The Choir on Hope Street: A gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy to make your heart sing!. Annie Lyons
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where to?’ I asked.
‘Hope Street, please, number thirty.’
‘Oh, I live on that road,’ I said. ‘Number 232.’
‘Ahh.’ Natalie nodded. ‘The posh end.’
Some people might have taken this as a criticism but I didn’t. That house was my pride and joy. It had been a shell when Oliver and I had bought it in pre-Matilda days. We had worked hard to restore and rejuvenate it and it was a labour of love, particularly for me. We’d converted the loft, restored the brickwork, opened up the kitchen and made it into the perfect family home. I made no apology for the money spent or the effort made. We worked hard and we deserved it. Jealousy was a cheap and easy emotion.
However, I could tell that Natalie was only teasing as she made the comment with an almost-smile. I rewarded it with a breezy laugh. ‘What a start to the day!’ I remarked as we made the short journey back to her house.
She didn’t answer so I looked over and noticed that her shoulders were shaking. At first I thought she was laughing until I noticed her tear-stained face. It was like something from a soap opera. She was nearing hysterics. Two thoughts entered my head; how am I going to stop her doing that and how can I deposit her back home as quickly as possible?
I scanned the numbers and pulled up outside her house. It was a pleasant enough terraced Edwardian. Oliver and I had looked at a couple of these during our property search but had found them too poky, at least that was what I felt. Oliver was happy to go along with me. He’s good like that. I remember when we first viewed our house, it had been dark and shabby, the overwhelming stench of old person lingering like rotting stew.
The estate agent, an upright impeccably dressed woman in her late fifties, who had reminded me of my wonderful headmistress, Mrs Biggs, had chosen her words carefully.
‘This was a treasured family home but it needs to be updated, of course.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Oliver, taking in the peeling wallpaper, damp stains and alarming orange-swirl carpet. ‘It could do with being condemned and re-built, if you ask me.’
The estate agent had shot him a look not unlike one Mrs Biggs might have given one of the cheekier girls at our school – amused but firm. ‘It just needs a little TLC. Mrs Brown hadn’t been able to undertake any home improvements in recent times.’
I had adopted my best Kirstie Allsop persona and walked from room to room, trying to avoid deep breaths because of the smell, opening my mind as one word emerged from the back of my brain.
Potential.
‘I think it has great potential,’ I observed, keeping my expression neutral. That’s one thing my father had always taught me. ‘Keep a poker-face, Caroline. Never give anything away.’
Oliver was watching me now. Unlike the estate agent, he could read me like a book. ‘I saw your eyes light up like a child’s on Christmas morning,’ he observed later. ‘I knew we’d found the one – resistance was futile.’ He kissed me on the nose as he said this. ‘My girl must have exactly what she wants.’
He was always so sweet like that back then. It was different when we were both working at the bank. We worked hard and partied even harder. They were very happy times, working all week, doing up the house at the weekends. We had builders in to start with but we finished it all ourselves. I can remember Saturdays, listening to cheesy music on the radio while we decorated. I feel as if I know every inch of that house.
I smiled at the memory but my thoughts were interrupted by a loud, gasping sob. I stared at Natalie. I’d almost forgotten she was there. She looked truly awful, her face red and blotchy. I watched with disgust as she used a sleeve to wipe one eye. I reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a tissue as I might do for Matilda. I held it out for her and she seemed so touched by this tiny act of kindness that it brought on a fresh round of tears.
‘Thank you. Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘You must think I’m a nightmare.’
Of course I did but I’m never rude. ‘Not at all,’ I lied. ‘We all have off days,’ although of course I rarely did.
‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’ she asked, dabbing at her nose with the tissue.
‘That would be lovely but I’m afraid I have an appointment.’ This was only a half-lie as my cleaner was coming at ten and I always liked to be home to make sure she did her allotted two hours. I’d caught her leaving ten minutes early once.
Natalie nodded and smiled. There was an awkward pause as if she was waiting for me to say something, possibly ask her what was wrong, but I wasn’t going to do this. I barely knew her and I had a policy never to get involved with strangers’ problems. People loved to be so dramatic these days, longing for others to notice them, to affirm their existence with a ‘poor you’ or a Like on Facebook. It was all very needy. I don’t want to sound harsh but I can’t bear needy people.
Happily, there was a tap on the car window. It was our postman and he was smiling in at Natalie. He was one of those men who insist on wearing shorts whatever the weather and he always seemed to be tanned and relentlessly cheerful. I couldn’t recall his name until Natalie opened the passenger door and greeted him.
‘Hey Jim. How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks Nat. You look a bit down. What’s up?’
I took this as my signal to escape. ‘I’ll let you get on then, Natalie,’ I said.
She turned her head towards me. ‘Okay then. Thanks for the lift, Caroline,’ she replied, climbing out of the car. She shut the door with a slam. Again. ‘Sorry,’ she winced, holding up a hand in apology.
I smiled and shook my head, pretending it didn’t matter before driving off. I glanced at Natalie and Jim in the rear-view mirror. They were already deep in conversation as he handed over a pile of letters, his face creased with concern. Natalie was obviously unloading that day’s drama. I couldn’t believe that she would be telling her troubles to the postman. The world had gone mad.
As I reached home and opened the front door, I exhaled with relief – another crisis averted. I noticed a plug of fluff hanging from the bottom of the radiator. I made a mental note to ask Rosie to give them a good clean and check the skirting boards while she was at it. I always took pride in keeping a clean and tidy house. Appearances are everything, after all.
NATALIE
‘So are you sure there isn’t someone else involved?’ asked Ed.
‘I’m as sure as I can be,’ I replied.
‘Has he actually said that though?’
‘Woody asked him.’ Ed looked surprised. I sighed. ‘I know. He came round so that we could tell Woody what was happening and it was only when he said it, that I realised I’d forgotten to ask.’
‘You forgot to ask?’
‘Don’t judge. I was really busy being very, very angry.’
Ed shrugged. ‘Fair point. So what did he say?’
‘He did the reasonable Dan thing, denied it vehemently, told Woody how much he loves him, that it’s not his fault, that he’ll be there for him whenever he needs him and that he’ll be staying at his mum’s for now. Blah, blah, textbook reassuring estranged father stuff.’
‘How did Woody take it?’
‘He asked for a biscuit.’
Ed surveyed the almost-empty tub of brownies. ‘Takes after his mother. Has Woody talked to you about it since?’
I shrugged. ‘Not really. I don’t think eight-year-old boys do heart-to-hearts and, to be honest, he probably