Page 22 of Ex in the City
‘I guess I had time to get used to the idea of us reuniting,’ he points out in an attempt to make me feel better. ‘Whereas, for you, you just had me turning up at your door like Jacob Marley.’
‘And yet, oddly, looking less like Jacob Marley than you used to,’ I tease him.
Dylan laughs.
‘I’m still going to let you in. Come on. The coffee is ready.’
I follow Dylan into the hallway that leads through to the kitchen. The house is a quirky mix of old-fashioned grandeur and the desperate need for modernisation. Perhaps that’s why Mr Campbell’s kids are holding off on selling it, hoping they’ll make more money if they do it up first. Modern houses on this street sell for an absolute fortune.
It’s a shame to see what would have been beautiful once upon a time looking so uncared for – kind of like the ends of my hair and the skin around my eyes that I really wish I’d started moisturising earlier in life. You can only see glimpses of the intricate pattern on the now faded wallpaper, and the chipped paintwork shows how long it has been since this house had any TLC.
The hallway is illuminated by an ornate chandelier that hangs from the ceiling which, again, even though it needs some attention, is undeniably beautiful and still casts a lovely warm glow over an otherwise dark room.
I can’t resist checking out how I look in a tarnished antique wall mirror as I pass it. I don’t think I’ve ever worried abouthow I looked for a client before, so long as I looked smart, and I’m embarrassed to say how long I spent getting ready today. I washed my hair – on what would have been a non-hair-wash day – and I changed my outfit at least three times. Only to find Dylan in his PJs and without a top. Still, that clearly takes a lot of competing with these days.
The kitchen is bathed in natural light, thanks to large windows that overlook the garden. Again, though, it’s in need of a serious makeover to bring it up to date. I like to see some original character in houses but that feels like a luxury sometimes. When you have jobs, kids and lots going on, it isn’t realistic to care for chandeliers and painted stairs. You need that big open-plan living space, one that serves the whole house, where you can fit everyone, keep an eye on the kids while you cook and so on. The best way to sell this house – and to appeal to the locals with the money to afford it – would be to knock out a few walls and then deck it out with a Scandi colour palette and all the mod cons you can think of.
‘It’s fascinating, finally seeing inside here,’ I tell Dylan. ‘I’ve been to the door many times, but never inside. I used to bring Mr Campbell bits of shopping. I think I was the only person on the street who didn’t hate him – and who he didn’t totally despise. His kids didn’t really bother with him; I guess he was quite hard work, and such a busybody, but I didn’t mind picking him up the things he needed now and then.’
‘It’s nice to know you haven’t changed,’ Dylan replies through a smile. ‘Still the same Nic, happy to help those who needed it.’
‘Is that why I used to follow you around, wiping your arse?’ I joke.
‘I had my perks,’ he insists, handing me a cup of coffee.
Huh, that’s interesting. In an otherwise old-fashioned kitchen – with an aesthetic to match the rest of the house, andone that can only be described as The Shining – there is a sleek, shiny coffee machine with all the bells and whistles.
‘I don’t remember coffee beans being on his shopping list,’ I say, puzzled.
‘I brought this with me,’ Dylan admits. ‘And a few other necessities – things I can’t live without.’
‘Oh, God, don’t tell me there are twenty-seven women upstairs,’ I quip.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Dylan replies. ‘It’s only a four-bed house.’
I can’t help but smile.
‘Were you that sure I would say yes?’ I ask him curiously.
‘I was that hopeful,’ he replies. ‘But not hopeful enough to bring twenty-seven women with me. However, I did find something interesting upstairs, though – want to see?’ he asks.
‘Always,’ I reply.
I follow Dylan back into the hallway and up the creaky wooden stairs. As we reach the top, I can’t help but feel an unusual flutter of nerves in my stomach, and I’m not sure if it’s my building intrigue for what Dylan has unearthed in this old, mysterious house, or just Dylan’s presence alone.
He leads me into a bedroom at the front of the house, which looks like it was being used as a study. The walls are adorned with shelves, and they’re overflowing with books of all shapes and sizes. In one corner, a telescope stands by the window, silently observing the outside world.
‘I never knew he was into astronomy,’ I think out loud.
Dylan chuckles softly, his amusement evident.
‘I don’t think he was,’ he replies. ‘Look at this.’
He retrieves a red book from one of the shelves – one of many – and begins to read aloud from the pages.
‘Lindy Mullings left her home at 11.20a.m. – she also left her baby. No sign of the au pair until 11.48,’ Dylan reads, his bemused disbelief present in every word. ‘Returned home at15.27. Bumped the car on the gatepost. Suspect she had too much to drink at lunch. Will continue to monitor the situation.’
My eyes widen with a mix of disbelief and horror.
