Page 62 of Glasshouses

“Don’t. She has a great life. But it would be even better with an extension on the back of her house, or so she says.”

“When’s she going to get it?”

“When she agrees that my brother’s building firm can do it. She’s angling for me to do it and rope him in, then she’ll save money, but I don’t have the time. I can do your bathroom, and maybe this.” He looked round the kitchen. “Is it even safe?”

“I’ve had the gas checked.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It’s safe enough to live in.”

He didn’t say anything, just raised his brows and picked up our plates.

“I’ll clean up when I’ve slept. I’m really sorry; I should be plastering my own bathroom.”

“You’ll get an opportunity to plaster in here, so don’t worry. My brother says he’ll sort an electrician out and a plasterer to do your hall, stairs and landing. You’d need to pay, but it’ll be mate’s rates.” He rinsed his hands, wiping them on the battered jeans he was wearing, then pushed his fingers through unkempt hair.

“That sounds like a solution. Do you know anyone who can do flooring?”

“My nephew’s a tiler if you want tiles. His girlfriend’s dad’s a carpet fitter. When this case is done, can you take a couple of days of leave to meet with them and decide what you want? Then they can crack on. You’d only have the decorating and furnishing the place to worry about then.” He looked around the kitchen. “Were the chairs and table in here when you moved in?”

“They were, which was handy because I had no furniture.” I smothered a yawn. “I need to sleep. Are you going to murder me while I’m napping?”

“That’s not in today’s plans.”

“Shame. I could’ve done with a few days off now.”

Chapter Eighteen

I dreamed of houses and plasterboard and fires in sheds, open windows that wouldn’t shut and rain that came through them, drenching everything. I woke to a thunderstorm and a sash window that was rattling with the wind; something else I’d need to fix.

I’d been asleep four hours, the sort of sleep that was the opposite of refreshing but I no longer felt as if I was going to keel over. I needed fresh air and coffee and a shower, and an evening spent looking at files on a pen drive.

Maybe not the latter.

Taz was still in the bathroom, which now looked completely different than it had done before. Everything was gone; the sink, bath, toilet, the bidet that I’d avoided touching – it was a blank canvas. The carpet that had made me need to shower every time I’d seen it had been ripped out.

“Oh.” It was the only sound I could make.

“You’ll need to use the bathroom on the top floor. I made an executive decision and took everything out.” He eyed me as if I was about to turn feral.

“That’s fine. Do you think I could get a fancy chandelier over the bath?”

“I think you can have whatever’s in your budget, sweet cheeks.”

I found the energy to glare. “Never call me that again.”

His grin told me I had no chance.

“What do I need to choose first? Tiles?”

We went through ideas for the room; a freestanding bath, two sinks in case I ever lived here with someone and didn’t want my sink to be filled with stubble or someone else’s evacuated toothpaste. I liked the idea of an Edwardian unit against one of the walls and a walk in shower.

Taz negotiated with me, explaining where the plumbing was and what the limitations were, but after half an hour and a video call with yet another relation, we were heading down to a unit usually only open to trade, and this time I let Taz drive.

For the two hours it took to make decisions around colours, choose tiles, pick a cast iron bath and work out what style sinks I could live with, I didn’t think about fires or damaged children who grew up into damaged adults, or what was on that pen drive. It was a brain break, an exercise in thinking about something else, and I felt more alive than I had just through sleep.

“Is this why you renovate properties?” I asked my very patient companion on the way back to my house.