I love 1980s music. At university we had a DJ who was into it and it just stuck with me. Aidan, of course, hates it. He says it’s naff. But, with him away, I was free to listen to The Cure turned up high, the bass-line of A Forest vibrating through the ancient house, giving the ghosts a shock. I also love frozen Mars bars. Not the ice-cream travesties, but real Mars bars bunged in the freezer until they go rock-hard. Then you nibble and chew them, probably wreaking havoc with your teeth.
With Aidan gone, I can do what I like. Play what I like, watch trashy TV, eat Mars bars for lunch. Aidan’s very into all the farmers’ market stuff, organic this, free-range that, Fair Trade whatever. I don’t mind it and yes, it’s good for the environment, but he’s such a food snob, so jumping on trendy bandwagons that it makes me want to run very fast in the opposite direction. In fact, come to think of it, he’s a bit of a snob full-stop. A bit of a style nazi.

I was about to head off for the shop (Mars bars for lunch is one thing but not sure I wanted them for tea as well) when there was a crunch of tyres. A battered green Defender had rolled up and there was a man getting out. This one looked to be about six foot – shorter than Aidan and stockier. Not fat in any way but more closely-knit flesh somehow, more bunched-up musculature. Not my type.

Dark, close-cropped hair. Almost olive skin (maybe some Mediterranean ancestry there). Levi 501s (yes, I can tell, even from twenty feet), plaid lumberjack shirt, big steel-toed boots.
‘Hi. I’m Ben Adams.’
I was looking blank.
‘The joiner?’
Lord, yes. Had clean forgotten. THAT voice though – even better in the flesh, so to speak. Big broad lazy smile showing off lovely (doubtlessly vastly expensive) teeth.

Rommel appeared at my side, tail wagging furiously. Not a single bark.
‘Hi Rommel,’ he said, bending down and giving him a tickle behind the ears.
‘You know him?’
‘Everyone knows Rommel. Well done for taking him in. I thought about it myself but didn’t think Montgomery would approve.’
Montgomery? Oh ho, bloody ho. I let it go.

He came in. I made coffee. We chatted. I can’t help myself – I have a horribly bad habit of interviewing people. So it didn’t take me long to discover that:
a) he lives about five miles away, on the outskirts of the next village.
b) he’s thirty-five and single (last girlfriend couldn’t hack it in the country and went back to Manchester – sensible woman).
c) he ISN’T local. He’d been a journalist in London but chucked it in because of all the hypocrisy. So – a man of scruples.
d) He hadn’t had expensive dental work. Was ‘just lucky’.
e) Montgomery wasn’t him being funny – it’s his dog, a boxer, more commonly known as Monty.

Just as I was about to quiz him on his star sign and his favourite Green & Blacks flavour (mine’s Expresso), he held up his hands and gave me a huge grin.
‘Enough, enough. You’re not writing my biography. Let’s talk kitchens.’

He brought out a book with designs and photographs of previous projects. I was pretty gobsmacked – they were gorgeous. All quite different in style – some very traditional, some quite modern – but the thing they had in common was the way he had allowed the shape of the room, the feel of the house, to dictate his designs. This wasn’t a man who had ego problems, who had to inflict HIS opinions and tastes. I was impressed.
The afternoon went in a bit of a blur. We plotted out the kitchen and he also had a wander round the house and said he could come up with a programme of restoration (his word) and rough out some estimates of cost.
‘Strange place this,’ he said. ‘Got history.’ I was half-tempted to tell him about the cradle but pulled back. I’d only just met the poor bloke: I was already halfway to turning him into Best Male Friend so it was hardly fair to cast him as shrink as well.

Finally I couldn’t press him to any more coffee (as it was I think he must have a cast-iron bladder as he didn’t go to the loo once) and he walked firmly to the front door, promising to come back with a set of plans for us to look over.
As he left, he tickled Rommel again.
‘Look after her, eh?’
And, with another of those wide, wide grins, he was gone.