The house hunt, p.1
The House Hunt, page 1
THE HOUSE HUNT
C. M. EWAN
Contents
You have one . . .
1
2
3
4: Sam
5
6: Sam
7
8: Sam
9
10: Sam
11
12: Sam
13
14: Sam
15
16: Sam
17
18: Sam
19
20: Sam
21
22: Sam
23
24: Sam
25
26
27
28: Sam
29
30
31
32: Sam
33
34
35: Sam
36
37: Sam
38
39
40
41: Sam
42
43
44: Sam
45
46: Sam
47
48
49: Sam
50
51
52: Sam
53
54
55: Sam
56
57
58: Sam
59
60
61: Sam
62
63: Sam
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85: Sam
86
87: Sam
88
89: Sam
90
91: Sam
92
93: Sam
94
95: Sam
96
97: Sam
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116: Six weeks later
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A Window Breaks
The Interview
This book is dedicated to my agent,
Camilla Bolton, and my editor, Vicki Mellor,
with deep appreciation and thanks.
You have one new voicemail message.
Message left: Today, 3:36 p.m.
Lucy, it’s Bethany. I’m running late, stuck on another viewing. Crazy day. And listen, I know you said you weren’t keen to show people around your place by yourself but would you mind just starting the tour before I get there? The buyer’s name is Donovan, he’s highly motivated and I think your house could be perfect for him. And in this market . . . Well, if you do want to sell . . . So . . . Call me if you have a problem with this and I’ll try to reschedule with him but if I don’t hear from you I’ll get there as soon as I can. OK? OK. Good luck!
1
Paranoia stalks me when I’m vacuuming the house and Sam is out. I get spooked that I’m not alone – convinced a stranger is creeping up on me when my back is turned.
My spine prickles. I tense.
And then I turn.
I always turn.
Even though I know nobody is there, or can be there, because I watched Sam leave, heard him lock the front door behind him, waved him goodbye when he paused and smiled back at me from the gate at the end of our path.
And there never is anybody there.
It’s always just me, on my own.
And so I go back to the vacuuming and the cycle begins again. The deafening roar of the vacuum. The tingles down my spine. The niggling fear that if I don’t look, well . . .
It’s not rational. I get that. And I’ve talked it through with Sam, of course. Not that he’s in any way surprised. We’ve spoken about what happened to me so many times – too many times, I sometimes think. Sam likes to joke that it’s an occupational hazard for him.
I stopped the Hoover. Held my breath. Straightened my back – and yes, checked behind me again – then sighed with relief and glanced up at the skylight overhead.
I was in the rear attic bedroom, which was one of my favourite rooms in the house. It was nearly always flooded with light, even on a dreary and windy day like today. And with the off-white walls and the thick, pale carpet, I felt like I could think better up here. It gave me a sense of calm and clarity I couldn’t always find.
A safe space.
Shaking the nerves from my body, I tucked the vacuum away into its spot in the cupboard under the eaves before taking my phone from my jeans pocket and checking the time.
I was planning to go to a nearby cafe while the viewing was on. I’d take my book, order an Earl Grey tea with lemon, try to relax. When the viewing was over, Bethany would call and tell me how things had gone. If we were lucky, maybe today would be the day when we received an offer we could accept.
That’s when I saw the voicemail that was waiting for me and a twist of anxiety corkscrewed inside my gut.
Even before I dialled, I had a bad feeling about it, and when I listened to Bethany’s message, it grew worse.
I hung up, a sticky flickering in my throat, my hands beginning to buzz and hum.
Easy, Lucy.
Fifteen minutes until the viewing.
I couldn’t cancel now.
Or maybe I could, I supposed, but it would be rude and I knew we couldn’t afford to put a potential buyer off.
My mouth had gone dry. I pressed the heel of my hand to my head and tried to keep the panic at bay.
Our debts were spiralling. There were the loans Sam had taken out to cover the renovation costs, and when those capped out, the credit card bills that increased every month. Sam hadn’t been sleeping because of it. And there was so much more wrapped up for both of us in the idea of selling this place and leaving London for good. A clean slate. Starting again.
Bethany.
I liked her, even if she was your typical estate agent in most respects. She could be pushy and brash, and she’d lie as easily as breathing, but at least she was open about it, which was a kind of honesty in a way.
At night, when Sam tossed and murmured and I listened in the ringing darkness to the brittle click of the lock on a bathroom door – the metallic rasp of an unknown voice – what saved me was remembering the way Bethany had arrived at our house that very first time in her expensive coat and statement spectacles, sweeping inside to talk valuations, telling us how tastefully we’d decorated and how desirable we’d made No. 18 Forrester Avenue.
I trusted her – in as much as it’s possible to trust any estate agent – and lately I’d found myself hoping that we might stay in touch after we’d sold our house, but it was hard to shake the suspicion that she could have warned me earlier that she was running late; that she’d ambushed me knowingly.
