He looks over his shoulder at me. ‘Who?’
‘Me?’ I slide my back down the wall and sit on the floor, patting the space next to me in invitation.
His lips curve into a small smile and he shrugs, sitting down opposite me instead, his back resting against the bed. ‘I don’t know. Maybe next year.’
‘You’re coming back again, then?’ I ask with a grin.
‘Guess so.’ He smiles and stretches out his legs so they lie on either side of mine. ‘Do you reckon you’ll be here?’ He knocks back the last of his coffee.
I let out a snort. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Why not?’
‘How can I?’ I reply with a frown. ‘Who would look after Michael?’
‘Shirley?’
‘No, he needs family around. I can’t desert him.’
We fall silent.
‘So what will you be doing next summer?’ he asks, looking around the room.
‘God knows. I can’t imagine living with Michael again. He lost it with me this morning after I walked in on him in the kitchen, doing his laundry in his underpants. I squawked and told him to put some clothes on and he shouted that it was his house and if he wanted to do his laundry in his underpants, then he bloody well would.’
Finn chuckles.
‘My parents always said that he liked his independence, but he was over at our house so much that I didn’t really believe it. Now I’m grossly aware that I’m in his space, getting in his way. He’s so cross with me all the time. The sooner I can come back and live here, the better. But I don’t need all this room, and yet I couldn’t bear to sell this house. I don’t know what to do.’
Downstairs, the washing machine beeps to let me know it’s finished its cycle.
‘I need to put the next load in or the sheets won’t be ready in time,’ I say, getting to my feet.
Finn follows me back downstairs.
‘Have you ever thought about converting this place?’ he asks.
‘In what way?’
‘You could convert it so you only rent out the downstairsspace and then you could live upstairs during the summer, only using the rest of the house when you don’t have people here.’
‘But then it would only be a one-bedroom for rentals.’
‘Do you really need this side-door access?’ he asks as we head into the wide corridor off the laundry. ‘If you could fit a washing machine in the kitchen and make the kitchen door your main access to the garden and driveway, you could lose the laundry and cloakroom and turn this whole space into a kids’ room with bunk beds.’
I take a moment to look around.
‘And you could convert the big main hallway with the front door into two entrance spaces, one that goes straight up the stairs to your apartment and another that works for guests. Upstairs, you could convert the big bathroom into a kitchen and turn Michael’s or your parents’ room into a living room.’
My mind is spinning at the possibilities he’s opened up.
‘Did you ever think about becoming an architect?’ I ask, beyond impressed.
‘I never allowed myself to dream about that sort of thing,’ he mutters, averting his gaze. ‘But you should ask Tarek.’
‘Tarek?’ I’m caught on the look on his face a moment ago, echoes of what Mum told me playing in my mind:His mother was a very troubled soul.I hate that he didn’t feel he could dream when he was younger. I want to wrap my arms around him, but resist the impulse.
‘He’s at university doing his Architecture Part 2, and he works part-time for a practice in Truro.’
