The Girl Before

I think about that a bit longer, unconsciously chewing the end of my pen until it splinters and bits of sharp plastic fill my mouth. A bad habit I have, along with biting my nails. Perhaps that’s something else I’ll stop doing in One Folgate Street. Perhaps the house will turn me into a better person. Perhaps it will bring order and discipline to the random chaos of my life. I will become the sort of person who sets goals, makes lists, sees things through.

I turn back to the form. I’m determined to make the answer to the question as short as possible, to prove that I get it, that I’m in tune with what the architect’s trying to do.

And then I realize what the right answer is.

I leave the box for the answer completely blank. As blank and empty and perfect as the interior of One Folgate Street.

—

Later I give the form to Simon and explain what I’ve done. He’s like, But what about my stuff, Em? What about The Collection?

“The Collection” is a motley assortment of NASA memorabilia he’s been painstakingly building up for years, mostly in boxes under the bed. Maybe it could go into storage, I suggest, torn between amusement that we’re actually debating whether a few bits of eBay junk signed by Buzz Aldrin or Jack Schmitt are going to stop us from living in the most incredible house we’ve ever seen, and outrage that Simon can seriously think his astronauts take priority over what happened to me. You’ve always said you wanted it to have a proper home, I say.

A cubicle at CubeSmart wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, babe, he goes.

So I’m like, It’s only things, Si. And things don’t really matter, do they?

And I feel another argument brewing, the familiar rage bubbling to the surface. Once again, I want to shout, you’ve made me think you’re going to do something, and once again when it actually comes to it you’re going to try to wriggle out.

I don’t say it, of course. This anger isn’t me.

Carol, the therapist I’ve been seeing since the burglary, says being angry is a good sign. It means I’m undefeated or something. Unfortunately, my anger is only ever directed at Simon. That’s normal too, apparently. Those who are closest bear the heaviest brunt.

Okay, okay, Simon says quickly. The Collection goes into storage. But there might be some other things—

Already I feel weirdly protective of the lovely blank empty space of my answer. Let’s ditch everything, I say impatiently. Let’s start again.

All right, he says. But I can tell he’s only saying it to stop me from getting mad. He goes over to the sink and pointedly starts to wash up all the dirty cups and plates I’ve piled in there. I know he thinks I can’t do this, that I’m not disciplined enough to live an uncluttered lifestyle. I attract chaos, he always says. I go over the top. But that’s exactly why I want to do it. I want to reinvent myself. And the fact that I’m doing it with someone who thinks he knows me, and thinks I’m not up to it, pisses me off.

I reckon I’ll be able to write there, I add. In all that calm. You’ve been encouraging me to write my book for ages.

He grunts, unconvinced.

Or maybe I’ll do a blog, I say.

I consider the idea, examining it from every angle. A blog would be pretty cool, actually. I could call it Minimalist Me. My Minimalist Journey. Or maybe something even simpler. Mini Miss.

Already I’m getting quite excited about this. I think how many followers a blog about minimalism could get. Maybe I’ll even attract advertisers, give up the day job, turn it into a bestselling lifestyle journal. Emma Matthews, the Princess of Less.

So would you close down the other blogs I set up for you, he asks, and I bridle at the implication that I’m not serious about this. It’s true that London Girlfriend only has eighty-four followers, and Chick Lit Chick a mere eighteen, but I never really had the time to write enough content.

I turn back to the application form. One question down, and already we’re fighting. There are another thirty-four questions to go.

NOW: JANE

I glance through the application pack. Some of the questions are decidedly strange. I can see how asking what possessions you want to bring or what fixtures and fittings you might change is relevant, but what about:

23. Would you sacrifice yourself to save ten innocent strangers?

24. What about ten thousand strangers?

25. Do fat people make you feel: (a) sad; (b) annoyed?

I’d been right earlier, I realize, when I used the word integrity. These questions are some form of psychometric test. But then, integrity isn’t a word estate agents need very often. No wonder Camilla had looked bemused.

Before I fill it in I Google “The Monkford Partnership.” The first link is to their own website. I click, and a picture of a blank wall appears. It’s a very beautiful wall, made of pale, soft-textured stone, but a little uninformative, even so.

I click again and two words appear:

WORKS

CONTACT

When I select “Works” a list fades onto the screen:

SKYSCRAPER, TOKYO

MONKFORD BUILDING, LONDON

WANDERER CAMPUS, SEATTLE

BEACH HOUSE, MENORCA

CHAPEL, BRUGES

THE BLACK HOUSE, INVERNESS

ONE FOLGATE STREET, LONDON