“Hello, hello!” Joe’s voice breaks into the conversation as he arrives in the garden via the side passage. “Thought I’d find you out here.”
He comes over to kiss me, and as his hand squeezes my shoulder, I feel the disbelieving head rush I still occasionally get. I’m with Joe. For good. It all worked out. It so nearly might not have done. But it did.
When Joe has greeted everyone and poured himself out a drink, he comes back to me and proffers his phone.
“So…I found a house.”
“What?” I look up, instantly alert, because we’ve been property searching, but it’s impossible. Houses might just as well be the lesser crested dodo. Either they cost a gazillion pounds, or…No, that’s it. That’s the only issue. They cost a gazillion pounds, unless you live out in the sticks like Bean does. But Joe needs to get to St. Thomas’ Hospital and my job is in Soho, so we’re trying for the general London-ish area. Even Temi has taken to biting her lip when I ask her if she’s found us anything, and she pretty much considers herself a property consultant.
“A house,” he repeats. “And we could afford it.”
“A house?” I crinkle my brow. “No. You mean a flat.”
“A house.”
“A house?”
“It’s…unusual. The estate agent said to me, ‘There is a house, but it’s so ugly, no one will go and see it.’？”
“Ugly?” I stiffen with interest, and Joe grins.
“That’s what he said. Quirky was the other word he used. Thought you’d like to see it.”
He gives me his phone, and I look down at a photo of the weirdest house I’ve ever seen. It seems to be clad in about four different finishes, from brick to fake stone to pebble dash to a kind of clapboard. It has a lopsided gable and a falling-down porch and a ratty tree leaning up against it. But it’s speaking to me. It has kindness in its lines. It’s saying, Give me a chance. I’ll look after you.
I scroll through photos of a terrible sitting room, a green bathroom, a brown decrepit kitchen, three bedrooms, then back to the exterior. Already my heart is swelling with love.
“Crikey,” says Dad, peering over my shoulder. “That is ugly.”
“It’s not ugly!” I say defensively. “At least, it’s ugly in a good way. Houses should be a bit ugly. Gives them character.”
“I’ve always thought so.” Joe meets my eyes, and I know he gets it, totally.
“I mean, who wants some perfect palace?”
“Not me,” says Joe resolutely. “Never.”
“Effie!” says Bean, peering over my other shoulder, sounding aghast. “You can’t be serious.”
“I love it,” I say stubbornly. “It’s exactly my kind of house.”
“But the pebble dash.”
“I love the pebble dash.”
“But the windows.” She sounds actually upset. “And they’d cost a fortune to replace.”
“I love the windows,” I say defiantly. “They’re the best bit.”
“OK, chicken legs are up,” chimes in Adam, coming out of the kitchen with a baking tray, and everyone turns toward the food.
As we all sit down at the wooden table, juggling plates and chicken legs and napkins and glasses, I’m half-listening to the conversation about the herb marinade and nodding and smiling. But at the same time, I keep glancing down at photos of the house and my mind is full of visions. Visions of the future. Me. Joe. A dear, ugly place to make our own.
And they’re all good.
In memory of Sharon Propson
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my wise editors—Kara Cesare, Whitney Frick, Clio Seraphim, and Frankie Gray—together with everyone at The Dial Press.
Huge thanks also, as always, to Kim Witherspoon, Araminta Whitley, and Marina de Pass.