Should I Stay or Should I Go?

The house sale completed today, exactly nine months after moving into my little starter home. I now have a huge sum of money waving at me from my bank account. I stare at the statement and wonder whether Alan and Amanda are doing the same, whether she’s deciding how they’re going to spend it.

This is it; my share of our savings has gone into the business, my salary pays the bills, so this is what I have to keep me safe for the future. The sense of responsibility has taken me by surprise. This set of numbers on a flimsy piece of paper feels like a test, what I do with it shows whether or not I can make it on my own.

The sensible move would be to buy a house: stop wasting money on rent, have something to leave Zoe, have the security of my own roof over my head and all the other good things that people like to say. I ring the estate agent who sold our house and make his day by asking him to send over some details for me to look at.

I’m underwhelmed when they arrive; everything looks so small.

‘Why do you need big? Were you thinking of hosting the Philharmonic in your parlour?’ asks Patty facetiously.

I give her my ha-ha-not-funny look.

‘Up here, Bo Peep,’ she taps me on the forehead, ‘you still live in that big family home.’

She’s right of course.

‘But you don’t, it’s gone,’ she continues. ‘That millstone has been removed from your neck. No more shag piles and country kitchens, no more Victoriana bath suites; you can be all wet rooms and wooden floors now.’

‘I like carpet,’ I protest.

‘You know what I’m saying. A big old house when you’re on your own is just sad, I should know. You need something that says, Go-getting world traveller. Too busy cruising to spend any time cleaning.’

‘And which of these says that?’ I ask.

Patty flicks through the selection of houses that I’ve been sent and puts a few aside, but she’s as uninspired as I am.

‘Hmm, none of them. He’s cast you in the role of old spinster with this lot. An older woman on her own; must want a garden and a downstairs loo. These houses look as if someone died in them.’

True enough, I have been sent more bungalows and ground-floor flats than I thought existed, and they’re dowdy. If I’d been sent these in January, I might have settled for one of them. They match the cats and cardigans jibe Patty so cruelly made at the time and I’m no longer that person. She was right then and is right again, I need somewhere that reflects the new me.

‘There are some new buildings in the Northern Quarter; they’re calling it up and coming, which means it looks a bit rough but they say they’re for young trendies. Artists, internet entrepreneurs – that kind of person. Might be the change you need. Why don’t we go and take a look at them?’ says Patty.

‘Might as well,’ I agree.

I get up and dump the details from the estate agent in the bin.

As we leave, Patty looks quizzically over at the front garden, which as ever is immaculate.

‘You old rascal, have you had a man round and not told me?’

‘Don’t go there; that’s a story for another day,’ I tell her.

Mum calls and I explain where we’re going.

‘You’re letting Patty choose you a new house? When was the last time she made a good decision?’ My mum is less than pleased about being excluded from this next phase of my life. ‘I’d pick something much better and I’d negotiate a better price. I’m a demon when it comes to getting something for nothing,’ she adds.

I don’t bother pointing out that getting an extra sample of rocky-road ice cream in the supermarket isn’t the same as buying a house in a seller’s market; it wouldn’t be worth the subsequent debate.

‘I know what we should do.’ Her lightbulb glows from afar. ‘I’ll pick two houses for you to go and see then Patty can pick two and you decide which one you prefer. It’ll be like that TV programme.’

At her insistence, I pass the phone over to Patty, and Mum lays down the gauntlet. They’re both pretty fired up so I’ll just let them get on with it – wading through estate-agent exaggerations was never my favourite way to pass the time anyway.

I give them my criterion, which essentially amounts to needing two bedrooms, and I give them an absolute limit on the amount I can spend; that’s all they need and they’re off.

* * *

The viewing weekend arrives and the rules are established: I view Patty’s choices in the morning and Mum’s after lunch. I have been given a scoring sheet and after supper in our local pub, I will reveal the scores I’ve given each house. Next weekend, I go back to view the top two and choose a place to live. Simple.

Patty asks us to meet her at the Mercury offices.

‘This first house is walking distance from work, so nice and easy for you.’

She leads the way very professionally, as if the TV cameras are actually here.

I’m not allowed to see the paper details beforehand, but we soon get to an ordinary-looking semi-detached house on a street I’ve never visited. It seems a bit plain for Patty and I’m quite disappointed. We meet the estate agent at the house; she ushers us in and accepts Patty’s suggestion that we look around on our own.

