Just My Luck(63)

‘You can change that code, personalise it,’ says the estate agent. ‘Maybe to your winning lottery numbers,’ she suggests with a simpering laugh.

‘That would be too long,’ I point out.

The house is exquisite. Breathtaking. Modern, angular, very much how I imagine houses to be in Los Angeles. It’s the exact opposite to our dated, poorly repaired home, with flaky paintwork and a weed-pocked garden. This is modern, all white walls, vast windows and the garden is expertly manicured. Our car inches along the shingled drive and grinds to a halt just outside the vast dark wooden door which the estate agent unlocks. She immediately disarms the intruder alarm by inserting another code into another keypad. I guess I would be safe here. The four of us have dressed up to come on this look round, Jake, Emily and I by tacit agreement that we had to look the part, Logan was coerced (and anyway his idea of dressing up means that he has changed out of a sweaty football top and put on a clean one).

I’m so glad we did.

I get the feeling that anyone who lives in this sort of house has to constantly dress as though they are camera-ready for a shoot with Hello! The hallway is cavernous, it is double the height of any house I’ve ever been into. There is a glass ceiling that allows the sun to pour onto the floor, which is covered with immense white porcelain tiles that shine like glassy ice.

We dawdle through the vast and numerous rooms. I count them up. There are three reception rooms; I’m thinking maybe one is used as a dining room and another an office but then we are shown both of those rooms so I struggle to understand why anyone would need three reception rooms. Maybe one for the kids, one for the husband and one for the wife. Oh dear. The dining room has a huge wooden table running its entire length. I count the seats: twenty. I suppose that would be useful at Christmas. Usually in our home we resort to pulling dressing-table stools and deckchairs up around the table to make sure everyone is seated. Although, other than Christmas, I’m not sure when we’d use the dining room. Like most families we tend to gather in the kitchen, even when we are entertaining. We’re unlikely to need an office either, since neither of us have a job anymore. The kitchen is vast and yes, there is a huge dining area in there too. I try to visualise us all clustered around the industrial-looking stainless-steel worktops. The estate agent is good at her job, a people reader, she asks, ‘Don’t you like the kitchen?’

‘It’s stunning. Very modern.’ She waits. ‘Maybe a little clinical for my taste,’ I admit.

‘You can have it ripped out of course, if you buy the place. It is three years old.’ She rolls her eyes at me and pulls her mouth into a wide grimace; her neck looks like a turtle’s. I think I’m supposed to be horrified at the idea of a kitchen being more than three years old.

There are six bedrooms, they all have an en suite. There’s an extra bathroom on top which the agent describes as the family bathroom, but I don’t understand who would need it because of the multiple en suites. There are a lot of glossy wooden and marble floors and a rich scattering of plush rugs, no carpets. If my parents visit here, the rugs would be a hazard, my dad is always tripping over his own feet. There are a number of lights hidden in the floors, ceilings and recesses, not a dusty lampshade in sight. Some walls are made of glass bricks. I know they’re really trendy but they’ve been ruined for me because they use them in our local health centre. I’ve sat too often waiting to see a doctor to associate them with anything other than one of my children running a fever. The place is minimalist but furnished with a number of tasteful shades of grey. I suddenly think of Carla. She is the only woman I know who freely admits that she’s read Fifty Shades of Grey. I imagine her making jokes about the colour scheme and the opportunities to christen the endless rooms. I wonder how Jennifer would have responded. She constantly behaved as though Carla’s unsubtle innuendo was a bit distasteful. She always seemed to be something approaching sexless. She almost behaved as though giving birth to Ridley had been the result of an immaculate conception. Carla used to say it was because, out of the three of us, Jennifer had the least attractive husband and probably wasn’t that into sex with him, specifically. I used to shush Carla when she said things like that. I’d tell her not to be mean. I didn’t listen.

‘Do we get to keep the furniture?’ I ask. It may all be a bit different from my usual tastes, I generally like bright cheerful colours, but I know we don’t have enough furniture of our own to fill this place. Everything we own could fit in the one room I’m standing in.

‘If you like it and want it. It’s from a hire company. I can have it changed if it’s not to your taste. We have a range that you can view online.’

‘It’s fine.’ I’m certain under normal circumstances there’s nothing Emily would like more than playing interior designer but at the moment she’s absorbed with party planning. Besides, I’m not sure she needs to feel the buzz of click and collect any more than she already has. I think she’s technically addicted.

We are shown around the rest of the house. It’s wall-to-wall elegance, the very epitome of wealth and success. I sniff the air and swear I can detect the scent of money wafting about. There is a cinema room, a gym and outside, at the bottom of the garden, a pool room. I mean swimming pool, although there is also another room with a pool table in it. The children are beside themselves. They have already picked out their bedrooms; there were no squabbles because all of them are stunning, huge. This place is the opposite to the sort of place Gillian advised me to move to, but the matter is settled. Jake has signed a contract. The kids like the place. In fact, they love it. And I don’t dislike it. How could I? What is there to dislike?