Prologue

Leah peered through the gap between her curtains at the house across the road.

31 Silversmith Road was an eccentric building which stood alone, detached from its neighbours both by its position and its appearance. It rose three storeys high and had been built a hundred and fifty years earlier by a pair of retired silversmiths who’d chosen the location for its sweeping views towards the Hertfordshire countryside. To fully enjoy the view they’d commissioned an ornate wrought iron veranda which wrapped itself around the entire ground floor. Nowadays anyone sitting on the veranda would enjoy a view of nothing more inspiring than the terrace of characterless Victorian cottages opposite and beyond that the upper floors of three brutal tower blocks, sprouting from the wilds of the Archway Road.

The silversmiths, an unconventional pair, had chosen to decorate the exterior of their home with brightly coloured tiles picked up from their travels around the bazaars and flea markets of the world. On either side of the front door were richly-coloured tiled panels depicting peacocks, which lent the house its unofficial local name of the Peacock House. In fact, when describing to people exactly where in East Finchley she lived, Leah would often say – you know, just opposite the Peacock House.
It looked more intriguing at night when it was lit up from the inside. It reminded Leah of a ceramic lamp she’d had in her bedroom as a child which was shaped like a mushroom with windows and doors cut out and little ceramic people who lived inside. She’d often fantasised about living inside that little mushroom-shaped house, all snug and cosy and safe from the elements. The Peacock House made her feel the same way. It was so inviting with its stained glass and its ornate tiles, its hanging lanterns and gables and plasterwork lions with chipped noses.

As she watched, the front door opened, and the Girl with the Guitar emerged. She and Amitabh had nicknames for all the people in the Peacock House. As well as the Girl with the Guitar, there was Old Skinny Guy, Young Skinny Guy, The Teenager, the Air Hostess and Sybil (so-called because she changed her image so frequently and so dramatically that she and Amitabh were convinced she must have a Multiple Personality Disorder). The Girl with the Guitar stopped at the bottom of the front steps and lit a cigarette. Then she pushed a shank of black hair behind her ear, slung her guitar case over her shoulder and headed left, towards the High Road, the tips of her stiletto-heeled boots issuing a sharp, metallic clack as she went.

Young Skinny Guy watched her, as he did every night, from his window on the second floor. His face was illuminated, as ever, by the light from his computer monitor and his expression, as ever, was one of quiet, lovelorn resignation. He was a strange-looking fellow, not unattractive, but seemingly intent on making the worst of himself. His hair was an unrestrained mass of curls, verging on an afro and he had equally exuberant mutton chop sideburns that sprouted from each side of his face like wings. He rarely left the company of his PC and Leah had seen him leave the house probably only five times in the three years since she'd moved to Silversmith Road.

Leah had no idea who any of the people over the road were. She didn’t know their names or their relationships. She had no idea who owned the house or what the set up was. Was it divided into bed-sits? Was it a house share? Or some kind of strange interbred family? She’d lived opposite the Peacock House for nearly three years, yet she'd never had a conversation with anyone who lived there. Never even exchanged nods or smiles. Leah was a curious person by nature. She liked to know what was what, who was who, how everything worked and fitted together. But she was also a Londoner who played by the rules regarding personal space and keeping yourself to yourself. So she sat and she watched and she wondered and she waited, because she knew that one day, somehow, she'd find a way to answer all her questions.

FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER

1st August 1990

Toby,

Jemma and I are leaving for Cape Town tomorrow morning. I’m sorry we’ll miss your wedding next week, but I'm sure you understand.

I am enclosing a set of keys. I have bought you and Karen a house as a wedding gift. Peter got it at auction. I haven’t seen it but Peter assures me it was a good buy. In need of some TLC, but structurally sound. Which is just as well, as this house also represents your inheritance. I thought it best you have something now as I will be abroad for the foreseeable future and once Jemma and I start our new family, things will get complicated in terms of who gets what. Much simpler this way.

