Page 14 of The Reno
“You don’t have to help, Lydia. I’ll manage.”
“Nope, nope, nope. Not having this, you’re just like your dad. Never accepting any help. I will be here either way, so tell me what to do or else.”
We agreed that Lydia would work upstairs, and I would tackle downstairs. Three hours of arduous work later, we’d done a deep clean of the whole house while listening to a true crime podcast. I’d heard Lydia exclaim the occasional “Bastard!” and “It’s the brother!” and snorted. Satisfied, we collapsed on the living room floor with plastic cups and a bottle of prosecco.
Warmth spread through my chest. It was addictive, that high. It spurred me on. When Lydia left, I would smash out that to-do list and kick arse. But in the meantime, I was quite happy to enjoy the company.
“How’s work?” I asked while topping up her glass of prosecco.
“Busy. Really busy. But I have no clients tomorrow, so I can be naughty,” she replied haughtily and took a swig.
I raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t personal trainers supposed to be, like, super healthy?”
Lydia shrugged. “All about balance. Plus, if I can’t celebrate my cousin moving home—”
“—temporarily,” I reminded her.
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Yes, temporarily, but still. What’s the point of all this”—she gestured to herself—“if I can’t enjoy life?”
To say Lydia was in good shape was an understatement. She was tall and lean, features she got from her mother’s side of the family because the Williamses were all short, stocky, and usually ginger. Lydia always wore bright sports gear, today favouringyellow and orange, and her long blonde hair was perpetually tied up into pigtails or space buns. She had the energy of the Duracell bunny and the spirit of a children’s TV presenter. I stared at her toned arms.How the hell did they even look like that?
“I work hard, but it is my full-time job,” Lydia added, as if answering my mental question. “Most people don’t have time to work out because they have actual lives. And families. Or see exercise as a means to an end, which I get. But I love it. I live for it.”
I nodded, wishing I understood that mentality. I liked graphic design, sure, but I didn’t live for it. Some days, I wondered if I even liked it all that much.
“Speaking of work—how did you swindle the time off?” A curious tone entered Lydia’s voice.
“Extended compassionate leave. Unpaid, but still. My boss, Willa, was understanding. She also lost her mum last year. Plus, I think two months of not paying my salary was appealing. They aren’t having the best time, financially.”
“Well, I suppose that’s a silver lining. The extended leave, I mean.”
“Yep. Thank god for dead dads, huh?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I’m joking, Lyd. You’re right. It’s a relief to be able to focus on this: new carpets, a lick of paint. The only big job will be opening the kitchen into the dining room to create an open-plan kitchen-diner. I looked it up, and I don’t need planning permission if I’m not extending. Even if it would be much better if we could…”
Lydia jumped up, and I trailed after her. We looked at the wall separating the dining room and the galley kitchen.
“Yeah.” Lydia nodded. “But if you knocked this wall down, it would be huge.”
I nodded. “I could even create a little snug here. I think there is enough room for a TV and sofa.”
“I can see that.”
“And over here”—I gestured to the centre of the room—“once the wall is gone, there is enough room for an island, with barstools for three at least.”
I began designing the space in my head. My mind flooded with Pinterest-like images of arched bookcases and gorgeous parquet flooring. Soft plaster-pink walls contrasted with deep navy cabinets—a cosy breakfast nook by the window. I was itching to pick out the perfect tile for the backsplash. My mum and Graham’s Edwardian terrace house resembled an eccentric library. Annotated novels and travel books doubled as coffee tables, cups of tea balancing precariously on top. I loved it but always longed to put my own stamp on a house. I just hadn’t expected it to be my dead dad’s childhood home.
“What did your mum say about you moving up here?” Lydia asked wryly.
My mum had never made her dislike of the North unknown. When my parents got married, my dad agreed to a wedding with all his friends and family at Everly Heath Church in exchange for moving down south to Reading, where my mum was working at a school. It seemed like an even exchange in my head, but now that I thought about it, ultimatums probably didn’t set a goodtone to start a marriage.
“She…”Should I lie again?I lied to get out of trouble all the time. At this point, I was worried it was pathological. But something about Lydia’s earnest face and helpful spirit made me want to be honest.
“She doesn’t know,” I admitted and waited for the gasp. My mother was scary as fuck. Even Lydia, who didn’t know her all that well, knew that.
I didn’t hear any reaction, so I looked up to find Lydia staring at me, a fearful expression on her features.
