‘The Wicked Witch of the West,’ jokes Adrian, the name Nathan and I gave Mum as kids after watchingThe Wizard of Oz. He steps off the ladder, paintbrush in hand, and follows me into the hallway.
‘We only ever called her that when she was in one of her moods,’ I say, feeling disloyal. I throw open the door to see her standing on the step, a suitcase at her feet.
‘Kirsty. Adrian.’ She nods at us in turn. And then, ‘This door needs sanding and painting. It’s not exactly welcoming, is it? I think we need to buy a new one.’
I bite back my irritation. The door is beautiful, Victorian with stained-glass inserts of pink roses. I’ve already decided I’m going to paint it Hicks Blue by Little Greene. There’s no way I’d change it. ‘Hello to you, too,’ I say.
She gives me one of her trademark looks and steps over the threshold.
‘We haven’t got round to painting it yet. But we will,’ I add. ‘I have just the colour in mind.’
‘And I hope it’s green,’ she says, much to my dismay. ‘It needs doing before we open. Kerb appeal, Kirsty, kerb appeal.’ Like I didn’t know! She bustles past me, leaving Adrian to pick up her suitcase. We exchange glances over the top of her perfectly coiffed bob.
‘Lovely to see you, Carol,’ says Adrian, bending to kiss her cheek.
She winces. ‘This facial hair,’ she says, reaching up to touch his beard. He’s a good head and shoulders taller than her. ‘When’s it going?’
He turns to me, clearly bemused, and raises an eyebrow. I stifle a giggle.
She steps into the hallway, taking in the newly refurbished tiles and the recently painted walls. ‘What colour is this?’ She indicates the walls. She already has a fine layer of dust on the shoulders of her smart wool coat. What was she thinking, wearing it to come to a house undergoing renovation?
‘French Gray. It’s Farrow and Ball.’
‘It’s matt.’
‘That was the intention.’
She nods. I think that means she approves.
‘Who did the tiles?’
‘We had to get a guy in.’
‘Was it expensive?’
I clear my throat. ‘Um … not too bad,’ I lie, thinking of the fortune we ended up paying him.
‘Are you going to give me the tour, then?’ she asks, and I feel a fresh wave of shame that this is the first time she’s viewing the house she co-owns. We’d asked her at the time, of course, but she’d seen the estate agent’s details and said she was content enough with that, which was a bit of a shock: usually she’s so controlling. She looks as out of place in our hallway as she would if she’d wandered into a nightclub. Not for the first time I imagine what it would have been like to do this without her.
Adrian resumes painting while I escort Mum along the hallway to the only bedroom downstairs. We’ve called it Apple Tree because of the view of the apple trees in the garden. It’s one of the first bedrooms we completed and still my favourite: pale green walls and French windows that lead on to the patio. She glances around but doesn’t say anything. Then I show her the dining room opposite. It overlooks the churchyard, with its centuries-old gravestones, and still needs painting.
‘It’s a bit gloomy,’ she observes, frowning. She pushes the strap of her handbag further up her shoulder.
‘Itisa dark room,’ I concede. ‘But look.’ I open the internal double doors that we installed to separate it from the kitchen. ‘When these are pulled back it’s much lighter in here. See?’
‘Hmm. If you’d put glass in the doors you could have kept them closed.’ Mum wanders through the double doors to the large kitchen, with its cream flagstone tiles, pale grey Shaker-style units and the bi-fold doors that lead into the garden.
‘Only family allowed in here,’ I explain, from behind her.
‘So you can lock these doors?’
‘Yes. To keep the kitchen private.’
‘Looks expensive,’ she observes. ‘Those worktops don’t look like laminate.’
‘They’re stone. More hardwearing.’
She mutters something under her breath that I can’t hear and I feel a surge of annoyance. It wasn’t as if she was here to help us make these decisions. She was still in Cardiff, selling her own house.