Property is the thing, Toby. You’re on the ladder now. I can see big things happening with the London property market. Make the most of it.

Peter says there’s one snag. A sitting tenant. I’m sure he’ll be able to advise you on how to get him out. I've enclosed Peter’s card, if you need him.

I wish you and Karen all the best for Saturday. Jemma and I will raise a glass of champagne to you both as the sun sets over Camps Bay.

Nothing much else to say except good luck, I suppose.

Best,

Reggie/Dad

In August 1990, Reggie Dobbs came to the bitter conclusion that raising his only son had been a complete waste of his time, his money and his sperm. He still recoiled at the memory of what bearing this gigantic heffalump of a boy had done to his first wife’s young, firm body and had never forgiven him for it. The enormous infant had continued to grow at a disgusting rate, six foot three at thirteen and thin as a streak of piss, useless at sports, covered in spots, not a pretty sight. Toby had inherited his model mother's height but sadly not her looks. It was unnerving, craning your neck to look up into the ineffectual gaze of your gigantic son, looming over you like an over-grown bird-of-prey.

They'd sent him away to school at five years old and tried to make more babies, but none had come. And then Angela had died and Reggie had been stuck with this one son, a giant, a waste of space who claimed to be a ‘poet’. Reggie said; poet?! You look more like a teapot in that ridiculous hat! But somehow, by some incredible stroke of luck, this strange boy of his had found himself a woman – a woman who was prepared to marry him. Reggie had met her only once. Karen. Not a beautiful girl, but then Toby should be grateful for what he could get.

He wanted to give them something, as he wasn't going to be a part of their lives, so he’d sat down with his accountant and concluded that his son was worth seventy five thousand pounds; three thousand pounds for every year of his life. He gave this money to his property broker and told him to get the best he could for it at auction.

And then he and his third wife slipped into the first class cabin of a 747 and flew to Cape Town, where another property broker was waiting for them with the keys to a penthouse apartment overlooking the Atlantic. Reggie didn’t leave Toby a forwarding address or a telephone number. He just disappeared.

Reggie wondered about Toby from time to time, especially after the kids arrived. He wondered if Toby and Karen had had children, if was a grandfather yet, he wondered if Toby was happy, if he'd managed to make a living out of writing his wretched poetry or if he'd grown up and taken responsibility for himself. He doubted it very much. But mostly he didn't think about Toby at all. Mostly Reggie just drank vodka, ate rich food, avoided his family and wondered when he was going to die.

2nd September 1990

Dear Toby,
This isn’t working. Marriage isn’t what I thought it would be. I expected more, not just you and me and a smelly old man rattling around inside a big, damp old house without a penny between us. I think I’ve realised that I don’t love you enough to live in penury with you. I thought I did, but I don’t. I'm sorry that I didn’t realise this earlier, but I think it took something dramatic like getting married to clear my head of my silly, over-romanticised view of you.

You’re a good man Toby, but you’re not enough for me. Please don’t hate me,

Karen xx

A ROOM OF YOUR OWN?
Finchley-based poet, unexpectedly alone
in rambling Victorian mansion, has four big
bedrooms to fill. Shared kitchen and bathrooms.
Rent negotiable, but reasonable.
Preference given to artists and performers.
Please write and tell me why you should live here.

8th November 1990

Dear Lonely Poet,
My name is Ruby Lewis, I am sixteen years old and I’m a singer. My mum threw me out last week because her ugly husband kept hitting me. Which was my fault, apparently. I’m staying with this man at the moment. He's thirty two and he thinks I'm twenty. I don’t really like him but he lives in Camden which is really cool. Anyway – I’d really like to come and live in your house because it sounds really cool and because you sound really cool and because I can’t afford to pay proper rent. One day I’m going to be the most famous singer in the world and then I’ll buy you a Lamborghini to pay you back.
Please let me live with you. You won’t regret it,
Lots of love,
Ruby xxxx

12th April 2002

Dear Sir,

My name is Joanne Fish and I am an actress. I am thirty one years old, single and currently living in New Cross. I do not have much experience of sharing houses but I was attracted to your advert because I am currently at an interesting and unexpected juncture in my life – a crossroads. Your advert struck me like a neon sign on a long and circuitous journey. I realise you will have received a thousand responses to your advert and that the onus is on me to make myself appear more interesting and needful than the other nine hundred and ninety nine, so I will try my best.

