‘Fine. If you insist, I’ll drop it back sometime after work tomorrow.’ He glares at me for a moment, then I see him open his mouth as though about to add something, but he changes his mind, turns and walks towards his Mercedes.
I’m conscious that the whole exchange was a little odd; I have an uneasy feeling I can’t pinpoint. His behaviour seems different since the open house – his reaction to me asking for my key over the top. What’s rattled his cage?
I hope the diary isn’t the only thing he’s mislaid.
What if he’s lost my house key, too?
Chapter Twenty
Amber
Before Carl has made it into his car, Davina rushes across the road, one hand waving madly. No doubt she was listening the whole time. One of the reasons I wanted to conduct the conversation inside the house, not on the doorstep. I’m sure I hear Carl groan when he hears Davina’s voice as it carries on the air like a seagull’s squawk. He does a quick manoeuvre and slips into his Mercedes before she can reach the pavement – even he doesn’t want to speak to Davina. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s been bending his ear every time he’s been at the house.
‘That’s the man I keep seeing going into your house,’ she says, her gaze following his car as he drives away.
‘Yes, he’s the estate agent, Davina. I told you it was probably him.’
‘Hmmm, yes. Very good-looking. I can see why you chose him.’ Davina gives me a sly nudge and then winks. Oh, my God, this woman is incorrigible. I take a few steps away from her so she can’t nudge me again.
‘I chose him because he’s the only local agent who could accommodate the viewings without me needing to be involved,’ I say, angry with myself for feeling the need to substantiate my decision.
‘Oh, if you ever need anyone to oversee a viewing, I’m your woman,’ she declares, her grin so wide her entire top row of teeth seem to be visible.
‘Oh, no. You’re fine, thanks. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do. And you might be working anyway?’
It occurs to me I have no clue what Davina does for a living, if anything. She always appears to be at home.
‘I’m a writer,’ Davina says. ‘I’m almost always at home.’
Now, that makes sense. Always in comfortable clothes, her hair never styled, no make-up. I guess she thinks there’s no need seeing as she rarely goes out. Well, only to harass her neighbours. And writers are inquisitive by default, always looking for material for a bloody novel. Although I am actually a bit curious and would like to ask her about it, I refrain. I just want to cook tea, have a shower and lounge in front of the TV for a few hours before crashing into bed.
‘I’ll keep that in mind – thanks, Davina.’
‘Make sure you do,’ she says, smiling. ‘I like helping people out, and now you’re on your own, I want you to know I’m here if you need anything.’
Yes, so that you can dig out anything juicy about them to tell the rest of the village.
I nod politely and begin to make my way inside.
‘I was going to ask,’ Davina continues despite me walking away. ‘Any bites yet? Only I see that estate agent has brought the same—’
‘Must go, Davina – the boys need putting to bed.’ I skip up the step, turn quickly to say goodnight, then shut the door. Sometimes I question myself – think I might have got Davina all wrong; maybe I’m being too harsh on her. I’ve never given the woman a chance. What if she’s just lonely? Isn’t being a writer a very isolating career? I assume her husband isn’t at home all day, so she must spend so much of her time alone, secluded – no real people to speak with – just characters in her head. It must make you a little mad.
As I lock up, making sure I slide the safety chain across too, I make a mental note to be more friendly and open towards her, instead of cutting her off the second she opens her mouth. I don’t have to be best friends with the woman or invite her into my house – but I could make more effort to engage.
I remember the letter as I’m putting Leo to bed.
‘Oh, honey, I meant to ask – Daddy said he gave you a letter for me on Friday? You put it straight into your rucksack, but I didn’t find it. Have you put it somewhere else?’
His forehead crinkles. ‘Sorry, I forgot about it. But I didn’t take it out so it must be in there still.’
‘Okay – maybe I missed it. I’ll check again.’ I tuck the duvet all around him, making sure I push it in under his legs just as he likes it. He hates the feeling of any air reaching him. He couldn’t be more opposite to Finley, who is often sprawled over the bed, duvet abandoned on the floor. I kiss him goodnight, flick on the night light on his bedside cabinet and close the door. He calls out, telling me to leave it open “a crack”. I think he’s still unsettled following last night’s bad dream.
