Conditional Love by Cathy Bramley Page A

white vest top and tight white trousers when he was off duty? The thought made me feel a bit queasy. He certainly wasn’t built like Freddie Mercury, I noted, as he forced his shiny jacket to button up.
    ‘Well, well, well.’ His eyes roamed the frontage of the bungalow greedily. He jotted a few notes on his clipboard. ‘A hidden gem, as we say in the business.’
    ‘Thanks for doing this at such short notice, Mr Hanley.’ I ushered him into the dark hallway.
    ‘No trouble at all,’ he chuckled. ‘And call me Colin. The property market can be a scary place for a first timer. Especially a young lady on her own.’
    I swallowed a snarky retort, trying not to bristle. He would be patting me on the head and giving me a sweetie next.
    ‘So, what does the future hold for this humble abode, then?’ asked Colin.
    Oh, if only it were that simple! If only I could fast-forward the next few weeks, months even, and reappear when things were less complicated.
    ‘Let me show you around,’ I suggested, avoiding the question. ‘With your expertise, I’m sure you’ll have some good ideas.’
    I gestured for Colin to follow me. This time the tour of the bungalow didn’t take long, and five minutes later we were in the garden, perched on a moss-covered wooden bench.
    ‘What do you think?’ Despite my initial impression of the house being dreary from the outside, I was already feeling unaccountably protective towards the little place and found myself wanting him to like it.
    Colin smoothed his shirt down over his pie-and-pint belly and clamped his mouth together in a lipless smile. He breathed hard out through his nose. His expression was one of a doctor about to impart bad news.
    ‘The trouble with these properties built in the thirties is that they were thrown up quickly in the boom years and the build quality was very poor. The walls are thin and there will be no insulation.’
    My face drooped, along with my expectations.
    ‘They’re prone to damp. This garden is on a slope, leading towards the property, so water will run off the fields behind and into the foundations – if there are any,’ he chuckled.
    My shoulders slumped as the dire prognosis continued. Colin was on a roll. On and on he droned. I found myself zoning out and only catching the worst of it: money pit… lethal electrics… good money after bad…
    ‘You could throw thousands of pounds at it,’ he concluded, ‘and not see a return. My advice? Sell up and buy a little town house closer to the city centre. Brand new, easy maintenance. Perfect for a career girl like yourself.’
    He reached under his clipboard, pulled out a Prestige Properties brochure, and thrust it into my hand.
    ‘This little development is much more your style. Don’t waste your time with this place. Nothing worth salvaging. Someone will buy it for the location, flatten it and stick two or three houses on a plot this size,’ he said airily.
    Nothing worth salvaging! I was sure Great Aunt Jane would have had something to say about that. I was torn between wanting to cry and punching his lights out.
    ‘But my great aunt lived here for years, it was her home, her pride and joy,’ I stammered.
    ‘Different generation,’ he sniffed, dismissively. ‘I’d be happy to handle the sale for you, of course.’ He added his business card to my pile of bedtime reading.
    ‘Of course,’ I replied, reading it and half expecting to see Colin Hanley, Snake oil salesman, and Freddie Mercury Impersonator alongside his other profession.
    ‘Thank you for your insightful advice,’ I said through gritted teeth as I showed him out.
    Flatten it? I’d only been after a few renovation ideas.
    Tina Turner’s ‘Simply the best’ blared out as he reversed the car off the drive and sped away.
    What an insensitive, rude, boorish, oily man! And what a waste of an afternoon.

eight
    Emma was squashed on one end of the sofa, while Jess, spark out, took up all the rest. Every so often Jess would stir as