‘True, it’s a wonder how I manage at all!’ Lilly knew her sarcasm would be lost on Glenda, who had a husband, a Norman, to be precise, who was a quiet soul but a good man, whoclearlykept Glenda, who hid her money in her bra when she collected her pension, on the straight and narrow. It made Lilly smile, this advice from her friend, the assumption that a man,anyman, would be better at handling her finances. It was as outdated as it was insulting. It wasn’t the first time Glenda had mentioned her money, and she sure as sugar knew it wouldn’t be the last. It was an unpleasant truth that she felt the interest came with a certain smack of envy. Not that it was Lilly’s fault; her dad had bought the flat when offered the chance by the Tory government’s Right to Buy scheme in 1983. And when he died, he had left it to her, meaning she lived mortgage- and rent-free. The dream for most, she understood, and with minimal bills, Lilly certainly lived comfortably on her income from the art gallery where she worked.
She pictured him: sweet Norman, quiet Norman, who had on the darkest of days so long ago shown her nothing but kindness, but that said, he was hardly Richard Branson.
There was a loud knock.
‘Oh, that’s the front door, Glenda. See you later!’
In truth she was glad of the excuse to end the phone call.
Lilly opened the door and smiled at the bespectacled young man with the shock of auburn hair. She took in his tight-fitting blue suit that emphasised his slim build, his shiny shoes and his open-necked shirt,immaculately pressed.Shiny shoes – standards!The man looked to be on a mission, if she had to guess, from one of the churches that preached the importance of such a presentation of shirt, shoes and politeness, alongside an intolerance towards anything that deviated from the heteronormative teachings of the good book. A curious and confusing dichotomy, and only one of the reasons she steered away from organised religion of all types.
‘Mrs Cooper?’
‘No. I’m not Mrs Cooper.’
‘Oh!’ He immediately referred to a leather-bound folder in his hand. ‘This is flat six?’ he queried, nervously.
‘It is, but I am Miss Cooper.Miss.’
‘Oh, right! Oh, good!’ He smiled with an expression of relief. ‘I’ll get the paperwork changed.’
‘What paperwork?’ She was curious; this was not what she had expected at all. Usually, the spiel began with a message of light, love and redemption, brought to her door by none other than a representative of the big man himself.
‘Oh yes, yes, right.’ He coughed to clear his throat. ‘Might I come in?’ He pointed towards her hall. ‘We have an appointment.’
‘We do?’ she asked quizzically, wondering what appointment, and how she might have missed it. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d got in a muddle, turning up on the wrong day for dentist visits and often getting confused over the fortnightly recycling schedule. She might have told Glenda she wasn’t old but she blamed these thought fuzzles entirely on her age.
‘Yes! I emailed but didn’t get a reply.’
‘Well, that explains it; I don’t open emails. I used to but found it jolly confusing trying to figure out how to reply, and that in itself was quite stressful. And even if I did know how to reply,the whole idea of being that accessible, it’s not for me, dear.’ She shook her head.
‘I see.’ He stared at her with a look of utter bewilderment. She supposed it was a little alien to him and his generation, the idea of being out of contact by choice. And as for social media – she had very little interest in pictures of people’s lunches or builders in hi-vis doing a dance as they lip-synced in heavy boots.
‘I re-sent it, but still didn’t hear back, so thought I’d pop in on the off chance, and here you are!’
‘Here I am!’ She smiled. ‘And who are you?’ She stood firm in the doorway, folding her arms across her chest.
‘Sorry, yes! I should have showed you my ID; I’m from Portland and Montague.’
‘And who are they?’ she persisted.
‘Ah, yes, sorry, Mr A. Portland and Mr P. Montague, the developers who are taking over the block.’ Lilly felt her hackles rise. ‘We’ve sent a few letters, too, but not had a response from you, so ...’ He let this trail.
‘So ...’ She rolled her hand.
‘So, might I have five minutes of your time to ... to discuss the, erm, the ... the proposed timeline for the regeneration and the appropriate course of action for all residents?’
With tiny beads of sweat on his top lip, he sounded very much like he was reciting a script.
‘I didn’t catch your name?’ she asked with a softer tone, not wanting to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was; the young man seemed a little prone to apologising. He was, after all, only doing his job.
He indicated a lanyard around his neck and held it up for her to inspect. ‘Vaughan. Joshua Vaughan.’
‘I think you can tell me all you need to here on the doorstep, Mr Vaughan. We can get this cleared up quite quickly, I’m sure.’
‘Right.’ He swallowed, lowered his folder and pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘Have you read the letters we have sent, Mrs –MissCooper?’ he self-corrected, as his face coloured in that way that it does when someone is trying really hard to get it right but still gets it wrong.
‘Not really. You see, it doesn’t apply to me, dear. It often causes confusion, not your fault, but I am not a council tenant. This flat, number six’ – she pointed to the silver number on the front door – ‘is privately owned by me. This has been the case for decades, and before that it was my dad’s. So, any work being carried out; the painting of communal areas, replanting of the raised beds at the front, the installation of bin sheds in the basement’ – she paused – ‘I’m trying to think of all the wonderful improvements that have been touted and reneged on in the last few years; they don’t and won’t apply to me. Oh, and if you are going door to door, can you please not disturb Mrs Veerswamy on the top floor, flat seven. She works nights at St Thomas’s and will be asleep.’
