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Authors: Douglas Kennedy
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‘Indigenous to London – and always spoiling for a fight. Especially if you drive a decent car.’
‘Your sang-froid was impressive.’
‘Here’s another little piece of advice about living in this town. Never try to fit in, never try to appease!
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ I said, then added, ‘But I really don’t think that jerk was saying one thing and meaning another.’
We crossed Putney Bridge and turned down the Lower Richmond Road, heading back to Sefton Street – our first port-of-call on this house hunting marathon. I’d received a call from the estate agent who’d shown us that first house, informing me that another similar property had just come on the market.
‘It’s not in the most pleasing decorative order,’ he admitted on the phone.
‘By which you mean tired ?’ I said. He cleared his throat.
‘A bit tired, yes. But structurally speaking, it has been considerably modernized. And though the asking price is four-thirty-five, I’m certain they will take an offer.’
Without question, the estate agent was telling the truth about the shabby interior decor. And yes, the house was distinctly cottagey – with two small reception rooms downstairs. But a kitchen extension had been built on to the back – and though all the cabinets and appliances were outdated, I was pretty certain that a ready-made kitchen from somewhere like IKEA could be installed without vast cost. The two bedrooms upstairs were papered in a funeral-home print, with an equally gruesome pink carpet covering the floor. But the estate agent assured me that there were decent floorboards beneath this polyester veneer (something a surveyor confirmed a week later), and that the woodchip paper in the hallways could be stripped away and replastered. The bathroom had a lurid salmon-pink suite. But at least the central heating was new throughout. Ditto the wiring. There was also substantial space for an attic office. I knew that, once all the decorative horrors were stripped away, it could be made to feel light and airy. For the first time in my transient life, I found myself thinking a surprisingly domesticated thought: this could actually be a home.
Margaret and I said nothing as we toured the house. Once we were outside, however, she turned to me and asked, ‘So?’
‘Bad clothes, good bones,’ I said. ‘But the potential is fantastic’
‘My feeling exactly. And if they’re asking four-thirty-five …’
‘I’m offering three-eighty-five … if Tony gives it the thumbs-up.’
Later that night, I spent the better part of my half-hour phone call with Sandy waxing lyrical about the cottage’s possibilities and the genuine pleasantness of the neighbourhood – especially the towpath fronting the Thames, which was just down the street from me.
‘Good God,’ she said. ‘You actually sound housebroken.’
‘Very funny’ I said. ‘But after all the dismal stuff I’ve seen, it is a relief to find somewhere which could be actually made liveable.’
‘Especially with all the Martha Stewart plans you’ve got for it.’
‘You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘Damn right. I never expected to ever hear you sound like someone who subscribes to Better Homes and Gardens.’
‘Believe me, I keep shocking myself. Like I never thought I’d be poring over Dr Spock as if he was Holy Writ.’
‘You reach the chapter where he tells you how to flee the country during colic?’
‘Yeah – the stuff about false passports is terrific’
‘And wait until you experience your first broken night…’
‘I think I’ll hang up now.’
‘Congrats on the house.’
‘Well, it’s not ours yet. And Tony still has to see it.’
‘You’ll sell it to him.’
‘Damn right I will. Because I start work again in a few weeks – and I just can’t afford, time-wise, another extended house hunting blitz.’
But Tony was so wrapped up in life at the Chronicle that he could only make it down to Sefton Street
‘Your sang-froid was impressive.’
‘Here’s another little piece of advice about living in this town. Never try to fit in, never try to appease!
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ I said, then added, ‘But I really don’t think that jerk was saying one thing and meaning another.’
We crossed Putney Bridge and turned down the Lower Richmond Road, heading back to Sefton Street – our first port-of-call on this house hunting marathon. I’d received a call from the estate agent who’d shown us that first house, informing me that another similar property had just come on the market.
‘It’s not in the most pleasing decorative order,’ he admitted on the phone.
‘By which you mean tired ?’ I said. He cleared his throat.
‘A bit tired, yes. But structurally speaking, it has been considerably modernized. And though the asking price is four-thirty-five, I’m certain they will take an offer.’
Without question, the estate agent was telling the truth about the shabby interior decor. And yes, the house was distinctly cottagey – with two small reception rooms downstairs. But a kitchen extension had been built on to the back – and though all the cabinets and appliances were outdated, I was pretty certain that a ready-made kitchen from somewhere like IKEA could be installed without vast cost. The two bedrooms upstairs were papered in a funeral-home print, with an equally gruesome pink carpet covering the floor. But the estate agent assured me that there were decent floorboards beneath this polyester veneer (something a surveyor confirmed a week later), and that the woodchip paper in the hallways could be stripped away and replastered. The bathroom had a lurid salmon-pink suite. But at least the central heating was new throughout. Ditto the wiring. There was also substantial space for an attic office. I knew that, once all the decorative horrors were stripped away, it could be made to feel light and airy. For the first time in my transient life, I found myself thinking a surprisingly domesticated thought: this could actually be a home.
Margaret and I said nothing as we toured the house. Once we were outside, however, she turned to me and asked, ‘So?’
‘Bad clothes, good bones,’ I said. ‘But the potential is fantastic’
‘My feeling exactly. And if they’re asking four-thirty-five …’
‘I’m offering three-eighty-five … if Tony gives it the thumbs-up.’
Later that night, I spent the better part of my half-hour phone call with Sandy waxing lyrical about the cottage’s possibilities and the genuine pleasantness of the neighbourhood – especially the towpath fronting the Thames, which was just down the street from me.
‘Good God,’ she said. ‘You actually sound housebroken.’
‘Very funny’ I said. ‘But after all the dismal stuff I’ve seen, it is a relief to find somewhere which could be actually made liveable.’
‘Especially with all the Martha Stewart plans you’ve got for it.’
‘You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘Damn right. I never expected to ever hear you sound like someone who subscribes to Better Homes and Gardens.’
‘Believe me, I keep shocking myself. Like I never thought I’d be poring over Dr Spock as if he was Holy Writ.’
‘You reach the chapter where he tells you how to flee the country during colic?’
‘Yeah – the stuff about false passports is terrific’
‘And wait until you experience your first broken night…’
‘I think I’ll hang up now.’
‘Congrats on the house.’
‘Well, it’s not ours yet. And Tony still has to see it.’
‘You’ll sell it to him.’
‘Damn right I will. Because I start work again in a few weeks – and I just can’t afford, time-wise, another extended house hunting blitz.’
But Tony was so wrapped up in life at the Chronicle that he could only make it down to Sefton Street
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