I have had an interesting life. I have lived abroad and in various corners of this country, including Luton (!) and the Isle of Man. I have had many jobs, from the sublime to the ridiculous. I once spent a summer sticking eyes on balls of fluff in a factory that produced promotional ‘bugs.’ I also once spent a summer helping a famous actress rehearse for a role whilst she was suffering from a mild case of amnesia. I am not what I would call a particularly gregarious person, but I do like the company of other people and that is why your home appeals to me so much. My flat is very well insulated and living alone I sometimes miss the noise of existence.

I am currently researching a role for a film that is due to begin filming at the end of the year. It is a small role but pivotal and the director is very well known. Unfortunately the project is top secret so I can’t divulge any more information than that. It does mean that I will not be earning a regular salary until filming commences (although I will take on occasional temporary work) so the possibility of being able to pay rent on an ad hoc, flexible basis could not have come at a more opportune moment.

I am also, clean, tidy, reliable, polite and non-smoking.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours, in good faith,

Joanne Elizabeth Fish

February 13th 2004

Dear Sir/Madam,
I have to admit I don’t usually read the Private Eye but someone left it in the toilets at work so I thought I’d have a flick through and your advert caught my eye. Not for myself, you see, I’m a married man with three kids and a house in Hainault, but for my friend, Con.

Con works with me at Conde Nast. He's an assistant in the post room here, been working here for about a year now. He’s a nice lad, a bit of a loner, but reliable to a fault. He's never had a day off. He’s young, eighteen I think and what’s happened is that his mum’s done a runner and left him alone. His grandmother raised him and then after she died the mum came back and promised him the world, rented some luxury flat for the pair of them and then two months later she buggered off again. Poor kid couldn’t afford the rent on his own so he moved out, about a week ago. He was staying with a girlfriend for a while, I think but then she kicked him out too. I don’t know where he's living now but I can’t help noticing he's not looking as sharp as he usually does. And he’s getting that smell, you know, that sort of grime smell. I reckon he's sleeping rough. He gets the papers, looks at the ads for rooms but he can't afford anything decent, not on what he earns here. I've tried to persuade him to come home with me but he's too proud, and, if I’m honest, we haven’t really got the room for him anyway.

I know your advert says you want creative people and Con’s not exactly that, but he is young and just starting out and this could be the moment in his life which makes or breaks him. When I was his age I got in with a bad crowd, lots of popping pills, taking speed, fighting, that kind of thing. Lucky for me I met Chrissie and fell in love. She showed me a better way to be, you know? She saved me.

Maybe you could save Con.

Hoping for your kindest and fullest consideration,

Yours faithfully,
Nigel Cadwallader

12th September 2004

Dear Toby,
It was lovely to meet you the other night. I just wanted to say thank you again, for what you’ve done for my Con. It fears me to think what might have happened to him if you hadn't taken him in and given him a room. You are a very good man.

The reason why I’m writing is that I’m in a bit of a bind. I won’t go into too much detail, but suffice it to say that I’m going to be homeless too, not to mention unemployed, unless I find somewhere to live. Con said that he's happy for to me to share his room, but he said I should write to you, officially, as you like to do things properly, which I totally respect. So, would it be OK, if I shared with Con for a while? I’ll pay you rent and it will only be for a few weeks, just until I get myself settled back in the country and get myself a job.

I really need to be near Con now, after what happened to him when I left the country. I feel so guilty and I've got so much to make up for. If you would allow me to spend some time with him in your beautiful house, I’d be forever in your debt,
Yours faithfully,

Melinda McNulty