Free True Colours by Jeanne Whitmee Page B

‘kept’ by a woman, even when that woman is his wife.) He’s started spending several days a week away from the house, taking the early train up to London in the mornings and returning sometimes quite late at night. He says he needs to keep in closer touch with his agent and calls it ‘keeping a finger on the pulse’, says it’s important to meet up with other freelancers and find out what they are doing. Of course I can see his point but his attitude isn’t likely to get the house in order any time soon.
    Since school broke up for the summer holidays all my time has been spent in old jeans and baggy tee-shirts; sandpaper, or a paint brush in my hand. My hair badly needs cutting and my hands are a disgrace. Commissions for the portrait work have fallen off too, no doubt due to the recession. I’ve only had two since May and although I still love the house dearly there are days when I wish we’d never set eyes on it. Bit by bit it’s slowly taking over my life and undermining everything including our marriage. There’s no time for leisure any more, no time for fun, no time to spend together – at least, not in the way we used to. When we are together nowadays we’re always arguing, usually about money. Clearly we can’t put the house back on the market until the restoration is finished and at the rate we’re going that day grows more distant with every week. It’s a ‘catch twenty-two’ situation.
    As I turned the car in through the gates I wondered whether Rex would be at home. However, as I swung round the curve in the drive I saw that a large blue van was parked outside the house. My first thought was that we were being burgled. No doubt they had watched us both leave the house and then broken in to steal the new bathroom equipment, still waiting to be plumbed in. I stopped the car in the drive and got out, reaching into my bag for my mobile. At least I could block their way out.
    Phone in hand I gingerly approached the front door, which stoodopen. I could hear men’s voices coming from upstairs. Hastily I punched in 999 and asked for the police. After a moment a voice answered.
    ‘Police.’
    ‘I want to report a burglary.’
    ‘Can you give me your name and address, madam?’
    At that moment a man in overalls appeared on the stairs. When he saw me he smiled and called out, ‘Hello there! Mrs Turner, is it?’
    I nodded, speechlessly. ‘Who – who are you?’
    ‘Bob Harris from Harris and Jarrold, builders. Your husband said you’d be surprised when you got home.’ He ran down the stairs and began to cross the hall, rubbing his hand on the seat of his overalls before he held it out to me. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
    I could hear the voice at the other end of the line repeatedly asking for my name. I raised the phone to my mouth again. ‘I’m so sorry to have troubled you. It’s a misunderstanding.’ I switched off the phone and stared at the man.
    ‘I thought we’d got burglars.’
    He laughed. ‘I warned your old m— er, your hubby that some ladies don’t like surprises.’
    ‘But – I don’t understand. You say my husband engaged you?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘And you’re here to do – what?’
    He held out his hands. ‘You name it. And believe me there’s no shortage of jobs.’ He began to count off the tasks on his fingers. ‘Plumbing in the bathroom and the en-suite shower; tiling them both,
and
the kitchen, not to mention fitting the rest of them kitchen units. I could go on as I’m sure you know.’ He smiled sympathetically at me. ‘How you’ve managed with the place in this state all this time beats me. I reckon that old bathroom must’ve been put in by Adam and ’is mate!’ He laughed loudly at his own joke. ‘If you ask me, you deserve a medal.’
    ‘Thank you,’ I said weakly.
    ‘We’ve cleared out all the old stuff. It’s in the van.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Er, I know you’ve only just got in, Mrs T, but we’d really appreciate a cuppa.’
    I