Conditional Love by Cathy Bramley

rural living and focus on my own internal struggles.
    It seemed likely that if I didn’t inherit the house, it would go to her next of kin, who, I imagined, was my father. A niggling little voice in my head reminded me that if Great Aunt Jane had wanted him to have it, she would have left it to him. Perhaps she thought he didn’t deserve it? I was with her on that one.
    What would happen to all her stuff, her hairbrushes and clothes and photographs? My father lived in the States, he wouldn’t want it. I couldn’t bear it if it all got scooped up and put in the dustbin.
    But the house itself? In all my dreams of creating my own home, my own oasis of comfort and security, I had never pictured an ugly, damp and draughty box like that. It was old, characterless, had no redeeming features and appeared to have been built in a time that style forgot.
    I was so lacking in experience in these matters. I needed some professional advice. Maybe the solicitor could help?
    ‘Hey! You promised a drink in a pub!’ complained Emma as we headed back into suburbia.
    Or an estate agent?
    I braked sharply and swerved, pulling the car half onto the pavement in front of a short run of shops. Jess squealed in terror as a double decker bus thundered past us, making the car shake.
    ‘Jesus, Sophie! I’m not that desperate!’ yelled Emma from the back, bracing herself between the two front seats.
    ‘Sorry. I need to pop in there.’ I pointed at the middle shop, which advertised itself as Prestige Properties . ‘I’ll be five minutes max.’
    Four minutes later I jumped back in the driving seat, earning myself a shake of the fist from a passing cyclist, who I nearly wiped out with the car door.
    ‘D’you want to borrow these?’ he shouted, waving his glasses at me through the windscreen.
    I mouthed my apologies and turned to my passengers, who looked a bit stroppy for some reason.
    ‘Guess what!’ I beamed. ‘The estate agent has offered to come and have a look now. What do you think?’
    Their tuts and huffs told me they didn’t share my enthusiasm for a second visit to the bungalow. Something was drawing me back there, though. Mr Whelan would be expecting the keys back on Monday and I wasn’t ready to let go of them yet. Maybe the estate agent could offer me some advice? I wasn’t sure on what exactly, but surely it couldn’t hurt to have a professional opinion?
    A pub on the opposite side of the busy road caught my eye.
    ‘Here,’ I said, rummaging in my purse for a twenty pound note and thrusting it in Jess’s hands. ‘It’ll only take me an hour. Why don’t you wait for me in the pub?’
    They didn’t need asking twice.
    Back on the road to Woodby, I had an attack of nerves. Technically, the bungalow wasn’t even mine. I wasn’t even sure whether I should be letting an estate agent in, let alone procuring advice. Besides that, what was I going to ask him: Oh, hello Mr Estate Agent. I might be inheriting this bungalow, but I might not. What shall I do with it?
    He was hardly going to suggest what colour to paint it, was he?
    Even in my limited experience, I knew that you only contacted an estate agent if you wanted to buy or sell a house. Full stop. I’d rushed in without thinking it through.
    I glanced in my rear view mirror. Too late now. He was right behind me in his Ford Mondeo, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and nodding his head energetically.
    Back on the drive at the bungalow, I waited as the estate agent pulled up behind me and then sat in his car, playing air guitar, apparently waiting for the end of the track. The music was so loud, I could feel the bass through the paving slabs. Something with crashing drums and electric guitars.
    ‘ Now That’s What I Call Music Sixteen . The best Now album in my opinion,’ he said, emerging from the car, puffing his cheeks and shaking his head. ‘Queen. Legend.’
    I shook his hot hand. Mr Hanley had oily hair and a handlebar moustache. Perhaps he wore a