Fix Them Up, page 4
‘I work hard, but it is my full-time job,’ Lydia added, as if answering my mental question. ‘Most people don’t have time to work out because they have actual lives. And families. Or see exercise as a means to an end, which I get. But I love it. I live for it.’
I nodded, wishing I understood that mentality. I liked graphic design, sure, but I didn’t live for it. Some days, I wondered if I even liked it all that much.
‘Speaking of work. How did you swindle the time off?’ A curious tone entered Lydia’s voice.
‘Extended compassionate leave. Unpaid, but still. My boss, Willa, was understanding. She also lost her mum last year. Plus, I think two months of not paying my salary was appealing. They aren’t having the best time, financially.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s a silver lining. The extended leave, I mean.’
‘Yep. Thank god for dead dads, huh?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘I’m joking, Lyd. You’re right. It’s a relief to be able to focus on this: new carpets, a lick of paint. The only big job will be opening the kitchen into the dining room to create an open-plan kitchen-diner. I looked it up, and I don’t need planning permission if I’m not extending. Even if it would be much better if we could…’
Lydia jumped up, and I trailed after her. We looked at the wall separating the dining room and the galley kitchen.
‘Yeah.’ Lydia nodded. ‘But if you knocked this wall down, it would be huge.’
I nodded. ‘I could even create a little snug here. I think there is enough room for a TV and sofa.’
‘I can see that.’
‘And over here,’ I gestured to the centre of the room, ‘once the wall is gone, there is enough room for an island, with barstools for three at least.’
I began designing the space in my head. My mind flooded with Pinterest-like images of arched bookcases and gorgeous parquet flooring. Soft plaster-pink walls contrasted with deep navy cabinets – a cosy breakfast nook by the window. I was itching to pick out the perfect tile for the backsplash. My mum and Graham’s Edwardian terrace house resembled an eccentric library. Annotated novels and travel books doubled as coffee tables, cups of tea balancing precariously on top. I loved it but always longed to put my own stamp on a house. I hadn’t expected it to be my dead dad’s childhood home.
‘What did your mum say about you moving up here?’ Lydia asked wryly.
My mum had never made her dislike of the North unknown. When my parents got married, my dad agreed to a wedding with all his friends and family at Everly Heath Church in exchange for moving down south to Reading, where my mum was working at a school. It seemed like an even exchange in my head, but now that I thought about it, ultimatums probably didn’t set a good tone to start a marriage.
‘She…’ Should I lie again? I lied to get out of trouble all the time. At this point, I was worried it was pathological. But something about Lydia’s earnest face and helpful spirit made me want to be honest.
‘She doesn’t know,’ I admitted and waited for the gasp. My mother was scary as fuck. Even Lydia knew that.
I didn’t hear any reaction, so I looked up to find Lydia staring at me, a fearful expression on her features.
‘What?’
Lydia whistled. ‘You grew some balls.’
‘What do you mean?’ I protested. ‘It’s fine. It’s two months, and we’re not in each other’s pockets, so I’ll be back in London soon.’
Lydia’s eyes widened, ‘This is what it feels like to be in the rebel alliance.’ I ignored Lydia’s comment.
I groaned and threw my head against my cousin’s muscly shoulder. ‘Please help me.’
‘Hang on. You talked me through it. You have it all planned out.’
‘I don’t. I will get overwhelmed and stressed and get carried away and spend too much. Everything I want to do will cost a million pounds. And maybe I could justify half of it if I was staying, but I’m selling,’ I said so fast that I ran out of steam towards the end.
‘Okay, okay. Let’s break it down,’ Lydia patted me on the shoulder. ‘What first?’
‘Builder quotes.’
‘Oh!’ A light bulb appeared over Lydia’s head, illuminating her dirty-blonde hair. She grabbed my arm. ‘Some family friends of ours, the Hunters, could help. They’re builders. I’ll give you Kevin’s number,’ Lydia added, searching for her phone.
‘Do you think they’d be available?’
‘Oh yeah. They always do favours around here, especially for locals. I bet if I twisted his arm—’
‘I’m not local.’
