I look at the photograph of Becky’s mum – she must only be about seven. She looks back at me with an intense stare, and I think that if anyone can save the planet, it’s very possibly her. Anyway, I raise my bottle to her in a silent thank you. If she’d contested the will, Becky might not have inherited this place, and she wouldn’t have offered me a room at £400 a month, which wouldn’t have got me space in a broom closet anywhere else in commutable distance of King’s Cross, where my new job was situated.
‘Just going to get out of this jacket,’ Becky says, looking down at her work clothes; then she disappears for a moment and I’m left looking around. The house is old-fashioned, stuffed full of the sort of mid-century furniture that would sell for vast amounts of money on eBay – there’s an Ercol dresser in the sitting room and dining chairs that look like they’ve come straight out of Heal’s. I take a photo of the huge potted plant that looms in the corner like a triffid, and then I wander into the hall. It’s huge and airy, with a polished wooden banister that twirls round and up to the third floor where there’s a skylight – dark just now, because it’s midwinter, but I bet it fills this space with light in the middle of summer. There’s a huge wooden coat stand with a mirror by the interior door, and a porch with ceramic tiles worn through years of footsteps passing over them. The place must be 150 years old, at least. And – I push the sitting room door open – there’s enough space for everyone to collapse on the sofas in a Sunday-ish sort of way. The paintings on the walls are draped with brightly coloured tinsel and fairy lights, and there’s a Christmas tree on the side table, decked with multi-coloured lights and hung with a selection of baubles, which look—
‘Hideous, aren’t they?’ Becky’s voice sounds over my shoulder. ‘I couldn’t resist. They’re from the pound shop so I just went to town a bit. If you can’t be tacky at Christmas, when can you?’
‘I love it,’ I say, and I do. Becky disappears back into the kitchen and I can hear the sound of her warbling out of tune to Mariah Carey and the clattering of plates and saucepans. I stand in the hallway and look at this amazing house that I couldn’t afford in a million years, and I think back to about two months ago when I saw an advert for my dream job in publishing come up and wondered if I should take the chance and apply. And how Nanna Beth had said, ‘Nothing ventured, lovey – you never know what’s around the corner …’
An hour later and we’re in the kitchen and everything’s been laid out so it looks perfect for the housewarming party.
‘Stop!’ I put a hand up in the air.
Becky stops dead and I leap between her and the massive old oak table in the kitchen. Her face registers alarm as I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and then she rolls her eyes as she realises what I’m doing.
With my free hand, I reach across, straightening a plate and moving a piece of tinsel so it sits jauntily beside the jewel-bright heaps of salsa and guacamole. ‘There.’
Leaning over, I take a photo from above and step back, letting her put the tray of tequila shots down on the table.
‘Since when were you the Instagram queen?’ Becky tucks back a strand of hair that’s escaped from behind her ear. She’s had it cut into a sleek graduated bob, which makes her look like a proper grown-up, especially as she’s still dressed in her work clothes of grey slim-fitting trousers and a pale blouse made of silky stuff, which I would definitely have spilled coffee on within an hour. But she’s here at 6.30 p.m. looking as if she’s just got out of the shower, instead of having battled her way home through London traffic after a long day doing corporate law stuff. I’ve taken off my pink fluffy coat because it was making me feel like a dislodged tree bauble, or a pom-pom, in comparison to Becky’s minimalist chic.
‘Hardly,’ I say, fiddling with a filter and making the photo look nice before hashtagging it and hitting share. ‘I just thought it’d be nice to show everyone back home what it’s like living in London.’
‘And make a point of what a lovely time you’re having even though they all think you’re insane to give up a promotion in Bournemouth for a pay cut up here?’ she says.
I nod, and pick up a tortilla chip, breaking it in half. ‘That too,’ I admit, making a face. ‘And Nanna Beth is on there too – she’s got herself an iPhone contract. I’m her only Instagram follower so far.’
‘She’s going to be sharing selfies with all the hot doctors in the nursing home, isn’t she?’ Becky snorts with laughter.
I turn the phone so she can see it. @nanna_beth1939 has posted a string of photos of her new ground-floor flat in the sheltered accommodation unit she’s moved into.
‘Oh, bless,’ says Becky, taking my phone so she can have a closer look. ‘Look, she’s got that wooden carving you bought her in Cyprus on the mantelpiece.’
I peer over her shoulder. ‘Ahh, that’s nice.’ I’m hit by a wave of guilt that I’m going to be up here and she’s going to be down there. I’ve spent the last year living in her house, ever since Grandpa died, and it’s going to be weird not having her there every night when I get home from work.
‘She’ll be fine,’ says Becky, as if reading my thoughts. She clicks the phone off and puts it down on the table. ‘And it’s not as if you’re miles away. It’s a train ride, that’s all.’
‘I know. Just feels weird leaving her to the tender mercies of Mum.’
Becky makes a face. ‘Yeah, well, she’s not exactly … well, she wasn’t at the front of the queue when they were giving out the nurturing quota, was she?’
I snort. My mother is many things, but maternal is not one of them. I mean she’s lovely, in her own way. But I’m not sure she’ll remember to pop round every couple of days and check Nanna Beth’s doing okay in her new place. Anyway. I square my shoulders and think of what Nanna Beth told me when she’d pressed a roll of twenty-pound notes into my hand yesterday morning. It was time for me to step out into the big world and let her do her own thing. Slightly odd role reversal, I know, but our family’s always been a bit unusual.
In the kitchen, Becky’s still singing out of tune and lighting the tiny tea-light candles that are scattered around. Even when we were living in university halls, she managed to make her room look good.
There’s a clatter as someone opens the door, and a gust of air blows a couple of Christmas cards off the top of the fridge. I bend down and pick them up, catching the one-sided conversation that’s going on in the hall.
‘You said you’d be able to get away.’ It must be Emma, the girl Becky’s found to take another one of the rooms.
There’s a long pause and I hover by the kitchen door, wondering if I should pop my head round and say hello. Becky’s stirring spiced chicken and peppers, filling the room with a smell that makes my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
‘What about me?’ Emma says. My eyes widen. I shouldn’t be listening in, but I’m a sucker for a bit of drama. I fiddle with my phone, trying to look as if I’m busy and not just eavesdropping. Emma’s voice is in that middle ground, somewhere between angry and upset.