Bricking It (25 page)

No!

No
no no!

That’s it. The house is sold. It’s gone from my clutches!

I hear Danny groan from beside me. I feel his hand take mine.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will
not
cry.

Gerard’s arm goes around my shoulder again. I wish I could say it gives me some comfort.

The bidding continues slowly. It’s a very cagey game these potential buyers are playing now. If I was a bit more objective about the whole thing, I might find the psychology of it all fascinating, but I’m not objective in the
slightest
, and just want the whole thing over with as fast as possible.

A tiny voice pipes up to remind me that I have just made a good two hundred thousand pounds in profit before tax, but I frankly don’t give a shit. I may do in a few days when I’ve come to terms with losing Daley Farmhouse, but at the moment I just couldn’t care less.

The only other person who shares my worldview right now is my brother. He looks as miserable as I do. Everyone else seems delighted. Mitchell is clapping his hands together, Fred and the boys are beaming with pleasure, Mum and Dad are turning in their chairs and giving us the big thumbs up.

The bidding continues. The pace remains slow, with the price now going up in increments of just a thousand pounds. Sunglasses, Saudi and Close To Her Daughter are swapping bids in succession. No one else seems interested in getting into it with them. This begs the question of why they bothered to turn up in the first place. Grant did warn me that a lot of people just like to turn up to these things for a nose about and a bit of light drama. This would definitely appear to be the case for this auction, as only five people are actively involved in the bidding process, out of a total of twenty-five.

In about ten minutes we reach £633,000. A very nice amount, indeed. The renovation has been absolutely worth all the time, money and effort we’ve spent on it. Financially, anyway. Emotionally, though?

Yeah, maybe not so much.

‘I want to leave,’ I whisper to Gerard.

‘Not yet,’ he whispers back. ‘Just see the whole thing out, eh?’

‘But why?’

‘Please? For me?’

What an extraordinarily strange thing to say. Why would Gerard want me to stay? The house has gone. He has been very kind to me today though, so I guess I can do what he asks. Maybe he wants me to stay because of the TV show. Pete is happily filming proceedings from one side of the lectern and I’m probably in shot. I can’t blame Gerard for wanting the ex-owner of the farmhouse to remain in the picture until the auction is over.

Ex-owner.

That’s what I am now.

Time for more waterworks.

The bidding stops at £640,000. It’s with the Saudi couple. They are going to win, I just know it. The irony will be horrific. Months of work, all down the pan when they roll in their bulldozers. Will I come and watch it happen? Can I put myself through that living hell? Probably. I spent hours sitting at a line of police tape expecting the place to blow up at any minute, after all. I couldn’t drag myself away from that, so I doubt I will be able to drag myself away from watching it get demolished.

‘So that’s six hundred and forty thousand pounds with the gentleman in the third row,’ Camilla says. ‘No more bids then?’ she asks the room, to a completely silent response.

‘No more bids?’ she repeats.

Oh, just end this, you silly bitch. I need to go and get drunk somewhere.

‘Six hundred forty going once . . . Six hundred forty going twice . . .’

The gavel rises. My heart drops. The end is nigh.

‘Six hundred and fifty thousand pounds!’ a strong voice calls out from right beside me.

I turn to look up at Gerard O’Keefe. He gives me a lopsided smile. ‘I said you never know how the day will end, didn’t I?’ he tells me.

My jaw goes slack. I start to feel my legs shake.

‘A new bidder at the back!’ Camilla crows triumphantly. She would. She’s getting two and a half per cent of whatever the house makes. She looks back at the Saudi man, who is looking quite disgruntled, it has to be said. ‘Back with you, sir. Anything further?’

No, you bastard. Just leave it where it is!

He seems to think about it for a moment, then shakes his head. My legs start to shake even more.

‘Okay then,’ says Camilla a bit breathless at al the excitement. ‘So we’re at six fifty. Anyone have any more than six fifty?’

Silence again.

‘Very well, that’s six fifty going once . . . Six fifty going twice . . .’

Time can be a strange thing, can’t it?

The moments can stretch to hours, the hours can stretch to days, and the days to months.

The time it takes for small wooden gavel to fall can feel like an eternity.

The reverse is just as possible, of course . . .

You can spend months renovating an old house, and at the end feel like it’s all gone past in the blink of an eye. One moment you’re a sad divorcee with no hope for the future, the next you’re an experienced property developer about to end your first auction with a successful sale.

Time. We never have enough, and we always have too much.

The only thing you can do is spend it wisely, either way.

BANG!

‘Sold to the gentleman at the back of the room!’

A cheer erupts from Fred and the boys, closely followed by a shriek of delight from Mitchell.

