Jane Green - Bookends

‘But you took a chance.’

‘I’d never seen somewhere with such enormous potential in my life.’

‘And did you get it for a knock-down price?’

‘Yup.’ He grins. ‘And a week after I exchanged I was offered double for it.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Nope. That’s property for you. As soon as one person’s interested, everyone wants it.’

‘But double the price? Weren’t you tempted?’

‘Are you kidding? This was my dream home. And now I love it. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Do you want the guided tour?’

‘You mean there’s more?’ And as I say this I suddenly blush slightly because I realize I haven’t seen any bedrooms, and there is something uncomfortably intimate about going into a strange man’s bedroom, and what else could there be left to show me?

James stands up and walks to the arched window, flicking a switch to the left. Suddenly the outside lights up, and he opens two double doors hidden in the window, and we walk outside.

And I realize that the pitch blackness outside through which I stumbled to get here is in fact a huge garden, not particularly well tended, but breathtaking by the sheer fact of its size.

‘Bit of a mess, but at least I get to grow my own tomatoes.’

‘You are joking?’ I start to laugh.

‘No, I’m serious.’ He points to a patch at the back where I can just about make out large black shapes that are evidently tomato plants. ‘What else would you expect from a farmer’s son?’

We go back indoors, James pours me another glass of wine – I didn’t realize I’d finished the last quite so quickly – and makes me laugh with stories of drunken rides on tractors and escaping the clutches of braying horsy women at Young Farmers events, saying how moving to London when he was twenty-one felt much like winning the lottery.

‘So where’s your yokel accent, then?’ I ask, after a while.

‘You mean my Worzel Gummidge accent?’ he says, doing a perfect impression as I splutter out my wine with laughter. ‘I haven’t spoken like that since my first day in London,’ he laughs. ‘It took about five minutes to realize that I didn’t have a hope in hell of surviving here unless I changed the accent.’

‘Did you really speak like that?’ I’m amazed.

He raises an eyebrow and grins, pushing his hair out of his eyes. ‘You’ll never know now, will you?’

‘Come and see the rest of the house,’ he says, and I follow him upstairs, where he proudly shows me two bedrooms and a bathroom, and I manage to control any lascivious thoughts that may or may not have been lurking somewhere in the depths of my mind.

And then it’s back downstairs to sit in the kitchen, still chattering away.

‘Look, I don’t know about you,’ James says after a while, ‘but I’m starving. Are you hungry?’

I nod, although to be honest by this time it’s a reflex answer, because the hunger seems to have disappeared completely, and I really couldn’t care whether we eat or not.

‘You saw me in the corner shop, so you know that my fridge is not exactly the most well stocked in the world. Would you mind getting takeout?’

‘Whatever you want,’ I say. ‘I really don’t mind.’

‘Curry?’

‘Great.’

James picks up a sheaf of papers from the kitchen counter and starts leafing through them. I stand up to see what they are, and laugh out loud when I realize that all of them are leaflets for Indian, Chinese, Thai and Pizza.

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ I admonish playfully. ‘Thirty-six years old and you can’t cook?’

‘It’s not that I can’t,’ James says seriously. ‘It’s that I won’t. Actually, to be completely honest, I absolutely adore cooking for other people.’

I raise an eyebrow in doubt.

‘No, seriously. There’s nothing I love more than having my closest friends round and cooking for them, it’s just that when it’s only for me I really can’t be bothered.’

‘Mmm. I know what you mean.’ I think of my own empty fridge.

‘Okay,’ he says triumphantly. ‘Found it. What do you fancy?’ He brings the leaflet over and stands behind me, looking over my shoulder as I read.

‘What are you having?’

‘Maybe a vindaloo. You?’

‘Chicken korma, I think.’

‘Okay. Plain rice?’

I nod as he picks up the phone.

‘Hello,’ he says, ‘It’s Mr Painting here.’ I stifle a laugh as he shrugs his shoulders in resignation at the name they’ve evidently given him. ‘I’d like to order a delivery. No, no. Not the usual. We’ll have a chicken korma…’

I watch him with a smile, because he’s the most un-estate agenty estate agent I’ve ever met. Not that I’ve met a lot, but James is so normal. So nice. And it’s been so long since I’ve met someone new with whom I immediately bond. And although it might be a little early to jump to conclusions, I would say that James is exactly the sort of new friend I’ve been looking for.

It’s not just that he seems to fit in with me, I think, as I watch him put the plates in the oven to warm them up. It’s that I could also see him fitting in with my friends. I mean, I know that Lucy already adores him, and I could see Si adoring him too. All in all, I would say he’d make an extremely welcome new addition to our cosy little gang.

‘Onion bhaji?’ He looks at me for approval and I shrug my shoulders. ‘A nan and a peshwari nan. Oh, and vegetables. Maybe a sag aloo?’ I throw caution to the winds and just nod, slightly bewildered at the amount he’s ordering, but he must be a man with a big appetite.

Oh, and by the way. Just in case you’re wondering, I do mean all of the aforementioned – all of that stuff about James fitting in – platonically. Okay?

‘I’ve got a stomach ache,’ I groan, sliding down the sofa until my head is practically on the seat, undoing the button on my waistband and rubbing my stomach to try to ease the pain of over-stuffing.

‘Oh God, me too,’ says James, grinning at me.

‘I know this is a bit weird,’ I say, downing the last glass of our second bottle of wine, ‘especially because I hardly know you, but it is a bit weird that I feel comfortable enough to make a complete pig of myself in front of you.’

‘That is weird,’ James says. ‘Does that mean that if you didn’t feel comfortable with me you would only have eaten six grains of rice and a thimbleful of chicken korma?’

‘Quite probably,’ I say sternly, realizing that I have had an awful lot to drink, and that unless I sit up straight I’m quite liable to fall asleep in this position. Then I remember with horror that this is supposed to be a business evening.

‘Oh God.’ I manage to force myself upright. ‘We’ve been having far too much fun. I’m supposed to be here on business.’

‘Are you?’ James looks completely bemused, which isn’t surprising, bearing in mind he’s matched me mouthful for mouthful. ‘What kind of business?’

‘I’m supposed to be looking at your paintings.’ I stand up, in my best impression of an imperious gallery owner. ‘In fact, as you already know, Lucy and I are considering giving you the opportunity to exhibit your work in our super-duper fab and trendy new gallery café/bookshop type thing. And I’ – I pause dramatically – ‘am here to do the dirty deed and decide whether to give you a chance.’

‘Right-oh,’ James says, trooping into the studio bit, as I stumble in after him. ‘Let’s see what you think, then.’

One by one he starts gently pulling canvases out, laying them against walls, standing back to look at them, and as he pulls them out my heart starts beating faster and faster.

‘James,’ I say finally, when there are nearly twenty paintings displayed in front of me. ‘I’m not an expert, but what the fuck are you doing working as an estate agent?’