‘No, but your dad is. Was.’ She flinched, then recovered. ‘And I am. I’ll call in a favour, don’t worry.’
She grinned, infectious; it made me smile back.
‘That would be great. Thanks, Lyd.’ I looked around the dusty dining room. ‘God, there’s so much to do. I don’t know where to start.’
‘Why don’t we make a list together, now?’
A list would be helpful. It would be even more helpful to get the words out. To speak it all out loud. I forced down the instinct to say no. To insist I could do this alone. She’d already offered the Hunters. I couldn’t take up more of her time. I couldn’t be more of a burden.
‘That would be great. Shall we start upstairs and work our way down?’
Lydia grinned. ‘I’m opening the next bottle of prosecco.’
Chapter Four
Kat’s To-Do List
Find builder!!! Call Kevin Hunter – 07000 900463
Call locksmith
Deep clean house
Call Mum back (plan what to say!!!)
New light fittings
Cast iron radiators
Arched bookcases in alcoves Shelves in alcoves
Fitted dining nook? Research prices
Bifolds? Research prices
Sockets that don’t spark (electrocution is not a vibe)
A loud bang echoed from downstairs, and my crusty eyelids flew open. My mouth was bone dry, and my head pounded. I craned my neck, listening. Had I imagined the noise? I lifted my body. I’d slept face down on the half-deflated mattress. I glanced down to see my boob hanging out of my pyjama top. I wiped my mouth where spit had dried on my cheek and rose to my feet. My head was pounding, full of blurry memories of Lydia and me drinking prosecco from plastic cups, burning scented candles and dancing to Taylor Swift.
A soft mutter of ‘Ow, fuck’ floated upstairs, making my head whip around to listen. My palms began to sweat out last night’s prosecco.
Who the fuck was in my house?
My heart jumped as another shuffle sounded from downstairs.
Someone had broken into my dad’s house. My house.
My head sloshed around as I unplugged the little lamp I’d brought and brandished it before me. I tiptoed down the stairs, pausing to assess the sound of whoever was in the living room.
An obnoxiously loud ringtone went off, and I heard a man’s voice.
‘Ey up,’ a deep voice said. I could hear the tinny replies on the other end as I pressed myself against the wall in the hallway so I couldn’t be seen.
Who the fuck breaks into an empty house? There was nothing to steal. Did he check through the window, see the sight of half-empty boxes of cleaning solutions and think, Oh yeah, I need some more bleach for the downstairs loo?
‘Alright.’ His voice echoed, bouncing off the bare walls. ‘There’s nowt we can do about it now anyway, Jack. I know. We’ll order some more and take the hit. I know you are. It’s fine.
‘Alright. Talk to you later.’ The man hung up, and I could hear his footsteps approaching.
Any second, he would come around the corner and see me. What if he was armed? What if he was going to kidnap me and submit me to human trafficking? My thoughts spiralled. All the murders and kidnappings from my true crime podcasts eddied around in my brain.
It was fight or flight, and I chose both.
I let out a battle cry and held the lamp above my head, jumping out into the doorway.
‘Fucking ’ell!’
A notepad fell to the floor as the criminal caught the lamp I’d half-thrown in his direction with ease. He held it up, his eyes wide like it could explode any minute. In my hungover strategising, I’d thought I’d throw the lamp and run like some sort of grenade.
I saw the face in front of me – a familiar face.
‘You,’ I seethed.
Car park man. The man from the church car park was standing in my living room. The man who had callously stolen my space and then had the gall to attend my dad’s funeral.
‘What—I—’ the man sputtered. Confusion and shock crossed his features, one after the other in a comical display, like a cartoon character.
‘Come to steal something else?’ My hands went to my hips. ‘What do you need now? My kidney?’
His gaze travelled all over me, his face flickering through emotions I couldn’t read. Dark eyes caught on my bare legs, and I couldn’t help but notice the way they dragged up my body. I shifted my stance, crossing my arms, suddenly conscious I wasn’t wearing a bra.
