The Thirty List. Eva Woods

Чтение книги онлайн.

      The only thing that made house-hunting vaguely bearable was to imagine I was researching locations for a new gritty TV show where people got murdered in the dingiest possible flats. CSI: Croydon. I put in my headphones as I trudged about and asked myself what Beyoncé would do, as I often pondered in moments of stress. Well, probably she’d charter her private helicopter and get airlifted to one of her mansions, so that was no use. I repaired to a café in Kentish Town, trying to cheer myself up with tea and a Florentine. Then the bill came to £4.50 and I realised I might not be able to afford cafés at all after this. I’d have to be one of those people who knitted jumpers and always took their own sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil, just like at school. This wasn’t what I’d grown up for. It was depressing indeed to realise you were no further up the pecking order than you were at seven.

      I was on my phone, scanning the property websites for anything under £700 that didn’t look likely to have fleas/mould/sleazy landlords. Could I live in Catford? Was that even in London? Would I be able to stomach a large flat share, given I currently worked from home? Alternatively, could I live and work in a studio flat where you couldn’t open the fridge without moving the bed? Could I possibly get my freelance work going again to the point where I’d actually make some money?

      I began scrawling figures on a napkin, but it was too scary, so I ordered another Florentine instead and then worried about money and calories and being single again at thirty. Not even single. Divorced.

      I was getting back into some very bad thoughts—you should ring Dan, beg him to take you back, you can’t afford this, you can’t manage alone—when my phone rang. Emma. ‘Are you busy?’

      ‘No. Just contemplating the ruins of my life.’

      ‘Oh dear, is it not going well?’

      ‘Put it this way, the only person with less luck than me at choosing where to live is Snow White. I’ve seen most of the seven dwarves today—Grumpy, Horny, Druggy …’

      ‘Remind me again why you had to move out. It was your house too, and he was the one who wanted—’

      ‘I couldn’t afford the mortgage on my own. And you know it’s better to be in London for work.’ Work that I didn’t have yet. I wasn’t going to think about that.

      ‘Well, check your emails. I just sent you something.’

      ‘OK, let me find my phone.’

      A pause. ‘You’re on your phone now, Rach.’

      ‘Oh, right. What did you send?’

      ‘An amazing flat share. It’s in Hampstead, lovely garden and house, but, best of all, it’s free!’

      ‘What? How is that possible?’ I was thinking of Mike, the ‘city gent’.

      ‘There’s some house-sitting and pet-sitting involved.’

      ‘Pets?’ I said warily, thinking of the cat house—ironically, not in Catford.

      ‘A dog.’

      ‘Oh my God!’

      ‘I know. So call them now! When I get off the phone, I mean.’

      Sometimes I wondered if my friends thought I was a complete idiot. ‘Thanks. You’re sure it’s not a sex trafficking thing though?’

      ‘You can never be totally sure.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘I’ve got the address just in case.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘I can craft the orders of service for your funeral. I just got a new glue gun.’

      ‘I’m going now! Bye!’

      I hung up and waited for the email to download.

      A flip of excitement in my stomach—when you reached thirty, property websites gave you the same feeling that dating websites did in your twenties. Not that I’d ever dated. The house was beautiful—three storeys of red brick, set among trees, and there was even a turret! Oh my God. I read on. Underfloor heating, en suite room, massive kitchen with dishwasher—some of the places I’d looked at didn’t even have washing machines. What was the catch? As I’d learned from my property search, there was always a catch. Under price, it said ‘N/A’. Could there really be no charge? I looked at the number listed and on impulse dialled it. I was only ten minutes from Hampstead, after all.

      It went to voicemail. A man’s voice, deep and clipped. Slightly posh. ‘This is Patrick Gillan. Please leave a message.’

      Voicemails are my nemesis. Cynthia still talks about the time I rang her at work to tell her I’d seen cheap flights to America, and ended up singing ‘Hotel California’ down the line while her entire office listened on speakerphone.

      ‘Erm СКАЧАТЬ