by Rosie Blake
‘Two bedrooms, bathroom, large kitchen/diner?’ he read from his sheet of paper. ‘Perhaps if I start in here, you can show me up there afterwards?’
Clara looked helplessly around her, a small boy clutching a large rubber snake and a girl kissing a fluffy penguin proving no help to her. ‘Right…’
The man was taking photos now, every now and again talking into a slim silver Dictaphone he had pulled from his top pocket. ‘Turn-of-the-century building converted into shop with flat upstairs. Very few original features left in the shop below but a good-sized window, excellent space to suit many needs, current use: toyshop…’
‘In there?’ he said, indicating the locked door of the cupboard.
‘Storage,’ she whispered.
He nodded and bustled on past, scrutinising the counter, the till. Clara thought she saw hunger in his eyes as they roved across each surface. Should she put a stop to this? It didn’t seem right to let him crawl over the place without asking Louisa.
Moving through to the back room, he called ‘All right if I look in here?’, now on a roll and not waiting for a reply.
She could hear him in the workshop, the low rumble of Gavin’s response, hoping he might see fit to throw him out. But there was only the odd sentence drifting through the shop, no estate agent slung out on his ear, his folder following shortly behind.
Eventually Gavin appeared, moving slowly through the doorway as if he was one of the walking dead, tapping at his phone. ‘Selling?’ he said, his face slowly turning puce, cheeks puffed out. ‘Woman’s lived here for twenty years; she wouldn’t just sell without saying anything. Would she?’ He looked at Clara then, eyebrows pinched together.
Perhaps Louisa had spoken to Joe about it; Clara wasn’t sure any more.
‘She would have said something,’ Gavin said, his voice sounding a little more certain.
The man was back, tapping his foot as he waited for her to join him. ‘The flat,’ he said, his voice a whine, as if she’d clean forgotten why he was there.
‘Gavin, would you mind the shop? He wants to see upstairs.’ Clara pointed in the man’s direction.
Gavin nodded miserably, lowering himself onto the stool, his large legs bunched up beneath him. ‘Selling,’ he repeated, gazing at nothing, not even reacting to the bell above the shop door.
‘I won’t be long,’ Clara said, feeling as dejected as he looked. She had worked so hard to try to turn the shop around, to prove to Louisa that it could be at the centre of things once more. She had started to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was managing it. And now here was this man with his nasty gelled hair and his shrewd eyes that seemed to be putting a price tag on every fireplace, mantelpiece and cornice.
‘Are you a tenant?’ he asked, following her up the stairs.
‘House-sitter,’ Clara said, standing at the door of the flat, watching him as he bent down to examine the woodburner, admired the enormous mirror over the mantelpiece, measured widths, windows, period features. She regretted making it so welcoming, not enjoying hearing that it looked like a show home.
Lady CaCa had been watching him the entire time, beak opening and shutting as he walked past, only waiting until he was bending down near her cage to throw back her head and screech ‘I CARRIED A WATERMELON!’ which made him shoot up and hit his head on the mantelpiece.
Clara swallowed a small giggle, feeling a fraction better, until she realised that Lady CaCa might soon be homeless.
‘Well,’ he said, after an age, ‘I think I’ve got enough to begin with. We can get something up on the website within the week. Now, where is Mr Alden? I should like to confirm how much we’re putting it on for; he was keen for a quick valuation. His estimate wasn’t far off.’
Clara felt a little sick thinking of Joe discussing the price of the shop and flat with this man, forging on ahead as if he owned the place. Was he protecting his inheritance? She knew it was a nasty thought, but she couldn’t shake it. He claimed to be looking after his mother’s interests, but was that really it?
The estate agent was still waiting for an answer.
‘I’m not sure exactly when he’ll be back,’ Clara said, wanting to bundle him out of there.
‘Well, here’s my card; tell him to ask for Paul.’
‘Paul,’ Clara whispered, holding the card limply in her hand.
She followed him down the stairs, shoulders sagging. Paul took a last look round the shop before heading out, a decisive tinkle of the bell signalling his departure. Gavin was still huddled over the stool by the till, his earlier bonhomie gone as he sloped back through to the workshop. Clara didn’t trust herself to speak. What could she say? It wasn’t their shop, it wasn’t their life.
Chapter 21
Switching off the engine, Joe sat in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers on the wheel, his mind still in the office, thoughts of the deal they were working on chasing each other round. The drive up had been a blur, the familiar roads passing in a flash.