Danny looks at Gerard with blank incomprehension for a second. ‘Pat The Cow?’ he says in a hopeful voice.

‘Will always have a home here, Danny, I promise,’ Gerard tells him with a smile.

Danny whoops with joy, gives Gerard an enormous hug and starts laughing his head off in sheer, unbridled relief. Once he’s disentangled himself he goes over to Fred, Baz and Spider, who all proceed to squeeze the life out of him with a series of bear hugs.

I turn to look at Gerard, who has just finished shaking my father’s hand. ‘Why?’ I ask him, voice flat.

He holds up his hands. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this. I know you don’t want to think too much about me and you right now, but I’m afraid I may have fallen in love with you, so I kind of had to buy this house, didn’t I?’

Oh look. The room appears to be spinning, and I haven’t even had anything to drink.

‘You’re . . . you’re
in love
with me?’

‘Yep. Have been for months. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a woman who knows her hardwood flooring.’

‘You bought the house for
me
?’ I ask him, dumbfounded. I’m rather hoping my wits will return to me shortly, but for now all I seem to able to do is make obvious statements in a high-pitched voice.

‘I did. I would ask if you like it, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that already.’

I start to shake my head. ‘I can’t accept it, Gerard. It’s too much. It’s just too, too much.’

He takes me hand. ‘You owe me nothing, Hayley,’ he tells me, eyes fixed firmly on my tear-stained face. ‘This house is yours whether you want me or not. I didn’t buy it to win you over. I bought it to make you happy. If I make you happy as well, then that’s great, but if you can’t be with me because of everything you’ve been through, then I accept that too.’

My breath catches in my throat.

Slowly, I become aware of the audience that now surrounds the both of us. Everyone I know and love is watching this little romantic drama unfold in front of their eyes. How utterly, utterly embarrassing.

Oh, what the hell am I saying? Pete is still filming all of this. It’s all going to be broadcast on national TV at some stage, so why am I worrying about a few friends, relatives . . . and complete strangers seeing it?

I make decision. It’s quite a bold one for me. I’ve never been one for big, public displays of affection, but it might be about time to start trying them on for size. After all, I have a grandmother who probably didn’t know the meaning of the word embarrassment. I need to start taking after her more.

I point a finger at Gerard. ‘You. Outside. Now.’ I tell him.

‘Why?’

I look at Pete’s camera. ‘Because I want to give your show the climax it deserves.’

I take Gerard’s hand and lead him out of the living room and through the front door. I then walk several paces up the garden path with him. As I do, I am reminded of the first time I stood in this very spot, looking up at the old derelict shell of the house that once stood here, wondering what the hell we were going to do with it.

A house I have now restored.

And a house that has also restored
me
.

Everyone files out of the front door behind us, Pete the cameraman in the lead. I look over to one side to see Pat The Cow amble around the corner from the back garden. She stops and regards me with a look of bovine comprehension that is quite disconcerting.

‘Moo,’ Pat The Cow says.

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Danny goes over and gives his friend a pat between the ears. Then he looks up at me, smiles and nods.

I look back at Gerard, snake one hand around his neck and stare deep into eyes. ‘You have my house, Gerard, and you have me as well. For better or for worse.’

‘Really?’ he says, choking up.

‘Yep. Now smile for the camera and kiss me, you fool.’

He does, and we do.

It’s all rather perfect, to be honest.

Actually, no. Not perfect
just
yet.

That will come later for Gerard and I – and it will involve candles, a fresh bottle of champagne . . . and a roll-top bath.

The End

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A lot of people have helped me write this book. Okay, they haven’t actually stood over me with a cattle prod, giving me a quick poke every time I make a spelling mistake, but without them,
Bricking It
would surely not exist. The following can therefore take a figurative bow, if they fancy.

My agent, Jon. The good folks at Amazon Publishing, including Emilie, Sana, Neil and Jenny. Whoever invented Google. My mother, Judy. My sister, Sharon (the real-life Hayley). My friend, Kaz. My consistently patient and beautiful fiancée, Gemma.

Thanks to all of them, for their help and support.

Oh, and you. Yes,
you
. The person sat there reading this list of acknowledgements. I’ll probably get it in the neck from those listed above for saying this, but
you
are actually the most important person in this process. Thank you for buying
Bricking It
, and for supporting me. Words cannot express just how grateful I continue to be every time you put your hand in your pocket. You keep doing that, and I’ll keep trying to write books like this – agreed?

Nick

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © Gemma Waters

Nick Spalding is the bestselling author of six novels, two novellas and two memoirs. Nick worked in media and marketing for most of his life before turning his energy to his genre-spanning humorous writing. He lives in the south of England with his fiancée.