‘Well? Cat got your tongue?’ Since when did I say old-timey shit like that? This house was clearly rubbing off on me.
His cheeks flushed at my question, and I felt a morsel of glee.
He held his hands up like he feared another lamp being thrown in his direction. ‘I – I didn’t know you were Jim’s daughter. I wouldn’t have—’
‘Wouldn’t have stolen a car parking space from his daughter at his funeral?’
The funeral. Cue full-body cringe. He’d seen me break down. He’d seen me flee the church. White-hot embarrassment flooded my body.
‘I didn’t know.’ He took a step closer. ‘I wouldn’t have – I would have given you the space.’
‘Mm-hmm.’ I nodded sarcastically.
As we stood closer, the juxtaposition of our clothes was even more apparent. My silky floral pyjamas, exposed legs, and probably questionable morning breath, while he wore a long-sleeved fitted black tee, utility trousers, and steel-capped boots. He ran his hands through his dark brown hair that curled at his temples. The scruff around his face was more like a beard than it was that day at the funeral. He had deep brown eyes that I couldn’t deny were inherently attractive.
He was totally out of his comfort zone.
It almost made me laugh.
I stepped back, tucking my hair behind my shoulder, attempting to make it look less dishevelled.
‘Next question. Do you want to explain why you’re committing domestic burglary?’ I said haughtily, a bit high from making a man about six foot three blush.
He frowned. ‘You called me.’
I huffed a laugh. ‘I certainly did not.’
He spoke slowly. ‘Yes, you did.’ He pointed to the front door. ‘Your door is broken. It was half open. I figured no daft sod is going to sleep in a house without a door that can at least shut closed.’
It was my turn to blush. I’d forgotten about the broken lock, and after the second bottle of prosecco, I hadn’t cared. After Lydia got an Uber home, I stomped upstairs, collapsed on my makeshift bed and went to sleep.
‘I –’ I opened my mouth, attempting to reclaim some ground, but came up with nothing.
The man raised a single dark eyebrow. ‘I got a voicemail from an unknown number at one thirty in the morning. Two women, sounding pissed as farts, asked if I’d come around and look at the house. As soon as possible. It sounded like an emergency –’
‘No –’ I opened my mouth to challenge, but then – oh god.
A memory hit me. Lydia and I still sat on the living room floor, calling up her family friend on my phone and leaving a voicemail. It was a messy, drunk voicemail that probably made no sense.
‘Now I’m realising it was you and Lydia. The cousin. Brian and Sandra’s niece.’
‘How do you know my auntie and uncle?’
He crossed his arms. ‘We’re family friends. My parents and Lydia’s parents were close.’ He flinched and corrected. ‘Are close.’
My eyes narrowed. ‘She said it was Kevin who was coming to take a look.’
My eyes trailed over him. His arms were crossed over a wide, defined chest. This was not a Kevin. No one with arms like his was called Kevin.
‘Kevin is my dad. He’s out of action at the moment. Knee op.’
I groaned. ‘Lydia.’ She could have warned me that it was her annoyingly handsome friend we were drunk dialling at one thirty in the morning.
The man chuckled, shifting his weight in a way that was a bit too casual for me.
‘She’s a bit of a menace.’ His gaze shifted to the two empty prosecco bottles in the corner of the lounge, then back to me. Judgemental much?
‘She never mentioned a cousin.’
‘We don’t see each other much.’ I lifted my chin. ‘So we were catching up.’
‘Lydia’s good at “catching up”. She does that every Friday.’ I thought he was joking, but his face didn’t change or soften. He was so… stoic. It appeared he’d recovered from his obvious discomfort about seeing me again after the funeral and had resumed whatever this persona was. Big grumpy builder, I was guessing.
‘I’m Liam.’ He slipped his hands into his back pocket and produced a business card.
Did builders usually have business cards? The card was black and simply designed, if a bit too masculine for my taste. But then, he probably ordered it on some boring website without a thought. It read Liam Hunter, Partner, Hunter Building and Construction. The logo was abbreviated to HBC.
