Page 14 of Don't Say A Word
I frown at the chair. ‘There might be a way.’
‘Okay?’
I start shifting the chair to the side. ‘If you turned it…like that…I think it might go in.’
‘Oh! I see. Oh, yes! That makes sense.’ We both twist it into position.
‘And that way…’ I grunt. ‘Now, if you pull it…then we push in the back first and tilt it…this way…’
‘I have a feeling I’m going to love you forever,’ she says, breathing hard with the effort.
A couple of minutes later, the chair has made it through the door.
‘Please don’t hate me, but can we drag it down there?’ She tilts her head to indicate the hall behind her.
‘Of course.’
We carry the chair down the grubby hall and into the living room.
‘You have no idea how happy I am right now,’ she says, standing up straight. She wipes her hand across her forehead, leaving a dark streak just above her left eyebrow.
She’s taller than I am, early to mid-thirties, with a lovely round face and a bouncy air about her. She extends her hand, glances at it, wipes it on her jeans and extends it again.
I laugh.
‘I’m Teresa,’ she says. ‘But my friends call me Teri.’
I shake her hand. ‘I’m Kate, I live next door, with my husband and stepdaughter, so if you ever need anything…’
‘Are you or your husband handy? Because I could use the help…’ She lets the sentence trail as she turns her head slowly. I follow her gaze.
‘Oh, God…’
We both stare at the living room.
‘Wow. You have your work cut out for you,’ I say, taking in the state of the room. The walls are yellowed with age, there’s a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling and the window is so dirty you’d barely know it was daylight.
She wipes her forehead again. ‘A renovator’s dream, they said.’
‘They got that part right.’
‘I have this horrible feeling I made a terrible mistake.’
‘It’s not so bad,’ I say. ‘It just needs a good clean and a lick of paint.’
‘Yes…’ She makes a face. ‘That’s what I thought when I bought it, but now I don’t think any amount of cleaning or painting is going to fix this dump.’
‘What if you sniffed the paint before putting it on? Would that help?’
She bursts out laughing. She has a nice laugh – loud and genuine.
‘Anyway—’ she raises her arms in a make-the-best-of-it gesture ‘—it’s all I could afford, so…what can you do? You don’t happen to know a decorator, do you? Or an electrician? Everytime I turn on a light switch, I feel like I’m taking my life into my own hands.’
‘Not really, no… I’ve only just moved here myself.’
She scratches the back of her head. ‘And I don’t suppose your husband happens to be one of those incredibly handy types?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed. I mean, he likes to tinker – you know, men and their toolboxes…’
