When I was being made bankrupt, I was told two things, by two experts, that scared the s**t out of me.
I told my managing editor it was about to happen. Not the easiest of emails to send. He told me to ‘smile sweetly’ in court, which really wouldn’t have cut any ice, then put me in touch with the finance editor on my newspaper, who told him:
‘If Liz is made bankrupt, it will be a disaster for her. She cannot let it happen. She will never get credit again.’
Well, try as I might (I did reality TV, which made me throw up nightly, I wrote books, screenplays, TV pilots), I was forced into it happening against my will.
My debt solutions manager Gillian (you have to pay a debt solutions expert upfront in full, many thousands, as they can’t be a creditor; you have to pay a team of insolvency lawyers upfront, too) said that if I were to be made bankrupt, ‘HMRC will force you to live under a stone’.
But I am here to tell you that, today, I bought a house. I just fell in love with it. A former vicarage, it’s Georgian, Grade II listed, in the shadow of a church
I threw up. Everything went black. In 40 years I’ve never taken benefits, holiday pay, maternity pay or even sick pay.
In a meeting with my new team of accountants, after I lost my house, I asked if I could ever get a mortgage again, perhaps buy somewhere for £200,000. ‘Oh, god, no,’ Gillian told me.
I don’t even know what happened to the cottage I bought my sister, paid the mortgage on for six years, at £1,750 a month. No one would tell me.
It’s really cheap, I think, as there are tombstones leaning against its walls
I can only imagine she paid off the loan with a lump sum from her NHS pension when she retired. A pension – wouldn’t that be grand?
I’ve spent the intervening years reading The World of Interiors and looking at property websites (the online almanac of estate agent Inigo carries the following, from one prospective seller: ‘We’ve created a proper haven for wildlife,’ Sheena says, wide-eyed as she tells of bees and butterflies that buzz and flutter as you swim in the sustainably heated pool. ‘It’s been joyous to see’).
And always, always thinking, how on earth do these people afford it? What in god’s name do they do for a living? I’m constantly looking, and clicking, and dreaming and envying.
But I am here to tell you that, today, I bought a house. I just fell in love with it. A former vicarage, it’s Georgian, Grade II listed, in the shadow of a church.
It has original flagstone floors, fireplaces and a stone staircase with wrought-iron banisters, winding up to a beautiful skylight.
A new Welsh slate roof, sheep’s-wool insulation, an air-source heat pump, new wiring. It’s my dream house.
Huge windows, with shutters. A courtyard garden with walls no collie could climb. You can hear the river from the garden. It’s really cheap – £295,000 – I think because there are ancient tombstones leaning against its walls.
The local pub doesn’t do food, but there is always Ocado. I know I can be happy here. I’ve already ordered samples from the Paint & Paper Library. Even the names of the colours are lovely: Squid Ink. Heath. Plaster. Kigali. Fynbos. Stone.
I’ve spent eight years renting, not believing there was any hope I would own a home again (I bought my first house, in Clapham North, in 1983. A tiny terrace in a slum-clearance area, next door to a prostitute. It cost just over £30,000 and, as I’m female, my dad had to act as guarantor. I had to get a joint mortgage with my sister. And young people today think they’re hard done by).
I went to view the vicarage with Nic, who loved it, but felt the proximity of the graves would put many people off.
Not as frightening as a screening we’re about to attend of The Shining, on Halloween.
I used to be scared of horror movies. But having been preyed on, lost everything, I now realise it’s not the dead you have to fear. It’s the living.
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