Page 116 of Bare
A first-floor flat in a Victorian conversion. Two bedrooms, one for them, one for Freddie. A bathroom with an actual bath, which Rory considered essential and Neil considered a cleaning obligation. A kitchen large enough for two people to cook without colliding, with a counter long enough for two people's worth of clutter.
A living room with a bay window that faced south and flooded with light in the afternoon. And at the corridor's far end, behind a door that would need a new handle, a box room. Eight by six. Small. But enough for an easel and a worktable and the residue of work.
'The home studio's smaller,' Neil said. Standing in the box room.
'I'll make it work.'
'You'll need to stack canvases vertically.'
'I already stack canvases vertically. I've been stacking canvases vertically since I started painting in a bedroom at twenty-two. The size of the room isn't the point. The point is it's here. In the same flat. Down the hall from where we sleep and where Freddie sleeps and where the coffee is.'
'The coffee is very important.'
'The coffee is foundational.'
They signed the lease in August. The landlord was a retired teacher who asked what they did and said 'Art and English, the school must love you' and didn't blink at two men signing a joint tenancy.
Shirley Jennings's office was on the fourth floor of a building on Deansgate Neil had not walked into since the summer of Clause 6.1.
The receptionist recognised him. Her eyebrows lifted a small polite amount and came down again. 'Mr Ashworth. Shirley's expecting you. She said to go straight up.'
Up the stairs. The carpet was the same. The print of a Lowry on the second-floor landing was the same.
Shirley stood up when they came in. Bottle-green suit. Reading glasses on a chain, the chain a new addition since the divorce.
'Mr Ashworth.'
'Shirley.'
'And this is...' She extended her hand to Rory. 'Mr Cavanaugh, I presume. Shirley Jennings.'
'Rory.'
'Rory. Sit down, both of you.'
They sat.
Shirley looked at Neil over the top of her glasses. The look lasted about two seconds and contained a sentence it would have been unprofessional to speak.
'Mr Ashworth. I did not expect to see you back in this chair so soon.' A pause. 'Certainly not for this.'
'Not for this.'
'A joint mortgage and a Declaration of Trust. Your previous visit was Clause six point one. I find the asymmetry...' She allowed herself a quarter of a smile. '...cheering. Professionally. Now. Two options. Joint tenancy or tenancy in common. Are you familiar with the difference.'
'Roughly.'
'Then I'll be quick, and then we'll do this properly. Joint tenancy is the standard. Fifty-fifty, everything shared, and if one of you dies, it all goes to the other. It's designed for married couples. Tenancy in common is different. You each own a share. No automatic transfer. It's more flexible, but it needs documenting.'
She glanced at the folder.
'Given your situation, I'd recommend tenancy in common. Mr Cavanaugh is providing the deposit, from the sale of his property and the gallery payment. Mr Ashworth contributes to the mortgage from his salary. We reflect that in a Declaration of Trust. If things change, we update it. If not, it sits in a drawer and does its job.'
She looked up.
'You'll both need wills as well. I can do those for you.'
'Yes,' Rory said. The attention of a man taking notes without a pen.
