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‘Swimming?’ Kate’s voice sounded vague and preoccupied.
‘You were going to take the boys to Swim School after nursery and then I was going to pick Arthur up from yours around six?’
Silence, as Kate rapidly processed these facts as if she was hearing them for the first time, which she wasn’t. ‘Fine—yes, that’s fine. Robert’s going to pick the boys up from swimming.’ She made a mental note to remind Robert.
Jessica, trying not to cry with relief, missed what Kate said next. ‘What’s that?’
‘I said maybe I am interested.’
‘In what?’
‘Taking a look at Beulah Hill.’
‘You’re thinking of moving?’
‘Possibly.’ Kate’s only appointment that morning had been a teenage schizophrenic, so she’d spent most of her time after printing off a map of the St Anthony’s catchment area, as well as two copies of the appeal form, on Rightmove. By the time she discovered that the only property with at least three bedrooms under seven hundred thousand and within the catchment area was No. 8 Beulah Hill, a dull thumping sensation had started somewhere just behind her left temple, and she knew that at some point that day she would have a migraine.
‘But you’ve got a lovely house.’
In the silence that followed, Kate realised that Jessica was waiting for some sort of explanation. ‘We were thinking of buying something abroad,’ she lied—another lie. ‘Maybe downscaling in London, cashing in on some capital and getting somewhere in France—to take the kids in the holidays.’
‘Well, how much were you thinking of spending?’ Jessica said, thinking that at least the Hunters would be around in the term-time still. Kate was the only person she knew who ever offered to help with Arthur.
‘Around four fifty?’
‘This is on for four eighty.’
‘I know, I’ve been looking at it on Rightmove. How long’s it been on the market for?’
‘Over six weeks.’
‘So you haven’t been able to shift it.’
‘Well, I’ve got a young couple here at the moment…you never know: people are unpredictable.’
There was undisguised panic in Kate’s voice as she said, ‘What about this afternoon? Could I take a look this afternoon?’
‘This afternoon?’ Jessica laughed. ‘I can’t—I’m booked through to five thirty. I think everybody in the office is.’
‘What about now?’
‘Now?’
‘I can be there in under ten minutes.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Come on, Jessica.’
‘I’ll give you ten minutes then I’ll have to go—I’ve got another viewing.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Jessica was about to call off when Kate said, ‘Wait—I meant to ask. Did you get your letter?’
‘What letter?’
‘The St Anthony’s letter?’
‘No idea—I left before the post. Did Findlay get in?’
‘He did.’
‘Well, I hope to God Arthur gets a place then. They’re almost like brothers—he’ll be distraught if he and Findlay get separated.’
Kate tried to think of something to say—a statement like this warranted something—but she couldn’t. Arthur Palmer swore; Arthur Palmer looked malnourished; Arthur Palmer’s hair was too short, his clothes inflammatory. Arthur Palmer was all wrong and Kate had done everything she could to separate him and Findlay, but nothing worked. Ros Granger and Harriet Burgess had both commented on this—smugly—but no matter how hard Kate tried to push Findlay in the direction of Toby and Casper, Findlay refused to have anything to do with either of them.
When Kate failed to respond, Jessica said, ‘So it’s definitely okay for you to pick Arthur up after nursery?’—getting back to her primary concern.
A moment’s hesitation, as Kate fought to remember the complicated logistics involving her own children and Jessica’s, then, ‘Yes—fine. Okay, I’m leaving now.’ Kate called off.
Jessica hadn’t heard the young couple come back downstairs, and now they were standing in front of her, and she could tell from the way the man said, ‘So how long has it been on the market for?’ that he’d already asked her once, maybe even more than once.
‘Not long,’ Jessica said.
‘How long?’ he insisted.
‘Just over a week,’ she lied, ‘which is why we haven’t got round to printing details yet—and, to be honest, properties like this are going so fast, nine times out of ten we don’t even get round to printing details. A lot of the properties don’t even make it onto the Internet.’
The man was staring at the oil painting of Jesus on the wall opposite, unconvinced.
Jessica was about to give them the whole spiel on getting the loft converted into a fourth bedroom with en-suite, and how unusual it was to find a seventy-foot garden in this area, when Mr Jackson, the elderly Jamaican vendor, shuffled into his home carrying a blue plastic bag with two cans of Kestrel inside.
‘Y’all right?’ he smiled awkwardly at them all. ‘Sorry—I stayed out; thought you’d be done by now.’
