Love Me Till Wednesday

CHAPTER 1

‘Bastard!’ shouted Lisa as she read the note she’d found on her doormat two minutes earlier. She’d had a tough day at work, and now this.

‘Who’s a bastard?’ her daughter, Elise, asked as she walked into the kitchen.

Lisa changed the subject. ‘I thought you were stopping at Jordan’s today.’

Elsie shook her head. ‘I changed my mind. I’ve still got some revision to do.’

‘When’s your last exam?’

‘Tomorrow!’

‘Probably advisable not to stay at Jordan’s then.’

Elise and her boyfriend were still at the stage in their relationship where they could barely keep their hands off one another - useful for A-level Human Biology, maybe, but unfortunately, Elise was studying Maths and Economics.

Elise headed towards the fridge, glancing at the note en route. ‘That looks like Dad’s handwriting.’

‘It is.’ So much for hiding who she thought was a bastard. Lisa preferred to avoid slagging off her ex-husband in front of their children, but sometimes it was difficult.

‘What’s he done now?’

‘Looks like he popped round while I was out to remind me I have to pay him for his share of this house when you go to uni in September.’

Elise didn’t look surprised. ‘But you’ve always known that.’

‘Yes, but I was hoping I’d have had a pay rise or the property market would’ve crashed by now.’

Lisa had been playing for time two years ago when she’d persuaded Greg to defer taking his 20% share of her house. She’d had hardly any savings then, and working only three days a week meant there was no way anyone would give her a mortgage to buy him out. Sadly, no one would lend her the money now either. Despite returning to work full time, she’d been banging her head against a glass ceiling when it came to negotiating a pay rise, and house prices were still on the up.

‘How much do you owe him?’

‘I reckon a mere half a million.’ A ridiculous amount. Lisa had paid much less than that when she’d bought the house in 1992.

‘Ouch. So we’re moving then.’

‘Looks like it, unless I win the lottery in the next three months.’

‘I didn’t know you bought lottery tickets,’ Elise said as she grabbed a clean glass from the wall cupboard.

‘I don’t, but I better start now. It’s so infuriating. It’s not as if he needs the money, shacked up in Belgravia with Lady bloody Isabella.’

‘Ah, well.’ Elise looked uncomfortable as she got some water from the fridge dispenser.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s not living with Isabella any more. She kicked him out.’

Lisa was shocked. Ever since Greg had packed his bags and walked out on her and the children on Boxing Day 2020, he and Isabella had frequently appeared in society blogs and magazines, draped lovingly around one another in various upmarket London locations. Lisa should have been thrilled to hear that the cheating arsehole was getting his comeuppance, but this was terrible timing. Typical Greg - she couldn’t even rely on him to be faithful to the woman he claimed to love more than anything else on Earth, even his wretched gas-guzzling 1969 Chevrolet Camaro, which Isabella had made him replace with a conventional Chelsea tractor. ‘When did he move out?’

‘Last month. She found someone new to keep her warm in bed. I think it’s the guy who designed her basement conversion.’

Lady Isabella obviously had a taste for men who worked on upgrading her house. She’d seduced Greg after she’d employed him as the architect for the yoga studio extension to her already massive mansion. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You’re never keen on hearing his latest news. I didn’t think it would matter. It’s not as if you’re going to take him back. I guess he needs the money because the flat he’s renting in Shepherd’s Bush is a shithole.’

So there was no hope that Greg would give Lisa more time to get the cash now. Not that it mattered. With the house’s value continuing to rise faster than she could save, it would only delay the inevitable. Lisa looked around the kitchen as she tried to imagine cooking dinner somewhere else after thirty years of living at 39 Paradise Crescent.

CHAPTER 2

The following morning, Lisa was sitting in a conference room in her employer’s offices in central London. Not for the first time, she marvelled at the architect's ability to create a stuffy room even though it had air conditioning. It had a lousy outlook, too. Despite being surrounded by elegant Georgian buildings, the windows perfectly framed the grimy brick walls and peeling window frames of the rear of the building behind.

She dragged her attention back to the meeting. It had already gone on ten minutes longer than scheduled, thanks to programme manager Colin spouting on about the success of their work so far, no doubt for the benefit of the Assistant Director who’d graced them with his presence today. Lisa looked around the table. She wasn’t the only one who looked like they were struggling to stay awake. Chris, the test manager, looked like a rabbit caught in some particularly dazzling headlights as he fought to keep his eyes open, and her friend, Nina, who was sitting next to her, was doodling seaside scenes on her notepad. Why did senior management insist that the entire project team had to come into the office for the weekly Wednesday catchup? If they’d been doing this online, at least everyone could get on with something useful while Colin was grandstanding - researching estate agents and places to live, for instance.

After reading Greg’s note yesterday, Lisa hadn’t felt like getting on with organising the house sale. But this morning, she decided to see the positive side of the situation. Rattling around on her own in a five-bedroomed, four-storey Victorian terraced house made no sense at all. The Universe was giving her a nudge in the right direction.

