A lot has changed for you during the last twelve months, but sadly not for me. We still don’t have a baby. You kept your word about taking some time off for our anniversary, though – something which had become inconceivable in recent months – so that we could go away for the weekend. You arranged for a neighbour to look after Bob, told me to pack a bag, and my passport, but wouldn’t tell me where we were going. I swapped my dog-hair-covered jeans for a designer dress I’d found in a Notting Hill charity shop, and even splashed out on a new lipstick.
You hailed a black cab as soon as we left the flat for our anniversary weekend away. I thought the taxi might take us to St Pancras…or the airport. But after thirty minutes of negotiating London’s all-day rush hour, we stopped on a residential street in Hampstead Village, one of your favourite parts of London. Probably because Henry Winter owns a house there. It’s super posh, but I didn’t think people like us needed a passport to visit, so I wondered why you had told me to bring mine.
After paying the driver, including a generous tip, we clambered out onto the pavement with our bags and you reached inside your pocket.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, eyeing up the small but perfectly wrapped gift in your hand. The ribbon was tied in such a pretty bow, I wondered if someone had done it for you.
‘Happy anniversary,’ you replied with a grin.
‘We weren’t meant to exchange presents until Sunday—’
‘Oh, really? I’ll take it back then.’
I grabbed the pretty parcel. ‘I’ve seen it now, so may as well open it. I hope it’s cotton. That’s the traditional gift for surviving two years of marriage.’
‘I think it’s about celebrating, not surviving, and I didn’t know I’d married someone so demanding.’
‘Yes, you did,’ I said, carefully removing the paper.
It revealed a small velvet box – the kind that might contain jewellery – and was turquoise, my favourite colour. I think I was half expecting earrings, but when I opened the lid, I found a key.
‘If you could live in any house on this street, which one would you choose?’ you asked.
I stared up at the old, detached, double-fronted Victorian house we were standing outside. Its red-brick walls were overgrown with what looked like a mix of wisteria branches and ivy. Some of the glass in the bay windows was smashed, others were boarded up. It was the definition of a fixer-upper – broken but beautiful – and I couldn’t help noticing the SOLD sign outside.
‘Are you serious?’ I asked.
‘Almost always.’
I felt like a kid who had been given the key to a chocolate factory.
The front door was the same turquoise colour as the velvet box and had been recently painted, unlike any other part of the building. When the key opened the door, I cried – I couldn’t believe that we owned an actual house, having struggled to pay the rent for a shitty tiny studio flat for so long.
The scene inside was just as derelict as the view from the street. The whole place smelled of damp, there were missing floorboards, peeling wallpaper, and ancient fixtures and fittings covered in dust and cobwebs. Loose wires hung from holes in the ceiling where I presumed lights must once have been, and there was graffiti on some of the walls. But I was already in love. I wandered around the large, bright rooms, all of which were empty but filled with possibilities and potential.
‘Did you decorate it yourself?’ I asked and you laughed.
‘No, I thought maybe you could. I know it needs a bit of work—’
‘A bit?’
‘But we never would have been able to afford it otherwise.’
‘I love it.’
‘Do you?’ you asked.
‘Yes. All I got you was a pair of socks.’
‘Well, that’s ruined the surprise…’
‘At least my gift was made of cotton.’
‘Which year is bricks? We could wait until then…’
My anxiety rose to the surface and spoiled our fun. ‘Can we really afford it?’
You smiled to cover your lie hesitation, but I still saw it. You’ve always liked to measure out your answers before giving them, never offering too much or too little.
‘Yes, it’s been a very good year. I’ve been a bit too busy to enjoy it, but I think it’s time we started living the life we always dreamed of. Don’t you? I thought we could take our time renovating… do some of the work ourselves. Turn it into our very own growlery and make this our forever home.’ I made a mental note to look up the word ‘growlery’。 ‘If you think the ground floor is good, you should see upstairs,’ you said.