Page 7 of Fix Them Up
He hadn’t told me because we didn’t speak.
Lydia’s blue eyes, the Williams family eyes we shared, met mine and softened.
‘I’m so sorry, Kat.’
I tensed.
‘It’s fine. Anyway. I’m going to renovate it myself.’ I pulled my curly hair up into the bobble on my wrist.
‘You’re going to renovate it?’ she squeaked, eyes going wide.
Great. EvenMiss Motivationherself doubted me.
‘It was Dad’s childhoodhome, and your dad’s too.’ I nodded towards Lydia. My uncle looked so much like my dad, with darker red curls and crinkly eyes, that I’d struggled to say more than a few words to him at the funeral last year. Looking at Brian felt like looking at the sun.
‘I know… but I know you and your dad… were strained. Everyone would understand if you wanted to sell. Let someone else renovate it.’
Were they talking behind my back? This is because of the funeral. They saw how I messed up and thought I would choke at this, too.
I shrugged, attempting nonchalance. ‘It feels right to bring it back to life. Let someone else build memories here.’ My nose began to burn. ‘Plus, it makes more business sense. I met with the estate agent, and he reckons if I spend money on a few basics, it will sell for a lot more. Then I can use that money to buy a place in London.’
‘Does that mean I get to see my cousin more than a few hours this year?’ Lydia smiled and threw her toned arm around my shoulders.
‘Yep, you have me for two months.’
Lydia’s lips pulled back in mock disgust. ‘Alright. Don’t overstay your welcome, cuz. This town isn’t big enough for two Williams girls.’
I chuckled. ‘I’m sure it will survive.’
‘We’ll have to warn the town crier.’
Lydia’s town. Dad’s town. My paternal family had set down deep roots in Everly Heath. But I’d always felt like an outsider on the few occasions I’d visited, even before my parents’ divorce. I’d been a pre-teen, an infamously awkward age, and while everyone had been friendly and welcoming, I’d always felt anxiousand awkward compared to the relaxed way everyone talked to each other. There was a rhythm, but I didn’t have the hymn sheet.
Lydia ruffled my sweaty hair. ‘Where shall we start, then?’ She eyed the hallway and kitchen.
‘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.’
