My phone lets out a loud trill and I jump at the noise. I slide the phone to answer on the second ring.
‘Hi,’ I say breathlessly.
The voice on the other end is endearing as ever.
‘Of course now is a good time to talk – anything for you,’ I say.
Five minutes later, I end the call. It’s always me ending the call; after a few minutes of talking, I always get a flash of Caitlin in the forefront of my mind and then the guilt kicks in. I end the call with a promise of a rendezvous. I am careful never to write anything down, no dates or locations. Aside from there being little evidence to prove where I was or with whom, for me it’s about out of sight, out of mind. I don’t need to remind myself that what I am doing is fundamentally wrong.
I look at the time and curse out loud. There is a chance I will now be late for my one and only appointment of the day, which I had cleared my diary for. A newly landed contract, collaborating with a model-turned-TV-presenter Roxy Tyrrell, who said she had found me on Twitter, but had emailed me directly. She wanted me to document her moving into her new home with video content for YouTube, a blog and images – she and her reality-TV-star boyfriend have just moved into a Grade II listed mansion in Notting Hill.
If traffic is kind to me, I will just about make it on time.
There is a removal truck outside when I pull up at the Victorian townhouse with two minutes to spare. Four men are navigating multi-coloured soft-play equipment in through the front door.
Roxy is out the front, and I recognise her immediately but suddenly I’m worried she won’t recognise me and won’t know who I am. But her eager wave assures me she probably had a good look at my image on my website.
Roxy is dressed impeccably in white yoga pants and a tight black vest, her blonde hair tied back in a sleek bun. She has a full face of natural make-up, the sort of thing only fellow make-up wearers can usually clock as not being the real thing.
‘Oh my God, come in.’ Her Essex accent is strong. ‘Sorry about these guys, they’re just bringing in all this equipment. The boys will have their own soft-play in the basement – honestly, they don’t even know they’re born.’
Roxy refers to her two sons, Jenson and Casper, who are three and five. And even though I do not have children myself, I feel an immense sense of envy on behalf of some mothers I know who would find this house their idea of a dream. The five-storey double-fronted detached house is modern, spacious and immaculately white – I imagine it had a new lick of paint before Roxy moved in.
I follow Roxy into a vast hallway with a black and white chequered floor so shiny I can see my reflection. A large oval table positioned centrally boasts a huge clear vase of white lilies and hanging from the ceiling are three rose-gold chandeliers. Beyond the table, I can see double shutter-style doors, standing wide open, that lead to a perfectly manicured lawn.
‘Let’s get you a coffee.’ Roxy walks on and ducks into a room to the left. ‘This is one of the lounges.’ I follow Roxy into a vast monochrome space of plush grey sofas and more chandeliers.
‘May I?’ I say, pulling out my Nikon camera from its case.
‘Shoot away – I can’t wait to see the blog. Your writing is so good. I love the way you describe people’s houses.’
‘Thanks.’ I zoom in on a chandelier and make a mental note to take a photo of the hallway on the way out.
‘This room was easy.’ Roxy looks around as I snap. ‘Karl and I don’t ’ave much furniture, so I could manage slottin’ in the sofas and tables – there’s so much space! – but the wardrobe situ is not so simple. I don’t know where to begin.’
I follow Roxy out of the room and through into a large kitchen and dining area. A glossy silver-grey kitchenette to the right and a couple of beige sofas with bright coloured cushions to the left.
‘I see all these people online who can make their rooms and spaces look so simplified and organised, not me,’ she continues. ‘I just throw it all in the room and ’ope for the best.’
‘It’s all good content for your fans. I’ll get some photos of you amongst the mess and I can come back next week when you’re all sorted and do a before-and-after post.’
‘Oh my God, that sounds brilliant – I’ve got a walk-in wardrobe and I need to order some more storage units. But I ’ave to warn you, it really is a mess. The clothes ’ave their own room. It’s hilarious. A whole room just for my clothes. I can’t believe it! It wouldn’t work having them in the bedroom in a wardrobe. I mean, I did when I was a kid and I lived on the Harts Lane estate. I shared a room with my three sisters in a two-bedroom flat. Can you imagine it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, but I didn’t want to think about Hackney. I had tried to make something of myself since then. Nothing like Roxy or Caitlin, of course, but I just want to get to the point where I can say I have arrived.
Roxy walks behind the kitchen counter. I take a seat in a high woven chair with a fluffy cushion. Roxy turns and clocks me looking around, wondering where to point the camera next.
‘It’s all a bit overwhelming, innit? I can’t believe it myself sometimes – I ’ave to literally keep pinching myself. Not too ’ard, mind, as I’ll look like a beaten wife, but I do, look!’