I pop into Finley’s room and find him at his desk, facing the computer, brandishing a controller as though it were a sword.
‘What are you up to?’
‘Fighting aliens,’ he says without his attention leaving the screen. I was against him having a computer in his bedroom. I’d been adamant there would only be one, and it would reside in the lounge, where I could always keep an eye on what they were doing. But, after the split, Nick left his old computer here and told Finley he could have it as long as it wasn’t connected to the internet. Basically, it’s a glorified games console. The laptop, which I ensure stays downstairs, is the only device they can use to look things up on the net. And then only with me present. It’s a sign of the times, I tell the boys if they ask why I’m being so strict. I don’t want to make too big a thing of it because it’s second nature – if something is off-limits, or out of bounds, it suddenly becomes more appealing and they’ll do whatever it takes to use it behind my back. I check my watch.
‘Half an hour longer, then bed, mister,’ I say. I go over and kiss him on the top of his head. Thankfully, he’s still allowing me to show some affection. I don’t suppose that’ll last much longer. Soon enough he’ll be going to secondary and batting away any form of sentimental stuff from his mother.
‘Forty-five minutes,’ he counters. There always has to be bartering involved.
‘Forty and you have a deal.’
He smiles. ‘You’re too easy,’ he says.
I raise my eyebrows, but decide not to bite. ‘You didn’t happen to see what Leo did with a letter on Friday, did you? Dad gave it to him in the car.’
Finley pauses his game and turns to me. ‘Yes. Dad told him it was for you, and Leo put it into his bag. In the main zip compartment. I watched him do it.’
‘Oh. Well, it’s not there now.’
‘Weird,’ he says, and his eyes narrow. ‘And you couldn’t even find his bag before, either.’
The fact he has pointed this out makes me think about it too. That bag was nowhere to be seen, then twenty minutes later was in the middle of a pile of shoes. Like someone had put it there during the time it took for me to take the boys to school.
Yet, a letter for me is no longer in the bag.
Barb was with Nick when he handed the letter to Leo. She would’ve known he put it in the bag. So, maybe she also took it out again.
Earlier, I was concerned maybe Carl had lost the key to my house. Maybe he actually gave it to Barb.
Has she been in here, messing around with things?
‘Did Nanna take it, perhaps, for safekeeping?’ I ask Finley, in case it jogs his memory.
‘I didn’t see her take it, no. Leo had his bag with him the whole time.’
‘Oh well – I’m sure it’ll turn up. Just like Leo’s bag did.’
‘Perhaps it’s already magically back inside the rucksack now,’ he says brightly. ‘You should check.’
‘Yes. Will do. Right, now you only have thirty-five minutes.’ I laugh as I close his door and hear him muttering to himself about that being unfair.
I do check the bag again when I get downstairs. I upturn it, shake it, and unzip each pocket again. Definitel
y not there.
Someone has taken it.
Chapter Twenty-One
It’s not easy keeping things from others.
Secrets.
They’ll destroy you eventually. Even if they stay secret, you just dwell on them, worry about making a mistake, worry about slipping up – saying something you shouldn’t. Right up to the day you die.
And if they don’t stay a secret – well, then you’re forced to deal with the fallout.
Or, run from it.
Burying your head in the sand – that’s a common coping mechanism. After a while, when you realise you’ve not been found out, you become smug. If that’s the right word; overconfident, maybe.
Then, after the weeks and months pass, the possibility the lies will never resurface seems greater.
It was unexpected that this village – its villagers – would be what turned. Which is naive of me, given the circumstances.
I suppose you can never be sure where the knife to the back will come from. Keeping friends close, but enemies closer might have worked for a while, but everyone has a price.