And? You have to make the best of it now.
Hurrying downstairs, I rushed along the first-floor landing and down again into the main living area, my gaze darting around, searching for anything I’d overlooked.
The lights were on throughout the house. I’d brought home fresh lilies from our local florist and arranged them in a ceramic vase on the marble coffee table. The honey-coloured floorboards gleamed. Only this morning I’d dusted every single blade of the pale wooden shutters we’d fitted in the bay window.
OK. All good.
I spun and looked towards the kitchen area, which was sunken and lowered by several steps. I hadn’t brewed coffee. Bethany had warned us it was too much of a cliché. But I’d made sure everything was spotlessly clean.
During the renovation process, we’d knocked through most of the downstairs walls to create one large, open-plan space that ended in a set of industrial-style Crittall doors giving access to the modest back garden. We’d done nearly all the work ourselves, swinging sledgehammers, plastering walls, but the kitchen had been professionally installed and it was sleek and high-end. Expensive cabinetry, top appliances. The granite on the countertops and the expansive kitchen island had cost as much as a new car.
It’ll be worth it, Sam had told me, looking up from his spreadsheets with red-rimmed eyes and a coating of dust and grime matted in his wayward hair. At the time, I hadn’t been sure which of us he was trying to convince. It’s expensive now but it’s what buyers of a place like this will expect. It’s the best way to protect our investment.
My head swam.
I wondered what Sam would say now if I could tell him I was considering showing a stranger around our home by myself. He’d probably fall silent, think carefully, then wrap me in a gentle hug, rub my back and tell me that perhaps it was time to confront my fears.
Not that I could ask him. Sam would be finishing up a lecture and getting ready for his support group. His phone would be switched off.
And anyway, Bethany had said she was definitely on her way. I wouldn’t be on my own for long.
I chewed the inside of my cheek and glanced at my coat and scarf – I’d draped them over the back of the green velvet sofa ready for my exit – then swept them into my arms, carried them upstairs and hung them in the walk-in wardrobe we’d carved out of what had previously been the spare room next to our bedroom.
When I stepped out, I drifted towards our bed, smoothing my hands over the pleated throw I kept to one side especially for viewings. There were multiple pillows and cushions at the top of the bed, resting against the oversized headboard I’d upholstered as part of a days-long project.
The headboard was bolted to a privacy wall that shielded the en suite bathroom, and taken together, it created the impression of a fancy suite in a boutique hotel. I hoped it looked like a restful and calming place to sleep, even if it hadn’t always been that way for us.
Please be the one. Please be the one.
I caught sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror by the doorway. A pale, undeniably frazzled woman in her early thirties. Hair loosely tied back. Baggy Aran sweater and comfortable jeans. Worry lines around my eyes and mouth.
Perhaps I should change, give a different impression?
But before I could act on the impulse, the doorbell rang.
2
He was early.
Not by much but it was enough to throw me.
The doorbell app on my phone pulsed and buzzed.
I could dismiss the notification from the app. I knew that. I could go downstairs, open the front door and welcome him inside with a forced smile.
But instead I hesitated, took my phone out of my jeans pocket and stared at the image of the man on my doorstep.
My fingers trembled. A coppery taste flooded my mouth.
I couldn’t see him clearly because his face was down. All I could really see was the crown of his head – he had wavy grey hair, neatly styled. The collar was up on his dark woollen overcoat. His hands were loosely clasped together in brown leather gloves. He had broad shoulders and looked athletically built.
I wish I could see his face.
I glanced towards the shutters that were tilted open in front of the windows, then made a quick decision and hit answer on my phone.
‘Hello?’
I said it as casually as I could, as if I was expecting a parcel delivery, and the man looked up into the doorbell camera with an easy smile.
Not someone I recognized, though that hardly helped.
He was handsome in a roguish way. A prominent brow over startlingly blue eyes. Jaw shaded in stubble. He had on a fawn turtleneck jumper under his coat.
He looked a little jaded, and for a second it made me think of him as a lounge-room singer, tired and possibly hung-over after a long night of crooning.
‘My name’s Donovan.’ The skin around his eyes crinkled as he moved to one side and motioned towards the ‘For Sale’ sign in our front yard. It had been fastened to the painted metal railings running along the top of the low side wall we shared with the neighbour to our right. The rest of our front yard was shielded by the formerly scrappy box hedge we’d tamed and kept for privacy, itself hemmed in behind more barbed metal railings. ‘I’m here for the house viewing.’
‘One second.’
Snapping a hasty picture of him on my phone, I quickly attached the image to a message to Bethany.
Just checking this is the man who made the appointment with you? Mr Donovan?