Would anyone notice if she fired up a browser window and started researching house prices? Probably. Annoying Anya was sitting on the other side of her, and she never missed an opportunity to point score over Lisa. House-hunting or, more likely, flat-hunting would have to wait until lunchtime.

Colin was still droning on. Lisa let her mind drift back to the house move. Perhaps one of those luxury flats they were building in Kings Cross would do. Somewhere ultra-modern for a change, with quieter plumbing than number 39’s. That ought to leave Lisa with enough money to top up her pension. Possibly even enough to give up this lousy job and do something more fulfilling. But what?

‘Lisa!’ Colin’s agitated tone brought her back to reality. ‘We would all love to know what you plan to cover on your Manchester trip next week.’

‘Next week?’ she said, kicking herself for not paying more attention. What the hell was happening next week? She quickly clicked on to her work diary. Wednesday and Thursday had “Keep free for delivering mop-up training sessions” highlighted at the top. Thank God!

‘Yes, of course,’ she smiled, sharing the correct presentation on the large screen.

* * *

‘I never understood why you agreed to Greg having any share of the house,’ Lisa’s neighbour Jules said as they sat in Lisa’s kitchen on Wednesday evening, waiting for the rest of their book club friends to arrive. ‘You bought it years before he arrived on the scene.’

‘I had to give him something. He designed and paid for a big chunk of the renovations. I was lucky to get away with 20%. If Isabella hadn’t been so loaded, I’m sure he would’ve demanded more.’

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘I’m working from home on Monday, so I’ve got three estate agents booked in to give me valuations. That’ll give me the weekend to tidy up.’

‘I’d make it look like a tip if I were you. That should minimise the 20% Greg gets.’

‘And minimise what I get too. It still won’t bring it down to an amount I can afford to pay him. I need to sell it for as much as possible so I can downsize to somewhere good enough to spend the rest of my life and still have some change left over.’

‘I can’t imagine you living anywhere else after all these years,’ Jules said as she topped up Lisa’s wine glass.

‘Neither could I at first, but it’s time for a change. I can’t keep living in the past.’

‘You need a rich man to come along and rescue you.’

Lisa was outraged by that suggestion. ‘Since when did I rely on men to rescue me? They’re the ones who cause me trouble. Pete, Nick and the lovely Greg. They’ve all left me to fend for myself.’

Her breakup with Pete hadn’t been so bad. She’d already been thinking about finishing with him when he cheated on her. In hindsight, she’d never been truly in love with him. They were just good friends. After the initial shock, splitting up had turned out to be the best decision for both of them.

Greg falling for another woman had hardly been a surprise. Lisa had had an inkling he might be playing away from home for a while, though she wasn’t expecting him to choose someone as stick-thin as Lady Isabella. For a man who claimed he preferred curvy women, screwing Isabella must’ve been like making love to a washboard. Lisa suspected Isabella’s address book, full of useful contacts for his architect business, plus her lack of teenagers at home to annoy him, might have been significant factors in his decision to leave.

But neither of those breakups had made her feel anywhere near as bad as the split with Nick. That had happened out of the blue and had been absolutely devastating.

Jules’ voice brought her back to the present. ‘I’m going to miss our regular chats. Everything’s changing now the kids are nearly adults.’

Jules’ twins were 17 and in the year below Elise at school.

‘Do you think you and Martin will downsize once the boys go to uni?’ Lisa asked.

Jules looked thoughtful. ‘We’ve always said we’d move to Cornwall when we retired, but I suppose there’d be nothing keeping us here once Tom and Ben have left school. We could both do our jobs remotely.’

‘Well, you’ll be stuck with me for a while longer,’ Lisa said. ‘I’m not going to move far. I want to stay near to Jim and Ally.’

Lisa’s eldest son lived in Hampstead with his fiancée, Ally, and their daughters, four-year-old Sophie and baby Grace. Seeing them twice a week made her routine life more bearable. She might be lucky enough to find somewhere with a garden so she could keep the old swing for Sophie to play on or even invest in a new one.

Jules waved a pristine-looking paperback at her. ‘No excuse not to keep up with our book club, then. Which reminds me, did you finish this month’s gem?’

Lisa shook her head. ‘No, but it’s been a fantastic cure for insomnia.’

Jules pulled a face. ‘Same here. I was hoping you’d help me out with a summary.’

‘I’ve memorised The Guardian review. We can wing it,’ Lisa said as the doorbell rang.

CHAPTER 3

Lisa had spent the weekend making the house look clean and tidy. Now, it was Monday afternoon, and estate agent number three, Noah Bennett, according to his expensive-looking business card, was standing in her living room in his very well-fitted suit (so well-fitted Lisa suspected it was custom-made) and a pair of exceedingly shiny black brogues. Lisa reckoned he must be younger than Jim. Probably 27 or 28, and full of enthusiasm. She watched him waft his laser measuring tool around the room and make notes on his iPad. He’d already viewed the upper floors. ‘Great selling point having a dual aspect,’ he said.

