Maddie Please - The Summer of Second Chances - The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

In the cupboard under the stairs I found a vacuum cleaner, its collection bag strained to bursting point. There was also a fairly comprehensive collection of cleaning materials, something that the previous tenants had not thought worth taking. Or using, let’s be frank. I pulled out several bottles of cleaning spray, some crisp dusters and cloths, and a new mop and bucket and felt a rather peculiar thrill of excitement. Perhaps I was losing the plot. I arranged these treasures on the kitchen table (blue Formica, in a retro, cute way, not a this-table-is-really-old way). Tomorrow I would stop being so negative. I would get a good night’s sleep and make a start on revamping Holly Cottage.

That first night I sat in front of the fire in my warmest coat, gloves and Ugg boots, watching the flames lick around the logs. There was no TV and mine hadn’t arrived yet, but that wasn’t much of a loss as far as I was concerned. Ian had indulged in the most expensive satellite-viewing package and for years nearly ninety pounds had gone out of our account every month and still most nights his parrot-cry had been ‘there’s nothing on worth watching!’ This was a statement with which I couldn’t argue.

There was only so much sport, Top Gear and Man v Food I could bear to watch. When Ian discovered re-runs of The Professionals , I abandoned hope and went back to my fledgling writing career. My concentration span didn’t seem up to a full-length novel any more so I’d turned to writing short stories. I’d been reasonably successful too, won a couple of competitions, and although my total earnings were barely into three figures, it was something I enjoyed.

We had also spent hundreds of pounds every month on the gym I occasionally used although I was more likely to be found in the bistro with a white wine spritzer than on the treadmill with a bottle of water. Then there was Ian’s membership of the Golf and Country Club where he had a pewter tankard behind the bar and the steward would greet him with, ‘Usual, is it, Mr Lovell?’ every time we went there. Ian loved that.

It had been a mild winter so far but after a few hours with all the windows open the house was freezing, hence the coat and gloves. The room still held its faintly fishy smell courtesy of Mr Webster’s leaving present, but at least with the fire going it was bearable. I sighed, and then, rather approving of the sound, sighed a few more times.

I suppose I might have stayed there all evening sighing and feeling sorry for myself except I was still hungry. I got up and shuffled to the kitchen, my Ugg boots finding the going decidedly sticky underfoot.

I heated up some soup and ate a packet of crisps (leek and potato and cheese and onion respectively, so three of my five a day) and then I went upstairs, fumbling with the light switches, trying to work out which one worked which bulb, wishing I had thought earlier to make up the bed. There were two bedrooms, one with a big window at the front and the other with windows at the front and back of the house. I chose the bigger bedroom for no other reason than I preferred the wallpaper. It was pale blue and cream, tiny flowers with flecks of gold at the centre. I had brought some sheets and a duvet with me. Some of my possessions were stashed in my car, the rest were going to arrive when Greg had a spare hour to drive them over in his van. I hadn’t really wanted to bring too much of my stuff into the house until I had cleaned it. That had been one of my better decisions.

I made up the bed, stripped off my clothes and got in. It was freezing. Where were my pyjamas? In the boot of the car? Oh no, I remembered they were in the roof box. That was one of my bad decisions. I got back out, put my socks, knickers and a T-shirt on and tried to think about being warm.

I suddenly remembered with pinpoint clarity lying on a beach in Greece three summers ago, my hot skin almost at one with the hot sand under my towel. We had decided on a last-minute week away. Ian had been sitting in the shade at a table under a vine-laden pergola. Tapping furiously at his laptop, muttering about work and cursing the economy. Perhaps he had been doing it even then, feeding our money into the ether in a never-ending stream.

I opened my eyes and the memory faded. I was just aware how absolute the silence was; how dense the darkness. Ian would have hated it.

‘Can you see me?’ I shouted up into the dark ceiling. ‘You wouldn’t have liked this, would you? The dark and the cold and the bloody quiet, what do you think, Ian? Is it funny? Does this serve me right for refusing four times to marry you? Would it have made any difference if I’d said yes, Ian? Well I suppose I wouldn’t be homeless, would I? By the way, your poor mother is devastated. Didn’t think about her either, did you?’

The irony of my situation took a few seconds to sink into my tired brain.

‘You stupid bloody bastard.’

I wasn’t sure if I meant Ian or myself.

The following morning, contrary to the popular saying, things didn’t look better they just looked grimier. The winter sun shone feebly through the filthy windows, highlighting the dirt. I constructed a hideous sandwich with some of the 25p loaf and the cheese slices and made a mug of tea. I opened the kitchen door and peered outside, hoping my new neighbour was not around to torment me. There was no sign of him.

Outside, the day was brightening up. A bright sapphire sky over a soft folding landscape of hills and hedges. The only sounds were birdsong and the breeze rattling through the bare branches of a silver birch tree at the end of the garden. I stood in the doorway and sipped my tea wondering why Ian and I had never thought to move to the countryside. It was so peaceful, so beautiful. But then Ian had been determinedly town bred and I was a sheep, following him and his plans without thought.

I ate my sandwich, marvelling for a moment at its complete lack of flavour or texture. It was quite a relief to finish it, but I treated it much as an astronaut might approach a freeze-dried meal, as a way of consuming calories to sustain me through the morning. And then I went down the garden and had a cigarette, wondering whether I should give them up now that I needed to be a lot more careful with money.

I rolled up my sleeves, scrubbed the scum off the draining board and ran a sinkful of hot water laced with a generous slosh of disinfectant. I then spent an industrious hour emptying and washing the kitchen cupboards before organising my equipment and crockery into them. There didn’t seem to be much room. The trouble was I was used to a vast space in which to cook, with a six-burner stove, a double oven and a large American fridge-freezer. Here there was a fairly straightforward collection of units and appliances around a small table and four chairs. This would also serve as my dining room. I was going to be seriously short of space and there was still Greg’s van full of my other stuff to fit in at some point.

I thought back with tears prickling my eyes to the huge extending oak table and ten leather chairs that had filled the dining room at home and then reminded myself that wasn’t my home any longer and it never had been. I had given the table to the women’s refuge; they needed it and I certainly didn’t. I was being pretty pathetic. This would do just as well if it were clean. I carried on scrubbing. To my surprise I discovered it’s hard to feel sorry for yourself when you are concentrating on unidentifiable grime. There was a strange pleasure to be had from finding what colour the worktops really were.

After a while the kitchen began to look a great deal better and I rewarded myself with a cup of instant coffee.

I had scrubbed the four kitchen chairs and put them outside the back door to dry so I took my coffee upstairs while I had a good look around. Jess had said it needed cleaning and it certainly did, but it needed more than that. It needed some TLC. And also, courtesy of someone’s careless cigarette habit and chewing gum disposal, new carpets. The bedroom I regarded as mine for the time being was potentially lovely with a whitewashed ceiling, old roof beams diving down into the floor in a way that suggested the cottage was far older than I had originally thought. There were painted built-in cupboards and two leaded windows that framed a fabulous view down the valley. I opened the window, making several woodlice homeless in the process. In the distance I could see the river sparkling in the sunshine, and the wind was cold but somehow exciting, as though it was bringing me a fresh start and new energy. Under the trees snowdrops were beginning their optimistic journey, bringing hope for the spring and the first potential of another new year.