Read Online Conditional Love by Cathy Bramley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cathy Bramley
Tags: Humor, Fiction, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Romantic Comedy, General Humor, Humor & Satire
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used to be able to spot a Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen colour scheme at fifty paces. Mind you, so could everyone else. Not a fan of neutrals, if I remember, old Laurence.
Emma sucked in her breath sharply and I glanced at the TV just in time to see this week’s Grand Design s’ cliffhanger as a huge steel beam smashed into the sheet of glass which formed the front wall of the house. Kevin McCloud grimaced to camera and the film cut to the ads.
‘There, finished.’ I held my pad up to her. It was a plan of the bungalow, drawn from memory. I’d included as much detail as I could remember, the layout, doorways and windows.
Emma shook her head incredulously. ‘That’s amazing. And that’s why I get so cross. You should do something with that talent. What’s the sktech for, anyway?’
I shrugged, not really sure how to put my sentiments into words. Stepping into a world in which my father co-existed had shaken me to my core. I was going over and over that little house in my brain. Somehow I felt that if I could get it down on paper, neat and orderly, my thoughts would follow suit.
‘Hey!’ said Emma, sitting up straight and dislodging Jess’s feet. ‘Apply to Grand Designs and do something with the bungalow. Then we can all be on telly!’
‘No thanks.’ I shuddered. ‘I want a home of my own, not five minutes of fame. Besides, it always goes wrong on TV. Then Kevin McCloud comes on gloating and says, ‘What did you expect, you’re an Avon lady, not a builder, and where’s your contingency budget?’’’
I stood up, stretching and yawning, secretly pleased with Emma’s praise. ‘Glass of wine?’
Jess sat up instantly. ‘Ooh, rosé please.
nine
It was Sunday morning in March. A gale was rattling the old sash window in my bedroom and I hefted the duvet up over my ears. The gap in my curtains was just wide enough to inform me that despite its bluster, the day was bright and sunny, but I had nothing pressing to get up for.
It was heavenly in my cosy cocoon. I wished someone would bring me a cup of tea and then my lie-in would be perfect. Perhaps if I pretended to cough and choke violently, Jess would dash in, her face lined with worry? ‘Tea,’ I would croak, giving her a wild-eyed look and she would make me one, in my favourite mug.
Sighing at the futility of my daydream, I flung back the covers, hurried into my dressing gown and pulled back the curtains.
The big trees which lined our road, unremarkable for most of the year, were decorated with white blossom, although the wind was doing its best to ruin it for them; the air was full of swirling petals and it looked lovely, but the poor trees would be bald by noon.
I resisted the urge to burst into a chorus of ‘Morning has broken’, but the sentiment was there.
Ahh. This was more like it. Back in bed, propped up with pillows and a morning cuppa, I snuggled down and let my eyes wander. My bedroom was my favourite room in the flat. A small oasis of taste in a desert of grot. I’d gone for a vintage look: cream-painted metal bedstead, antique rose print curtains and bed linen all bought cheaply from Ikea, and a triple mirror on a dressing table, both of which I’d rescued from a skip and restored.
The curtains wouldn’t look out of place in Great Aunt Jane’s bungalow, I realised.
Two weeks had gone past since I’d visited Woodby and I still had the keys.
‘Mr Whelan is on annual leave at the moment,’ his receptionist had informed me when I called to arrange their return. ‘There’s no rush with the keys.’
Which meant I still had access to the bungalow and the bungalow still had access to my every waking moment. And there were lots of them. Undisturbed sleep was eluding me at the moment.
After much hesitation, she had also told me where the old lady was buried.
I had trudged round a large cemetery several miles out of Woodby until I found her newly-dug grave, and had placed a large bouquet of roses amongst the other floral
Emma sucked in her breath sharply and I glanced at the TV just in time to see this week’s Grand Design s’ cliffhanger as a huge steel beam smashed into the sheet of glass which formed the front wall of the house. Kevin McCloud grimaced to camera and the film cut to the ads.
‘There, finished.’ I held my pad up to her. It was a plan of the bungalow, drawn from memory. I’d included as much detail as I could remember, the layout, doorways and windows.
Emma shook her head incredulously. ‘That’s amazing. And that’s why I get so cross. You should do something with that talent. What’s the sktech for, anyway?’
I shrugged, not really sure how to put my sentiments into words. Stepping into a world in which my father co-existed had shaken me to my core. I was going over and over that little house in my brain. Somehow I felt that if I could get it down on paper, neat and orderly, my thoughts would follow suit.
‘Hey!’ said Emma, sitting up straight and dislodging Jess’s feet. ‘Apply to Grand Designs and do something with the bungalow. Then we can all be on telly!’
‘No thanks.’ I shuddered. ‘I want a home of my own, not five minutes of fame. Besides, it always goes wrong on TV. Then Kevin McCloud comes on gloating and says, ‘What did you expect, you’re an Avon lady, not a builder, and where’s your contingency budget?’’’
I stood up, stretching and yawning, secretly pleased with Emma’s praise. ‘Glass of wine?’
Jess sat up instantly. ‘Ooh, rosé please.
nine
It was Sunday morning in March. A gale was rattling the old sash window in my bedroom and I hefted the duvet up over my ears. The gap in my curtains was just wide enough to inform me that despite its bluster, the day was bright and sunny, but I had nothing pressing to get up for.
It was heavenly in my cosy cocoon. I wished someone would bring me a cup of tea and then my lie-in would be perfect. Perhaps if I pretended to cough and choke violently, Jess would dash in, her face lined with worry? ‘Tea,’ I would croak, giving her a wild-eyed look and she would make me one, in my favourite mug.
Sighing at the futility of my daydream, I flung back the covers, hurried into my dressing gown and pulled back the curtains.
The big trees which lined our road, unremarkable for most of the year, were decorated with white blossom, although the wind was doing its best to ruin it for them; the air was full of swirling petals and it looked lovely, but the poor trees would be bald by noon.
I resisted the urge to burst into a chorus of ‘Morning has broken’, but the sentiment was there.
Ahh. This was more like it. Back in bed, propped up with pillows and a morning cuppa, I snuggled down and let my eyes wander. My bedroom was my favourite room in the flat. A small oasis of taste in a desert of grot. I’d gone for a vintage look: cream-painted metal bedstead, antique rose print curtains and bed linen all bought cheaply from Ikea, and a triple mirror on a dressing table, both of which I’d rescued from a skip and restored.
The curtains wouldn’t look out of place in Great Aunt Jane’s bungalow, I realised.
Two weeks had gone past since I’d visited Woodby and I still had the keys.
‘Mr Whelan is on annual leave at the moment,’ his receptionist had informed me when I called to arrange their return. ‘There’s no rush with the keys.’
Which meant I still had access to the bungalow and the bungalow still had access to my every waking moment. And there were lots of them. Undisturbed sleep was eluding me at the moment.
After much hesitation, she had also told me where the old lady was buried.
I had trudged round a large cemetery several miles out of Woodby until I found her newly-dug grave, and had placed a large bouquet of roses amongst the other floral
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