‘Don’t worry, we’re just leaving, Mr Jackson,’ Jessica said as brightly as she could.
Mr Jackson carried on staring at them all, confused by the whole process. ‘That’s my wife,’ he said after a while, following the young man’s gaze and pointing to the picture of Jesus.
The young man nodded and smiled and tried not to look scared.
‘She was the one what had the religion.’ Mr Jackson paused. ‘She died,’ he added, looking hopefully at them all, as if one of them might have heard otherwise.
The young man mumbled, ‘Sorry to hear it,’ and started to propel his partner towards the hall.
Jessica followed them out.
Mr Jackson stayed where he was. ‘Y’all goin?’ he said to the empty room.
On the pavement outside No. 8, she shook hands with the young couple as a fleet of motorised scooters raced up the road behind them.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she called out enthusiastically, watching the couple get into their car and start to argue.
No. 8 Beulah Hill was a bargain—if she had the money, she would have bought it herself. All it needed was thirty to fifty thousand pounds of work done on it and it would be worth over six hundred and fifty, but nobody seemed to have the imagination to see beyond Mr Jackson and the Jackson décor. People these days wanted to walk into readymade lives. Her phone started ringing again.
It was Kate.
‘Still there?’
‘Still here.’
‘Great—I’m just round the corner. Oh, and Jessica, I meant to say—you’re the only person I’ve told about the whole downscaling/second property in France thing, so…’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.’
‘To anyone.’
‘To anyone.’
‘Great.’ A pause. Then again, ‘Great.’
By the time she came off the phone, the silver BMW containing the young couple had slid away. She turned and knocked on the door of No. 8 again—to see if it was okay to do the viewing with Kate now.
After a while, she rang a second time, and Mr Jackson appeared in the door, the blue carrier bag still in his hand, staring blankly at her. He looked as though he’d been crying.
‘Mr Jackson? It’s Jessica, Mr Jackson—Jessica from Lennox Thompson Estate Agents?’
He nodded patiently at her—without any apparent recollection.
She turned and pointed to the Lennox Thompson For Sale sign attached to his gatepost.
‘It’s Jessica, Mr Jackson,’ she said again, glancing at him standing in his doorway staring at the Lennox Thompson For Sale sign as though he’d never seen it in his life before. ‘I’ve got someone who wants to see the property.’
‘The property,’ he repeated, grinning to himself.
‘Yes, the property—your house—now. If that’s okay with you?’
‘They want to see it now?’
‘They want to see it now—is that okay?’
Mr Jackson sighed, shaking his head and disappeared back inside without shutting the front door.
‘Mr Jackson?’ Jessica called out.
Then the Hunters’ Audi estate pulled up and Kate got out panting, as though she’d been running, not driving.
‘Jessica—thanks so much.’
‘Are you serious about this?’
‘I just want to take a look,’ Kate said, her eyes once more skimming the peach-coloured window frames and impenetrable layers of net hanging at the windows.
‘It needs work doing to it—about thirty grand’s worth. Nothing structural—mostly cosmetic. Sorry, we’re going to have to be quick, I’m meant to be somewhere else.’
Jessica gave Kate the tour.
Mr Jackson remained motionless on the sofa watching a Gospel channel.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Jessica called out to him as they left the house.
There was no reply from Mr Jackson.
‘Well, I’m definitely interested,’ Kate said on the pavement outside No. 8.
‘Have a think about it.’
‘I’m definitely interested,’ she said again.
‘Well, talk to Robert -.’
‘I’m going to.’ She nodded to herself then swung back to Jessica. ‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘Tonight? Nothing.’
‘Why don’t you come to the PRC meeting?’
‘I didn’t know there was a PRC meeting.’
‘Didn’t Harriet phone you?’
Harriet hadn’t phoned for some time. In fact, Jessica hadn’t been to the last three PRC meetings. ‘No.’
An awkward silence. Jessica was one of those people it was almost impossible to lie to. ‘Harriet’s probably just lost your number or something. You know what she’s like.’
Jessica didn’t respond immediately. ‘Look, I’ll let you know—I’ll see how Ellie’s day’s been, and if she minds me leaving Arthur with her.’ She paused, looking suddenly pleased. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Course I’m sure. It’s an important one tonight—about the street party.’
‘What street party?’
‘The street party we’re having in June.’
‘Oh. Okay—well, I’ll call you.’
Even though she was late, Jessica stayed on the pavement waving stupidly at the disappearing Audi before getting into her own car.
Watching her in the rear-view mirror, Kate felt a stab of regret.
