‘Well, I think we can assume that number thirty-seven is the redheaded stepchild of the street.’ I point at the house with peeling paint and a pile of refuse where the houses on either side have potted plants or a rockery.
I sense Miranda physically deflate beside me.
‘Come on. It might be better inside.’
But it isn’t. If anything, it’s worse. Ten times worse. To begin with, the flat she’s come to see is in the basement. It’s dark and dingy and smells of bleach.
‘Do you think he’s trying to hide something?’ she asks, pressing herself closer to me. The landlord lurks somewhere in another room, and I don’t think I imagined his disappointment when he realised Miranda had brought a “friend” to the viewing.
He looks like a pervert. There’s just something wrong about him. Something I couldn’t put my finger on at first. I’ve worked it out now, though I’m not quite sure how to break the news.
‘Definitely.’
‘A dismembered body?’ she whispers, but whether aghast or titillated, it’s hard to tell.
‘Mould, more likely.’
‘I know it looks a bit grim, but with a lick of paint and some nice bits from Ikea, I think it’d be okay.’
A contradictory sentence, if I ever heard one.
‘Are you trying to convince me or yourself?’ It takes some effort, but I manage to keep my voice even and my expression calm. But really? Come the fuck on. I’ll buy this place and knock it down before I allow her to move in.
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘That’s not an answer.’ I scratch behind my ear and indicate the landlord behind me.
‘Does he look like the kind of man you want owning a keyto your private space?’
‘Look, it’s not like I’ve got the option of moving into Princes Gate, is it?’
‘Look at the marks on the wall. There’s been flooding here. And look at the window.’ I point at the large bay. ‘There are three windows in this whole place, two of them have bars, and that one has a direct view down into your potential living space. You’d need to keep the blinds closed to stop passers-by from seeing down and in—drunks coming home from the pub we passed at the end of the road.’
‘This has got nothing to do with you,’ she answers mulishly. ‘Check your rich man privilege,’ I think she mutters next. But for all her obstinacy, she knows just as I know that this isn’t the place for her.
Excuse me a moment while I bang the final nail in the coffin.
‘And this.’ I point at the ceiling without looking up myself.
Her brow creases, and her eyes tighten in concentration. ‘What is it?’ Her gaze flicks to me. ‘Is it mould?’
‘I’m no expert, but I’d say that’s a hole from the floor above. There’s another in the bedroom in the same place.’ A key-sized hole next to the light pendant. ‘And another in the bathroom, though this time in the corner.’
‘What.. .?’ I watch as a range of emotions flicker and fade on her face. Confusion. Disbelief. And finally horror. ‘In all the rooms?’ she hisses, her gaze flicking to the doorway where her potential landlord had disappeared, along with his potential of becoming her landlord.
‘I didn’t see any in the kitchen. I suppose watching you put the kettle on isn’t part of his voyeuristic kink.’
I try not to smile too broadly as we leave. And the same again when we don’t even bother climbing out of the car at the second place above a massage parlour, though I take no pleasure in her dejection as we drive away.
‘Let me set you up with an agent. You can have a look at a few properties, maybe get a better idea of what a half decent place will cost.’
‘I’m almost frightened to,’ she mutters as she stares out of the passenger window.
‘That doesn’t sound at all like you. The Miranda I know meets problems head on.’
‘I sometimes wonder who you think I am,’ she says, turning back to face me. ‘I’m nothing special. I’m just muddling on like everyone else, probably making a bloody mess of it all.’
‘You’re selling yourself short. Look at what you’ve done to keep yourself afloat. You have two jobs and plans to move out into your own home. You’re about to bring a child into the world without fear.’