‘This could be a bit more exciting, you know.’ I lifted the card, the criticism tumbling out.
Liam’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Excuse me?’
‘This design – it’s boring. You could design something that represents…’ I gestured towards him. ‘You. Or your brand.’
‘It’s just a business card. Not a dating profile.’
I laughed humourlessly. ‘If you don’t care, how do you expect anyone else to? Design is important. It’s how we want to be seen in the world. It’s how we represent ourselves.’
I don’t know what possessed me to pull out my first-year design modules for a bloody builder.
‘I – I’ll leave you to it.’ He took a step away.
After he broke into my house, I offered him free design advice, but he looked at me like I was the weirdo. Incredible.
Liam took another step back. ‘I can come by again when you’re expecting me.’
His eyes glanced down so briefly to my bare legs that I almost missed it. God, I’d run down the stairs half-dressed, screaming like a hungover banshee, and ranted about the design of his business cards, only to find out he was here because I’d called him. Not to mention, his first impression of me was calling him a prick and then having a breakdown on a church pulpit.
I needed to get this man out of my vicinity immediately.
There was no way I could hire him. He knew too much.
He was halfway out of the house when I called back. ‘You know what? I think I’ll be fine.’
He twisted his shoulders to look at me. ‘Fine?’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need a Kevin, a Liam, or whatever your name is.’
He turned back, that eyebrow cocked again. ‘You’ve changed your mind?’
I crossed my arms. ‘I mean, I need to look into options anyway. I can’t hire the first builder who walks into my house unannounced –’
Frustration flickered in Liam’s eyes. ‘You called me.’
‘Yes, I know. But either way, I don’t want to hire the first builder. I need to compare quotes.’
I had no clue what I was saying, but I knew I didn’t want to work with this man who had seen me at my worst. He’d seen me angry. He’d seen me cry. He’d seen me hungover. If I were a mafia boss, I’d call in a hit on Liam.
Liam sighed. ‘Look – Lydia asked me to look into it, so I’m going to. She is family, which annoyingly means you are too.’
I bristled at his words. ‘It’s my house.’
‘And you need it renovating.’ He glanced around the hallway like it was a pit of despair. Rude, again.
‘I’ll tell Lydia that I’m not interested. You’re set free of your… obligation.’
‘Let me guess. This is because of the car parking space, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
Those brown eyes flickered with heat. ‘Yes, it is. Admit it.’
‘Well, could you blame me? It was my dad’s funeral.’
‘You were the one late for your own dad’s funeral, not me.’
I reared back, reeling. ‘Are you kidding me?’
Liam winced. ‘I didn’t –’
‘Well, you did,’ I snapped back.
Oh, he’d done it now.
I stepped forward, trying to look as intimidating as possible, which was challenging when I hadn’t brushed my hair yet.
‘You know what? I don’t need some entitled, rude builder with an attitude problem. I need someone who will help me, and you are decidedly unhelpful. I don’t need this.’ I shooed him towards the door. ‘There isn’t the right synergy here.’ I gestured between myself and Liam like Willa does when she explains why clients leave our roster.
‘Synergy.’ Liam gave a bitter laugh that didn’t meet his eyes. ‘Fucking Southerners,’ he muttered loud enough for me to hear as he retreated to his van.
‘Nice to meet you, Kat,’ Liam shouted sarcastically over his shoulder.
‘Ditto,’ I shouted back.
I tried to throw the door shut in a dramatic statement, but it bounced back softly, not matching my vibe. I gave an irritated huff-slash-scream and stomped upstairs to wash the hangover shame off my body.
Then, I would hire the best damn builder in Greater Manchester.
Chapter Five
‘Six months?’ My shrill voice cut through the overgrown garden to the point I was sure the neighbours four doors down probably heard.
‘Yeah, I’m afraid so.’ Mac’s tinkling laughter came down my phone. ‘We’ve got a load of jobs on the go as it is. Six months is a best-case scenario. It could be longer; we can’t always predict problems. I’m sorry.’
