**Thursday, 8th May**
Blasted thing again. “Hannah! Hannah, where on earth are you?!” My voice sounded raw, echoing from the sitting room. “Get in here, quick sharp! Big news!”
“Coming, coming!” Hannah called back, wiping damp hands on her apron as she appeared. “What’s the matter? Is the house on fire?”
“Worse! Better! Much better!” I jumped up, meeting her at the door, grabbing her elbows. “Listen to this! Remember Peterson, my old boss? Retired last year?”
“Of course. What about him?” Hannah went still. When I get this worked up, trouble usually follows.
“He rang just now! Imagine, he’s selling his three-bedroom flat in Bloomsbury! Offered it to us! For a song, Hannah! Says he’ll let us have it half-price because I helped him out years back. Took care of that business with his nephew, remember?”
Hannah slowly sank into the armchair. Thoughts swirled in her head like leaves in a gale. “Nick, don’t be daft. What flat? We haven’t that sort of money!”
“Ah, that’s the clever bit!” I perched on the armrest, words tumbling out. “Peterson says we can pay in installments! Little and often, he’s in no hurry. Moving to his daughter’s in the Cotswolds, doesn’t need a London place. Hannah, think what this means! We’ve squeezed into this two-bedder all our lives, now this chance falls in our lap!”
“Nick, hold on…” Hannah rubbed her temples. “Why do we need three bedrooms? The kids are grown, gone their own ways. This flat suits us just fine.”
“Why?!” I sprang up, pacing. “Hannah, use your head! Grandchildren will visit, need space to stay! When we’re old, perhaps the kids move back to look after us. Or we get a live-in carer – she’d need a room!”
Hannah just watched me. Thirty years married, and I’m still the dreamer. Always convinced a big slice of happiness is just within reach.
“How much?” she asked cautiously.
“Well, the deposit’s modest. About two-hundred grand. Then monthly payments of fifty.”
“Two-hundred *grand*?!” Hannah nearly leapt up. “Nick, have you lost your marbles? Where would we find that?!”
“Thought of that, love,” I sat beside her, taking her hands. “Remember Mum’s ring? Gran’s old diamond? I had it valued, right at four hundred thousand. We sell that – cash sorted!”
Hannah snatched her hands away.
“The ring?! Nicholas Peterson, what nonsense! That was your mother’s dying gift! Her last words to you!”
“So what?” I shrugged. “Mum wanted us happy. Well, we’ll be happy! Big flat, in the heart of London!”
“What if we can’t manage the payments? If something happens? Illness? One of us loses the job?”
“Nothing *will* happen!” I waved it off. “Hannah, this is our *chance*! Opportunities like this come once!”
Hannah stood, walked to the window. Rain streaked the glass, muddying the view. Just like my thoughts – all churned up, unclear.
“Nick, have you spoken to the kids? What would they say?”
“What *could* they say? They’d be over the moon! Imagine Molly’s face! And Seb’s pride – his parents in Bloomsbury!”
Molly, our eldest, teaches. Always busy, always tired. Seb, youngest, moved up to Manchester after his army stint, rarely phones. Would they actually cheer our new flat? Hannah seemed doubtful.
“Listen,” she said, back still turned, “maybe we shouldn’t rush? Think on it, get some advice…”
“Advice from whom?!” I threw up my hands. “Hannah, Peterson flies to his daughter tomorrow! Needs an answer today! Or another buyer snatches it!”
“Why us, though?” Hannah turned, sharp. “Surely he knows others?”
“Well… Says we’re reliable. Trustworthy.”
Something in my voice made her stare. I fiddled with the tablecloth, avoiding her eyes.
“Nick, are you telling me the whole truth?”
“Of course! What could I be hiding?”
“Don’t know. But you’re holding something back.”
I paused, then sighed heavily.
“Alright. One tiny snag. The flat… well, not quite shipshape. Needs doing up. Quite a bit.”
“How much ‘quite a bit’?”
“Ah, plumbing needs sorting, wiring… floors, maybe. Wallpaper certainly…”
“Nick!” Hannah sank back. “That’ll cost a fortune! More money!”
“Then we’ll be set! Properly!” I grew earnest. “Hannah, I’ve dreamed of a place like this my whole life! Central, high ceilings, cornicing! Like the old pictures! And here it is!”
Hannah watched me, seeing that same spark from thirty years ago, when I courted her with grand plans. She believed me then. Married me, raised kids, worked, scrimped. I kept dreaming of something bigger.
“Alright,” she said finally. “But one condition. We see this flat first. Honestly assess the work needed. Talk to the kids. Then we decide.”
“Absolutely!” I grinned. “Set it up with Peterson already! We’ll go tomorrow!”
That night, Hannah didn’t sleep. I knew she lay awake thinking. She was right in a way – our little flat *is* cosy, familiar, full of memories where the kids grew up. But I was right too – bigger space, Bloomsbury, it’s an investment! Had to be worth the risk.
Next morning, we went. The building was handsome, old, wide staircases, tall windows. But when Peterson opened the flat door, Hannah gasped.
“Good grief, has it flooded?” She stared at the water stains streaking the walls.
“Neighbours above sometimes overflow… Nothing serious, dries out,” Peterson smiled weakly.
Hannah toured the rooms. Wallpaper hung in shreds. Floorboards groaned. Bathroom tap didn’t work. The kitchen window offered a lovely view of the square, but the pane was cracked.
“Nick,” she whispered, “it’s a wreck!”
“But the *potential*!” I whispered back. “Imagine what we could do!”
Peterson hurried us. Said other buyers were keen, decision needed fast. I grew twitchy, paced the rooms, measuring with my stride.
“We’ll take it!” I blurted. “Hannah, we’ll take it!”
“Nick, wait…”
“No, decided! Peterson, papers it is!”
That evening sat on our familiar kitchen chairs. I sipped tea, laying out renovation plans. Hannah was quiet.
“You see,” I said, “big room for our bed. Medium one a sitting room, fireplace. Small one my study. Computer, bookshelves…”
“And the money for the work?” Hannah asked.
“Bit by bit. Room by room. Make one liveable first, prettify later.”
“What if we can’t pay?”
“We *will*!” I brushed it off. “I’ll find extra work. Maybe fix up cottages weekends.”
Next day, I went to sell the ring. Hannah stayed home, cleaning, cooking lunch. But she fretted, something nagging at her.
She phoned Molly.
“Mum, what flat? Why? You’re fine where you are!”
“Your dad insists. Says it’ll be better.”
“Mum, can you afford it? You’ve always said pensions are tight.”
“Dad’s
We sank into that bleak living room, the only sound being the damp chill seeping from the newly plastered walls and the echo of our own shivering breaths, realising far too late that the well-meaning gift, meant to elevate our lives, had instead consumed the warmth of the very home and happiness we once took for granted.