As he looked up, he felt a sudden sense of relief that he was back here in the village. The office, the deal started to fade from his mind as he looked across the road. It had been the right decision to leave, he thought, suppressing the memory of his team’s faces as he’d suddenly stood up, swept his things into his briefcase and left with a barely mumbled explanation. He’d only been there a couple of hours but suddenly he just hadn’t wanted to face it all, had needed to leave. He could oversee things from here, he reassured himself. They’d be fine.
He looked across at the burgundy façade of the shop, the flashing lights of the robot display pulling the edges of his mouth into a smile. Clara had a real eye for detail, he thought. He realised that he was looking forward to seeing her, and it struck him that he should buy something for the dinner party that evening. He wondered if Roz’s post office sold flowers.
It was a cold day and he leant his neck from side to side, feeling the pull on his muscles. Moving to the boot, he pulled out his bag, pausing before the side door to the flat and choosing to enter via the shop entrance instead. He could see Clara behind the counter. She was wearing her hair in a topknot now, a cream jumper over the flowered dress. He pushed open the door, pleased to see her look up at the sound of the bell.
He smiled, his hand moving to wave at her but freezing halfway as he watched her eyes narrow, her mouth purse closed. He almost looked behind him, confused by the coldness that seemed to sweep across the shop. Surely he was imagining it. He could hear the blood drumming in his ears, the noises of the shop whirring in the background, the sound of his own breathing heavier. His eyes darted over to her again. She turned away from him.
It was his paranoia. ‘I’m back,’ he smiled, moving towards the counter. Perhaps she was distracted by something in the shop? Maybe she was short-sighted and hadn’t seen him? Perhaps it was all in his head?
‘Great,’ she said, her voice dull.
‘Looking forward to later,’ he added, wanting things to be as they had been, as he’d left them after pancakes in the flat above. He’d started to believe she was just being nice after all, that everyone was right about her.
She looked blank.
‘The dinner party!’
‘Oh… that.’ She could barely meet his eyes. What was going on?
‘Well, I’ll be upstairs,’ he said, turning away from her, feeling his body grow hot as he fumbled for his key, wishing now that he’d arrived quietly, let himself into the flat, allowed himself a few moments to wind down.
‘Ah, Joe,’ came a voice. He almost dropped his leather bag. Roz was pushing her way into the shop, nearly tripping over a toddler clutching a soft toy, a duck almost as big as her. ‘I thought I saw you outside. I’m glad I’ve caught you. I’ve just bumped into Paul from Strutt and Sons and he tells me they’ll be handling the sale.’
Joe was watching her mouth flap open, hearing the words as if through a fog. Sale? Paul? Then he remembered the name, Strutt and Sons. So that was why Clara was giving him
the cold shoulder. They weren’t due to be here till next week; he’d cancelled their call this morning, had been going to call them back.
‘He’s given me a rough estimate, but we can discuss that privately. Apparently you haven’t confirmed anything yet. I’m a bit frustrated that you’ve gone through an estate agent, we could have saved on fees, but…’ Her face broke into a wide smile; she had a dark red lipstick mark on one front tooth. ‘I’m sure you can be generous. Shall we talk upstairs?’
He found himself nodding, not wanting to stay in the shop in the arctic presence of Clara, who was now clattering change onto the counter and glaring at him openly.
Roz yapped all the way up the stairs, and as Joe pushed open the door to the flat he felt a pang of regret for agreeing to talk to her now.
Lady CaCa obviously agreed, greeting him with a robust screech and a cry of ‘I WISH I KNEW HOW TO QUIT YOU.’
‘Sorry about that,’ he mumbled, putting his bag down. On the counter in the kitchen Clara had left a batch of bread rolls on a plate, a smiley face drawn on a piece of paper next to it. She must have put it there before the estate agent came; God knows what emoticon she’d choose now.
Roz was moving through the flat, opening doors and cupboards, scribbling things down on a piece of paper. ‘I’m so pleased she’s selling. I thought that Danish girl might be here for good. The article in the paper made me worry.’
‘Article?’ Joe asked, confused.
Roz took the local paper out of her handbag as she marched past. ‘Page six. She’s very photogenic, of course, so they’ve gone with an enormous photograph. She’ll be all over the website too. They call it clickbait, you know.’
Joe barely heard her next questions as he stared at the photo. Clara in the shop, surrounded by toys and children, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Has your mother ever applied for planning permission to extend?’
‘Is there a firewall to next door?’
‘When was the boiler installed?’
What had he done? Why had he let Roz in here? He tried to answer the questions, realising as he did that he knew next to nothing about the flat. He kept picturing Clara’s face in the shop below, the look she had given him. He pulled his arms across his body into a hug. Why hadn’t he told her he’d been to see the estate agent? Then again, how was he to know they were just going to show up that day?