And regardless, for me, it turned out my loyalties had been completely misplaced from day one.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Amber
The atmosphere has eased a little at work since yesterday’s shock discovery. Henry and Olive have accepted I might be leaving with only a month’s notice – and this morning it’s been agreed they will begin to look for a replacement but won’t fill my position before I leave. If I leave. The prospect is becoming more improbable by the day – a detail that I’m finding increasingly depressing. As, it seems, is Richard – who has decided not to travel down to see me or the boys again this weekend. We’re both frustrated the process is taking so much longer than we’d first hoped. The excitement of talking about our wonderful future together, the fun we had looking at houses we could make our home, has waned over the last few weeks. It’s increasingly hard to remain upbeat, but I must try. I want him to be desperate to drive down to see me, to drop everything like he did at the beginning, just so we can have a few snatched hours together.
‘Does this Richard really exist?’ Barb had asked in a chirpy, jokey voice when she called for “an update” last night, despite us having had the miscommunication the night before. I laughed it off, but it niggled me. I want to prove her wrong, show her what a fantastic man he is, what a great role model he’ll be for the boys – while being ultra-careful not to suggest he’ll take Nick’s place in their hearts, though, of course. But now I’m facing another weekend without him visiting and another round of probing questions from Barb. He cited work commitments again for him being unable to make the trip to Devon this Friday evening. I offered to come to him, but of course … work commitments; it’d be a waste of my time, he said, as he’d be at the office dealing with an important software update, or some such technical process beyond my comprehension.
I can’t help but feel low. Things aren’t moving fast enough; the universe is ostensibly fighting against my future happiness. I want to be able to put the stressors aside, concentrate on what makes our relationship light, fun. That’s what drew me to him, his ability to make me laugh – to not take everything so seriously, like Nick did. He makes even the mundane things interesting, and I can spend hours talking about a TV programme we’ve both watched, a song we’ve come across or amusing overheard conversations. Small, inconsequential things. The separation, the house sale – those topics seem to have overtaken all that.
I’m sitting alone in the lunchroom for now – the others have all popped out for various reasons. None of which I was really listening to. My phone beeps with a notification. It’s a text from Carl. I take a deep breath. This is the first communication since our kerbside discussion about the open house … and the key.
I’ll drop the key back later on – as instructed. I’m conducting the second viewing now – the one I informed you of – so it seemed silly to give it back before. I’ll let you know how it goes. Carl.
My adrenaline surges as I access the SmartRing app. I hope he’s not lying. Why would he, though? My mind immediately fills in the answer: because he’s lost your key and is buying himself some time. I stare at my empty doorstep, willing him to come into view.
Please don’t be lying.
Relief crashes through me like a huge wave as I see Carl. His head is lowered; he’s pocketing his mobile phone. Then he takes a step up to the door, with my door key in his raised hand. Thank God. I note a shadow looming to his right. The interested party. Could my luck be about to turn?
The man, who appears at least three inches taller than Carl’s six-foot frame, slowly turns his head towards the bell. I know he doesn’t know I’m watching, but my heart flutters chaotically as our eyes seem to connect. They look black, which I realise is the quality of the picture, not really the colour of his eyes. But, something about him makes me catch my breath. Have I seen him before? His face gives nothing away; his expression is flat. Disinterested. He’s also alone. He’s clutching something in his hand; something small. A tape measure, perhaps?
I wait nervously for them to come back out. I put the kettle on and make another coffee, just for something to do. I hear the door to the optician’s bang. They’re back. I take my phone and slide out of the lunchroom and into the toilet before they reach me. I need to keep watching my house.
Finally, I see movement again. It’s been almost half an hour. That’s got to be a good sign, surely? I only see the back of the man this time, and then he disappears from my view. Carl is there moments later. I know the picture quality isn’t great – but Carl’s face is as white as paper when he turns to lock the door again. My spirits drop. Was the second viewing a disaster?
I assume Carl will make his way back to the estate agent’s. It’s two minutes from the optician’s if I go through Market Walk. I estimate it’ll take him twenty minutes to get there. I check my watch. Lunch break is over, but maybe I can orchestrate a reason to leave for a little while. I could pretend to get a call from Carl who needs me to sign something urgently.
