Conditional Love by Cathy Bramley Page A

lovely,’ I sighed. A modern cottage. I felt bubbles of anticipation fizz up inside me like a freshly-opened bottle of Cava. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? My own little house designed to my tastes, for my life. Somewhere to call home.
    I sat up straight and coughed. No use in getting carried away. I needed to be practical about these things and, anyway, I wasn’t sure whether the bungalow would be mine yet.
    ‘I could do a feasibility study for you, if you like?’
    I nodded. ‘Sounds great.’ Whatever that is.
    ‘Do you mind if I take a couple of photographs?’ asked Nick, drawing an impressive camera out of his bag.
    ‘Um, no, I suppose not.’ Oh knickers! I probably look a right state.
    I couldn’t even remember whether I’d wiped that blood off my lip. I was desperate to go and check my face in a mirror, but didn’t want to appear vain.
    Nick fiddled with the lens cap and checked the settings. While he was distracted, I smoothed my hair down, straightened my coat and tried to remember the tips in Heat Magazine . I was supposed to turn away from him, and then look back over my shoulder, tilting my chin up. And if he asked me to stand, I needed to put one leg in front of the other to make me look slimmer.
    I sat up tall and plastered on a big smile.
    Nick stood up and blinked at me. ‘Not of you. I meant pictures of the plot, the garden and the lane. For reference.’
    I blushed furiously. ‘Right, yes, of course. Thank goodness for that! Very professional camera!’
    ‘It’s a hobby of mine.’
    ‘Really? What do you take pictures of?’
    ‘Dogs mainly.’
    ‘Right.’ We looked at each other during another moment of silence. And it had been going so well.
    ‘I’ll show you out into the garden,’ I said.
    ‘I’m done.’ Nick’s words fifteen minutes later through the kitchen window made me jump. I’d discovered a load of old paperwork in a kitchen drawer. Someone was going to have to go through all that and I was guessing it was supposed to be me.
    I went outside to say goodbye. His dog was with him, on a lead. It was a beagle, I could see now.
    ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ said Nick, ‘he needed to stretch his legs before we go home.’
    ‘Hello.’ I held my hand out to stroke the dog. It sniffed my hand and jumped up my legs for a more personal sniff. I yelped with embarrassment and Nick tugged the dog away.
    ‘Norman! Sorry, he’s not very good around women,’ said Nick, with a ghost of a smile. He bent down and patted the dog’s neck.
    He’d been telling the truth when he said he understood dogs better than people. He was far more relaxed with Norman than with me.
    I waved them off. Nick had told me the feasibility report wouldn’t be ready for another three weeks at least. That was fine with me. The more excuses I had for procrastination, the better.

eleven
    A month later and I had become an expert in the art of sticking my fingers in my ears and singing ‘Lalalala’ whenever Great Aunt Jane’s will came up in conversation, whether that conversation was with Jess and Emma or alone in my head.
    However, I knew I couldn’t avoid the issue for ever. When Mr Whelan, the solicitor, called me, I was at work.
    My lunch hour was nearly over and I was at my desk getting to grips with a barbecue chicken wrap. It was heavily calorie-laden, but for once I didn’t care. I was recovering from an embarrassing underwear ordeal in Primark. A kind lady had tapped me on the shoulder when I was in the till queue to tell me my skirt was tucked in my knickers. Primark was miles from The Herald and I hadn’t been to the loo since eleven this morning. I must have been flashing my Tesco black cotton pants to all and sundry for nearly three hours.
    Proof, if it were required, of just how distracted I was at the moment.
    ‘Miss Stone? Mr Whelan, your great aunt’s solicitor. I’m calling to take further instruction in the matter of the will.’
    Bam. Straight down to business. Just like that.
    I