Roz was in the bathroom, running a finger along the surface of the bath, peering out of the window as if she could see through the frosted glass.
‘Is it a power shower? Is there a water softener?’
‘NO LIKEY NO LIGHTY.’
Roddy, clearly noticing the shift in mood, wound himself around Joe’s legs, rubbing up against his calves.
‘RUN FORREST RUN.’
‘Is there a dryer?’
‘Is that a built-in dishwasher?’
‘Is the oven gas or electric?’
‘FRANKLY MY DEAR I DON’T GIVE A DAMN.’
Joe felt an overwhelming urge to shout at them both to shut up. He hadn’t asked for any of this. He thought of his mother in sunny Spain and experienced a flash of envy. He wanted to be on a beach, feeling the sun on his skin, not dealing with frosty looks and nosy neighbours and endless questions and the bloody parrot sounding like voices in his head.
‘Where are the meters?’
‘Is there a stopcock?’
He needed to explain things. He was answering Roz’s questions in bumbling half-sentences, planning what he was going to say to Clara throughout, wanting to get rid of that expression on her face. He needed to tell her that he wanted his mum to have options, to know that she could have any life she wanted. She’d worked so hard for so long and he needed her to know that it hadn’t been for nothing. He thought back to the uncertainty when they’d first moved here; how she’d worried constantly about bills and how he’d been so desperate to make sure she never had to worry like that again.
It seemed an age before he managed to remove Roz, promising to ring her when he’d discussed things with the estate agent, practically bundling her out of the front door and into the street. Then he took a breath and headed through the side door back into the shop, squaring his shoulders, preparing himself for Clara’s disappointed looks, her scowls.
She was all warmth and laughter now, though, draped over the counter, smiling coyly up at the man who’d been here the other day, the local journalist, giggling at something he’d said, looking up at him with those big blue eyes.
What was he doing back again, hanging around the shop like a bad smell? He looked like an extra in Point Break, all long brown hair and holey jumpers. Joe could hear them talking as he stepped around a boy gnawing at a plastic Minion key ring, almost tripping over two girls playing with racing cars in the aisle. Clara’s light laugh as she moved back around behind the counter, throwing a remark over her shoulder. Something about the way she did it made his fists clench and he walked across to her.
‘So, were you going to mention it?’ he huffed.
The journalist looked up, a frown forming. Joe didn’t look at him, pointedly staring directly at her.
‘Mention what?’ She lifted her chin, a challenge to him.
Why was he behaving like this? He knew he should apologise, but something about their closeness wound him up: the smug way Mr Journalist was looking at him through his rectangular glasses as if he were auditioning to be a Specsavers model.
‘Paul coming,’ he went on. ‘Did he take photographs? Measurements? What did he say, or did you just send him away?’
Clara looked affronted, her eyebrows knitting together, her eyes icy. He’d never seen her look like that before, and he stepped back.
‘I showed him in and he took his photos and measurements and got his grubby hands all over the flat, and then he left you this.’ She thrust a card at him; it missed his hand and fluttered to the floor.
He picked it up, already starting to feel foolish. ‘Right. Good, I’d better be ringing him then.’
‘You’d better do that,’ Clara agreed, her cheeks two spots of pink. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m talking to a customer, while there’s still a shop to run.’ She gestured to the man at the counter, who was staring openly at the exchange. ‘And you should be thanking Sam for writing such a wonderful piece; everyone came to the workshop opening because of his article.’ She turned a beaming smile on the journalist and twisted away from Joe.
‘I saw it.’
‘No problem, mate.’ The journalist smiled at him, his green eyes piercing.
Clara still had her back to him. He had been dismissed. He felt his mouth open, a cutting response lost somewhere, no doubt to resurface hours later when he was replaying the conversation in his head.
He shouldn’t have to justify himself to her. He’d just been doing what was best for his mother. He wanted her to be comfortable as she got older. She had always put him first and he wanted to be sure he was doing everything he could to look after her now. He looked back at Clara, all the prepared lines lost somewhere inside him. Why had he gone on the attack? Why had he taken it out on her?
He spun round, spotting the boy munching on the Minion. ‘You’ll need to pay for that,’ he said, marching back through the shop and out of the door.
Louisa: Am refusing to recognise your QI – it is a silly invented word. Acceptable Q words include: QUEEN, QUIZ, QUINTESSENTIAL, but not QI, which means NOTHING.
Gavin: QUINTESSENTIAL would never happen.
Louisa: Don’t be cheeky, of course it could if you had ESSENTIAL and then added QUINT on the next go. Anyway, stop trying to distract me from the fact that you are a complete and utter QI (I have made up my own definition for it).