I suddenly want to know exactly what’s just gone on. And I don’t want to wait until this evening to get my key back.
I’m going there now.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Amber
I wait opposite the estate agent’s, tucked just out of sight in the doorway of a charity shop. I catch a glimpse of Carl hurrying in, so I quickly cross the street and go in after him.
‘Oh, hi, Suzanne. I was hoping to catch Carl?’ I ask, looking around the office. He must’ve gone straight through to the back as I can’t see him now.
‘Well, that was good timing, he’s just walked in. Although, he seems to be in a rush to leave again …’ Suzanne frowns and her attention drifts to her computer screen. Her long, square-tipped fake nails tap on the keys. ‘Hmmm …’ She doesn’t elaborate further. I feel the urge to prompt her.
‘Hmmm?’ I repeat. ‘Something up?’
‘Oh, no, no.’ Suzanne’s face snaps back to its usual helpful, cheerful form. ‘It’s nothing.’ She smiles, but there’s something behind it. Confusion? ‘I’ll go and get him for you.’ She scoots her chair out, the wheels squealing, and stands up. I follow as she walks to the back of the office and opens the door, which I assume leads to the room where they have breaks, like ours. The door isn’t open long, but I catch a flash of Carl as Suzanne steps through. He’s crouching in front of a safe; I hear the jangle of keys as Carl takes some from it.
Before I can see more, the door closes. I stand for a moment, straining to hear their conversation. Then, the door flings open and Carl rushes past me.
‘Oh, hello, Amber. So sorry – I’m in such a rush to get to the next appointment; can I catch up with you later?’ And with three strides he’s almost at the door.
‘I was only wanting to ask how the second viewing went?’ I say to his back. ‘And get my key from you.’
‘I’m going to be very lat
e – again, my apologies – I don’t want to appear rude. Suzanne will sort it.’
He disappears through the door and I see him practically run past the window.
Suzanne offers an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about that, Mrs Miller. He hates to be late …’
The fact she trails off tells me all I need to know; even she thought that he was rude.
‘No worries, I’m sure he’ll speak with me this evening,’ I say. It’s not Suzanne’s fault her boss is acting like he doesn’t care.
‘Right, so you’re needing your key?’ she asks.
‘Yes, thank you. I’d prefer to keep it and let Carl have it when there’s an actual viewing. It’s not as if we’ve been inundated with interest up until now, so I don’t think it’ll be too problematic. If I’m lucky, the second viewing today went super well and I’ll have an offer anyway.’ I smile. But it drops from my face when I see Suzanne has her “confused” look back on her face.
‘Second viewing?’ she says. She’s walking to the back of the office again, presumably to retrieve my key from the safe.
‘Yes. The one Carl has just done,’ I say tentatively. The knot in my stomach intensifies.
‘Oh, sorry – that hadn’t been in the diary, I wasn’t aware.’
‘He found the diary, then?’
‘No, no. It’s the digital diary I go by. He obviously hadn’t updated his appointments on there. The physical diary is still missing. He’s been very anxious about it.’ Suzanne’s cheeks redden and she turns her back to me and goes through the door. Maybe she thinks she’s said too much.
She’s gone for what feels like five minutes. I check my phone – I’ve been longer than I said I’d be. I don’t want to annoy Olive or Henry. Again.
Finally, the door opens.
‘Well, that’s odd. Carl must’ve forgotten to put it back in. I’m really sorry, but your key isn’t in the safe.’
‘Didn’t he just put it back? That’s why he said you’d sort it?’ I’m beginning to lose patience. All of a sudden, Move Horizon seems to have become incompetent. Lost diary. Staff who don’t know what their boss is doing, or where he’s going. I’m aware I’m staring at Suzanne, my eyes wide as though I’m accusing her of lying. I consciously relax my shoulders and take a step back. ‘Please would you mind checking again? I’d appreciate it,’ I say with what I hope is a soft, calm voice.
The Open House Page 7