‘Now I’ve picked this one because it’s an easy transition for you,’ explains Patty. ‘There are carpets – as requested – and a familiar traditional layout but with a fabulous new kitchen. This is a smaller version of your old place but with a makeover.’

She’s spot on, a normal house but immaculate and full of the sort of gizmos that I would never dare spend money on. It has an espresso machine and fancy pull-out taps – the things you end up never using but buy anyway.

I slip my feet out of my shoes and sink them into the lusciously deep carpet, bliss but still a surprising choice for Patty. I can see the cogs whirring in Mum’s brain; she can’t work out why she’s put this in her top two either – there has to be a grand reveal at some point.

Patty opens a door to show us a small study with a chaise longue in the centre.

‘You could work here. As you can see, this guy has it set up as a photography studio,’ she says.

We head up the stairs to the designer bathroom and good-sized spare bedrooms; it’s all very nice and I tell Patty this. When we’re done with the other rooms she gathers us together outside the final door.

‘And as we’ll see, the main bedroom is quite something, too.’

She throws the door open and we gasp. Still open-mouthed we walk in, Mum and I glued to the photo canvases on every wall.

‘It’s a boudoir photo studio then,’ I croak as my jaw unlocks.

The place is festooned with pictures of the couple in various stages of undress with a bizarre collection of props. I have to explain the concept to Mum.

‘Couples have sexy photos taken of themselves to give as presents.’

‘With a rose stuck up their backsides?’ she asks.

I think it’s supposed to be gently placed on her back as she lies supine on the sheepskin rug, but it does indeed look lodged in too far.

‘And him looking like a Blackpool postcard?’ Mum continues.

The attempted pose is a seductive recline on the aforementioned chaise longue with a whisky glass covering the target area. However, he’s a skinny creature with the worst vest-shaped nuclear red sunburn you have ever seen and I’m sure that just at the ankle cross there’s a hint of sock out of shot.

‘You didn’t bring us to see the house did you?’ I ask.

Patty is bursting with morbid delight. ‘Look in the wardrobe,’ she says.

Ordinarily I’d refuse but well, you can’t walk into this lot and not be curious, can you?

It doesn’t disappoint: nurses’ outfits, naughty traffic wardens, teachers’ canes, handcuffs and feather boas of every colour.

‘Who leaves their house like this for people to see?’ I ask, thinking about the effort I made to depersonalise mine.

‘Maybe they’re hoping it’ll bring in extra business,’ suggests Patty. ‘You know, people who quite fancy posing naked with three pizzas on their bits,’ she adds referring to one of the worst portraits in this collection.

‘Last time I’ll ever look at a slice of pepperoni in quite the same way,’ I grimace as we rejoin the estate agent. She must be getting used to people’s reactions by now.

‘Very entertaining,’ says Mum when we get back outside, ‘but you don’t get a third go you know; that counted as one of your choices.’

‘I don’t need a third go, I’ll win with this next one,’ counters Patty confidently.

So it’s a tram ride into the city centre for Patty’s next choice and as promised she takes me to see a trendy ‘Live-Work Space’ in what used to be Ancoats. Mum clutches her handbag as if she’s about to be mugged at any moment. If I buy here she’s unlikely to visit so that’s a point in its favour.

‘So what’s this Live-Work thing meant to be then?’ asks my mum of the hipster guy showing us around.

‘It recognises that we live more flexible lifestyles so the space is more freeform allowing you to create the environment that you need,’ he replies without acknowledging or perhaps noticing the sarcasm in her question.

‘So there’s no walls,’ mutters Mum under her breath.

It’s a warehouse-style space with lots of exposed brick and huge windows; it feels like a New York loft apartment – the type they had in Ghost – and I have to say, it’s quite exciting. I’d never thought that I would live anywhere like this. It makes me wish I had a creative bone in my body, and of course, a Patrick Swayze lookalike on hand to admire it.

‘Let me get this right,’ continues Mum, ‘no walls and the bedroom is on that shelf up there?’

‘The mezzanine level, yes,’ replies the hipster.

‘If you ever make curry you’ll be smelling of it all night,’ she tells me.

‘I never cook, as you keep telling me,’ I remind her.