‘Is it?’ Surely, most houses had views over the street and the garden. The ones she and her friends had grown up in in Birmingham had anyway.

‘Did you knock through?’

‘No, it was like it when I moved in.’

Noah nodded. ‘Original cornice,’ he muttered. ‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked as he headed out into the hall and down the steps into the kitchen.

‘I bought it in 1992. It was a doer-upper then.’

The house had been an absolute wreck. Grimy windows with mouldy frames. Holes in the floorboards. Dodgy electrics. Garish 1970s yellow flowered wallpaper all over the ground floor walls. And an awful avocado bathroom suite with a cracked bath panel. But something about it had appealed to Lisa from the first time she’d walked past it with Nick on the way to the pub. She visualised them living there, with two or three kids and possibly a cat. Even after he left, she still felt drawn to it. So, as soon as she saw the For Sale board go up, she rushed to the estate agents to book a viewing. And when she crossed the threshold for the first time, it instantly felt like it could be a home - the ideal home for her and her new baby. She smiled to herself as she remembered another shiny-shoed estate agent patronising her.

‘Will you be able to manage a house like this on your own?’ he’d said.

If he meant could she afford it, then yes, she could. After winning the best song award, “Love Me Till Wednesday” had generated plenty of royalties, even allowing for her manager Dougie’s accounting irregularities - enough for her to buy number 39 outright and have some money left over to start the renovations. She’d turned it into something habitable while bringing up Jim and later Sam and Elise, albeit not with the husband she’d originally envisaged.

The present-day estate agent looked impressed as he admired the modern kitchen with its full-width windows onto the garden. ‘Very light and airy. Who was your architect?’

‘Greg Watkins.’ Greg had been a bright young architect at the time - she could never have afforded his services otherwise. Her next-door neighbour had recommended him. He’d started working on Lisa’s kitchen extension design, then made it clear he’d got designs on her as well. Perhaps he’d had the same approach with Lady Isabella, except he wouldn’t be getting 20% of her property because she’d had the sense not to marry him. Lisa clenched her fists.

‘Are you ok? You look a little stressed.’

Stop thinking about bloody Greg! her inner voice admonished her. You’re going to look like you’re insane.

‘Sorry. I’m having a tricky day at work.’

Noah looked very pleased with himself as he consulted his iPad. ‘I’ve got the perfect buyer. We should sell this in no time.’

Which was what the other estate agents had said, too. Were there loads of perfect buyers out there? Or just one very eager person who’d signed up to all their mailing lists. Not that it mattered. Lisa only needed one buyer so she could move on.

‘We should easily be able to achieve £3 million, possibly £3.5 million, if you aren’t in a hurry.’

The other agents had thought the same, which meant she’d have more to spend on her new home but even less of a chance of buying Greg out of this one now she potentially owed him £700k.

Noah must have sensed that she was less than enthusiastic about his valuation. ‘Can I ask why you want to move?’

‘There’s no want about it. I’m being forced to sell by my unfaithful ex thanks to his appalling taste in mistresses.’

He looked puzzled.

‘It’s a long story, but he wants his share of the house,’ she explained.

‘Ahh,’ he said. ‘So you were hoping it would be worth less. You could reduce its value by roughing it up around the edges, leaving your rooms untidy.’

‘Make everywhere look like my daughter’s room, you mean?’ she laughed. Elise had failed to tidy anything away despite promising Lisa that it would look like something on Grand Designs by today. To be fair to Elise, though, she hadn’t specified whether she meant the before or after footage.

‘Yes, exactly. That would probably take £100k of the selling price.’

‘I still couldn’t afford to buy him out.’

‘Have you got a property to move to yet?’

‘No. I wanted to confirm what this one was worth before I started looking.’

‘Let’s aim for £3.5 million to give you more to spend on your next home.’

Lisa waved Noah off, promising to confirm by the end of the week whether he would be putting the property on the market.

You better start thinking about your new home. She made a cup of tea, grabbed her laptop and began searching for suitable flats. The screen filled with luxury apartments far more expensive than her current house. She tweaked the price range filter. That was better. Now, the flats looked affordable, though not as inspiring.

An advert for a retirement property popped up in the middle of the list. What were they implying? Then she realised that, with a minimum age of 55, she’d be eligible for the cosy flat with optional nursing care in less than a year. It’s all downhill from here, Lisa.

She closed the ad and flicked through several pages of oddly converted ground-floor properties, many with old bathroom suites and furnishings that wouldn’t have looked out of place in her grandma’s bungalow thirty years ago. It dawned on her that once you moved into a ground-floor flat, you stayed there until an undertaker took you out in a body bag or an ambulance whisked you off to the nearest old folks’ home. She was still too young for that.

She took “ground-floor” out of the filter. First and second-floor flats might be more inspiring.