’
She looks past me as though she expects Nina to follow me down. I take my hand out of my pocket and gently walk past her. She turns to follow me, and as she does so, I see her place her hand in the small of her back and wince slightly.
I stop.
‘I promised Nina I wouldn’t let you do too much,’ I say, truthfully. ‘Please let me help.’
She nods her acquiescence.
I unlock the back door. We walk down the steps and cross the courtyard. To the right, are empty stables. Two metal pails, left by the previous owners, hang off a white-painted side wall. Déjà vu hits.
Nina and I looked around here together when it first came on the market. Stuart was away somewhere – Glasgow, I think – at the time, and Nina had such a strong feeling that this would be The Place that she hadn’t wanted to postpone a viewing. Nina asked me to keep it to ourselves though; she knew I wouldn’t mind lying by omission. This meant that after they’d moved in, I had to ensure my surprise and awe appeared genuine. It wasn’t hard; it is impressive.
Deborah and I walk side by side along the paved path edged with rose bushes that leads to the guest property. There’s always a disconcerting moment as I push open the cottage door. Are the previous guests still here? What odd items will we discover they’ve left behind?
‘Hello?’ I call out as we open the front door.
The sound of the back door slamming shut makes us both jump.
Silence.
There is no sign of anyone as I check the back door. It’s unlocked. I relax as I glance around because the cleaning company have definitely been and gone, I can tell by the residual smell of furniture polish and bleach. The door must’ve been left open by the cleaners. In fairness, a rare oversight.
While Deborah fills a vase with carnations, which she takes out of a basket I hadn’t noticed she was carrying, I flick through the guest book, skim-reading multiple paragraphs of compliments. Clean, stunning location, wonderful attention to detail, comfortable. I make a note to add the latest testimonial to the website.
‘I’ll make us some tea,’ I say. ‘I’ll clean up afterwards,’ I add before she can object.
I drop Stuart’s tie into the bin, along with the teabags and mini-cartons of long-life milk. Although it’s only little by little, I’ve removed yet another unnecessary reminder for Stuart. It’s rewarding. This is just one example of the many small but effective ways I can help.
I make Deborah’s tea extra milky, exactly how she likes it.
‘Thanks,’ she says as I hand her a mug decorated with poppies.
‘Shall we sit down?’ I say, pointing to the sofa.
‘No, we shouldn’t. We’ll leave creases. I’d rather stand to be honest.’
Grief makes me want to control things, makes me furious, makes me want to live. I mute my irritation; standing it is, then. She sips her tea with obvious non-enjoyment.
As I struggle to think of something neutral to say (a contrast to our relationship pre-Nina’s diagnosis), I compare my own surroundings with these luxurious ones. Our semi is nice enough, there’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s new and the walls are thin. It has a temporary feel to it as if the big bad wolf could blow the house down with one breath. Here, the old stone walls give off an air of permanence and security. I would feel happy and safe if I lived in a place with history. I’ve suggested to Ben a few times that we move; it’s time to bring the subject up again.