‘There’s a balcony with great urban views.’ Hipster opens the window and we step out into the sights and sounds of the city. Mum covers her ears and complains about the noise but I like it. I can imagine sitting here early evening, being part of the city yet apart. It reminds me of a tree house in a jungle.

‘This is amazing,’ I tell the two people who are not trying to put me off. ‘It’s different, it says new start, it’s dynamic. There’s a real buzz to this place.’

‘Tell me something,’ continues Mum, ‘why do you youngsters never pull your trousers up properly?’

‘Ignore her,’ I tell the poor guy. ‘I’m putting her in a home when we leave here. Tell me more.’

‘Well, it’s built with the latest technology,’ the hipster adds. ‘You control the temperature, lighting and entertainment from an app on your phone. You can warm the place up or cool it down when you’re on your way back, get some mood lighting and sounds going for when you walk in. It’s awesome.’

Mum senses victory. ‘You’re talking about a woman who can barely use the remote.’

With that she walks out, tongue firmly in cheek.

We have coffee in a bar overlooking the canal; this would be my local if I bought the loft apartment. Despite the dodgy rationale for seeing the first house, Patty has shown me two sides of myself – the comfortable but updated version and the potential future version. It’s been a good morning although Mum still smells victory.

‘We should have had a wager on this,’ she says as we head off to see her choices.

In the afternoon, we drive into Cheshire and my first thought as we reach the small detached cottage with a huge garden is that she’s picked a house for herself and Dad, not me.

Patty snorts, ‘I’ll take that wager now if it’s still on offer.’

‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ scowls Mum.

The interior is pretty and cottage-like, all beams and dried flowers; it’s the sort of place that Alan and I might have downsized to and I guess that’s what Mum was thinking. I make positive comments about it being lovely and well kept, but I know instantly this is not me. Not any more.

‘One day,’ Mum explains, ‘you’ll want peace, not the noise of the city. You’ll meet someone new and spend evenings in the garden. Zoe will get married and she’ll bring grandchildren home. They can’t play on a balcony; if you buy that other place, you’ll be moving again within a year, this house will last you for ever.’

I’m slightly shaken by the idea of for ever; I haven’t allowed myself to think beyond the end of the year, never mind for ever. This may represent the path I was on but I’m astonished by how abhorrent it is to me now. I can’t get out quick enough; Patty blows on her nails and polishes them in delight.

Although I’m not sure my blood pressure can take another of Mum’s choices, I know she means well, so vow to be much nicer about the next place; fortunately it’s very easy to do.

‘Wow Mum – this is fantastic,’ I say.

Even Patty is looking impressed at the converted apartment in a Georgian mansion. We’re in Didsbury, far enough, but not too far away from my current life.

‘It’s a duplex,’ boasts Mum and I know for sure she has just learned that word.

Patty looks out at the grounds just as a Silver Fox arrives in his convertible Mercedes sports car; she gives him a little wave. The whole place manages to ooze quiet success.

‘To hell with you, I’m having this – where do I sign?’ she says.

And I don’t blame her. It’s huge, all high ceilings and period features. The kitchen is just big enough to host a twenty-bottle wine cooler and a microwave plus there’s a garden (Mum – there are grounds) that someone else looks after. This is the sort of place where Entrepreneur of the Year has her photograph taken but only when she’s made it. I’d feel a complete fraud if I moved into this perfect place right now.

‘Let’s go for food.’ I urge everyone out, just in case someone spots me and proclaims, ‘She can’t buy this place – we only have successful people here.’

Over supper, I contemplate my reactions as Mum and Patty banter the merits of their choices; I promise that if I see any again, it will be the duplex and the loft apartment, thereby delivering a draw at Round One, which they both seem happy with.

However, I’m surprised at the relief I feel when I get back to Cross Road.

‘I’m home,’ I say to Gnora and Gnorman; their bulbous-nosed smiles are strangely welcoming.

As I open the door, Socks sneaks in and takes her place on the chair. Throwing down my things and sinking into the sofa, I compare what I have here to the luxury I’ve just left. Apples and pears; they were confident homes for people who know who they are.

I’m a work in progress, on my way to being Angie Shepherd, entrepreneur, but right now, still faking it.

This little house is helping me grow and I need it for a little while longer.

I take one last flick through the estate agents’ details of the places we’ve just seen and giggle as I notice that they’ve omitted any pictures of the main bedroom in the first house.

I am going to dine out on stories about those boudoir photos for years to come.