I knew Bethany would probably think it was a strange, possibly neurotic, thing to do, but right then I didn’t care. I needed reassurance if I was going to show him around by myself.
Three dancing dots appeared, and while I waited for Bethany’s reply to reach me, an anxious ache bloomed inside my chest and I swiped back to the video feed from the doorbell again.
The man had stepped back and he was leaning sideways, inspecting the stonework around our bay window, glancing up towards the roof.
Behind him, I could see a fish-eye view of Forrester Avenue. The terrace of painted and red-brick Victorian villas opposite our own. The wizened old plane trees that lined the road. Cars and tradesmen’s vans were parked bumper to bumper along both kerbs with drifts of autumn leaves scattered across them. Nearly all the cars were BMWs and Range Rovers. A few were Porsches.
There was no passing traffic but a young girl in the red and grey uniform of the local primary school was rolling along the nearside pavement on a scooter, pursued by a woman in a raincoat who was striding after her while staring at her phone, the girl’s school bag banging against her hip.
Bethany’s reply popped up at the top of my screen.
Yum! Donovan is his first name. Feel free to mention that I’m single and . . . enjoy!
I let go of a lungful of air as I tapped out a fast reply.
OK, thanks. How long until you get here?
But this time, she didn’t respond.
Slipping my phone away in my pocket, I closed my eyes for a dizzying second and told myself I could do this, that everything would be fine, then I curled my hands into fists and moved towards the stairs.
I was halfway down when I heard the shriek from outside.
3
I opened the door to find that the man who’d introduced himself to me as Donovan had vanished.
But only for a second.
When I slipped on some shoes and ventured beyond our box hedge I found him kneeling on the pavement in front of our house. His back was to me. I moved closer and that was when I spotted the schoolgirl lying on the ground.
She’d fallen off her scooter and she was howling in pain. Her scooter was toppled over on its side nearby, its wheels still spinning.
‘Hey,’ Donovan said to her softly. His voice was deep and gruff. ‘Hey, it’s OK.’
He was gently cradling the girl’s wrists in his gloved hands. She’d skinned one palm and the bloodied graze was pebbled with grit, her upper body shaking. One knee of her grey school tights had been torn through and her shoe had come off. Her face was a tangle of tears, eyes huge and trembling.
‘Where did you learn to do a stunt like that? Because I have to tell you, that was impressive.’
She blinked up at him, lips wobbling, breath hitching. The air was so damp and chill that her breath formed misted plumes.
‘Oh, darling,’ cooed the woman crouched beside them, who I took to be the girl’s mother. ‘I told you to be careful.’
‘I don’t think it’s broken,’ Donovan told her. ‘Just a bruise.’
I wondered if he was a doctor. Close up, his eyes looked puffy with fatigue, his movements slack and weary. Perhaps he’d just finished a shift at Charing Cross Hospital, or Queen Mary’s. Maybe that was why he was hoping to buy in this area.
He must have sensed my presence because he looked up at me with a slow but spreading grin and I felt myself blush.
‘I’m from number 18.’ I pointed towards my open front door. ‘Lucy.’
‘Hi, Lucy.’ A flash of concern crossed his face as he looked at the girl again. ‘I don’t suppose you have a clean cloth, or some tissues, or . . .?’
‘Of course. Let me fetch something.’
I hurried inside and removed the first aid kit from under the sink, taking out a couple of wrapped antiseptic wipes and a sticking plaster. By the time I was back outside again he was fitting the girl’s shoe back onto her foot and the woman was thanking him profusely, placing her hand on his arm, fixing him with a lingering look.
‘Here.’ I thrust the wipes and the plaster at her and she took them, seemingly irritated by the interruption.
She had long blonde hair, recently styled. Immaculate make-up. She was slim and fashionably attired in a close-fitting dress over knee-length boots. I’d seen a lot of women dressed just like her dropping their kids at the school gates, driving by in luxury SUVs.
Not for the first time, I felt mismatched with the area – out of keeping with the otherwise wealthy residents of Putney.
Sam had inherited the house we lived in from his grandparents on his mother’s side. There was no way we could have afforded to live here otherwise. We’d had to stretch ourselves and dig perilously deep to modernize the place for sale.
As the woman tore open one of the wipes and used it to swab the girl’s knee, I folded my arms across my chest and looked up at our house. It was three storeys high with a mansard roof and a pair of French doors set into one of the dormers on the top floor that opened onto a small balcony concealed behind a triangular parapet. The brickwork was painted lemon yellow, the windows a crisp white. The front door was a deep, glossy red.
‘Thank you again,’ the woman said to Donovan. Her voice was husky and soft. ‘You’re incredibly kind.’
‘It’s nothing, really.’
Donovan helped the girl to her feet and righted her scooter, and as she hopped and winced, he stepped clear, cupping a hand to the back of his head, suddenly sheepish.
