As I got up that morning, the excitement and terror pulsed through my bloodstream. Images of my new life flashed in front of me like the trailer to the best film ever, with me in the leading role.
Every time I wavered, felt almost suffocated with guilt, I remembered the Dream List, clung to it as a promise to myself of the life I’d always wanted – the one that was out there waiting for me, if I had the guts and the gumption to get out there and find it.
And I would not be completing a single thing on that list with my mother.
3
I took a deep breath. After a long, somewhat dispiriting search, I was standing in front of what I felt sure would be the house from my Dream List. Or, to be more truthful, the closest to the Dream House that fit my budget. The end of a row of three terraced cottages, the duck-egg blue front door stood one large paving slab back from the pavement. The external walls were freshly painted in a crisp white, and the honeysuckle clambering around the old-fashioned window held the promise of a thousand tiny pink buds.
Before I had a chance to knock, the estate agent opened the door with a formal smile.
‘Ms Tennyson, please come on in.’
Heart pounding, I stepped inside onto the oak floorboards, inhaling the scent of wood varnish, musty air and a million dreams. The agent led me into a cosy living room – more floorboards, white walls and a log burner set in a stone mantlepiece flanked with built-in shelving units – before showing me the kitchen-diner, the only other downstairs room apart from a tiny cloakroom and an understairs pantry. The kitchen, like most of the house, was styled in what the estate agent called ‘rustic charm with a contemporary twist’. This included more open shelving, a Belfast sink, giant oven and navy blue cabinets to contrast more white walls. It fitted a decent-sized table, and a door opened out onto the garden beyond. I tried to look thoughtful and composed, but inside I was hugging myself with glee.
‘As you can see, the current owners have done extensive renovations before deciding to sell. As well as all new fixtures and fittings, you’ve got state-of-the-art heating and electrics.’ He flicked on the under-shelf lighting to demonstrate. ‘The house is such a bargain because they’re in a hurry to sell. You genuinely won’t find anything close to this value locally. I’m expecting it to be gone before the end of the week.’
This was not entirely true. End Cottage was priced competitively, even for such a tiny property, but the main reason for this was that it was part of a ramshackle row of cottages at the edge of a rundown village in Nottinghamshire, whose unfortunate name of Bigley Bottom meant that house-buyers with the means to be choosy tended to overlook it in favour of nicer villages with prettier names.
Bigley Bottom was a perfect location for me, because the other reason why I could afford such a lovely little house was that as of last month, I’d been promoted to area manager for the brand new, not-yet-up-and-running Central Notts branch of ReadUp. This would require recruiting and then supervising a small team of reading coaches, as well as sourcing and working with my own reading clients. Unlike many of the local villages, Bigley Bottom had managed to hang on to its tiny library, which in my experience was the best place to set up base.
This location also satisfied one other essential Dream Life criteria: at a half hour drive from Nottingham, it was close enough to pop home for a cup of tea, but deep enough into the countryside that there was no chance of Mum ever finding me.
I took one last look at the kitchen, briefly imagining my similarly imaginary friends sitting round the table sharing lovingly prepared dinners, before following the estate agent upstairs to admire the second bedroom’s buttercup-yellow walls and pale grey floorboards. This would be a perfect home office. There would also be room to squeeze a sofa bed in here, given that having my as-yet-imaginary friends to stay was another item on the Dream List.
Before entering the main bedroom, the estate agent paused, assuming his best salesman smile. ‘Now, just to warn you, this is the one room that the owners hadn’t got around to yet. However, I think the rest of the house demonstrates the incredible potential. It also gives you a chance to style the room to your own taste, of course, if you decide to redecorate.’
If I decide to redecorate?
The bedroom was covered in peeling, mildewed wallpaper. The ratty rose-pink carpet was dotted with various unidentified stains. There was a cracked fireplace, one grubby door half-hanging off the fitted wardrobe and a distinct whiff of dead something.
‘It’s perfect,’ I said, unable to keep up the playing-it-cool act.
‘It is?’ The estate agent’s professional fa?ade vanished behind raised eyebrows.
Buying a house to do up was item three on the Dream List, but now that I was tackling the list by myself, transforming only one dilapidated room was a much more doable challenge.
‘Well, if you like the room, you’ll love this.’ He gestured over to the large window. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you have any questions.’
Moving across, I gripped my hands together and breathed a sigh of happiness. Out of all the reasons for buying this house, this had to be top. The main bedroom looked out onto the back garden. All three gardens in the row were separated by a line of pretty flowers rather than a fence or a hedge, creating the effect of a large communal space. With it being so easy to see into (as well as step into) each neighbour’s plot, they must surely be friendly, neighbourly people?
Even better, at the end of the garden was a hedge, and in the middle section of the hedge was a gate. And on the other side of the gate was miles of nobody and nothing but the trees, birds, deer and whatever else happened to live in this offshoot of Sherwood Forest.
End Cottage sat right on the border of Bigley Forest Park, consisting of over a thousand acres of woodland footpaths and bike trails. I gazed at the sunlight dancing off the treetops, stretching out into the distance, and I resolved to explore them all.
I did have one question for the estate agent: why on earth would ANYONE in their right mind want to sell this Dream Cottage?
‘Why are the owners selling in such a hurry?’ I asked, once I’d re-joined him in the kitchen.
‘They won the Euro Millions and moved to Monaco. They want everything here sorted as soon as possible.’ He squinted at me. ‘I know people expect the sales pitch and the spin, but I’m telling you straight that you are not going to find a better house than this for anywhere near the price. Not even in Bigley.’ He pulled a wry grin. ‘Honestly, if you don’t put an offer in, I think I will.’
I took another deep breath of galvanising country air, closed my eyes for a brief moment, and with trembling voice, offered him the asking price.
I was moving out.