Out Late with Friends and Regrets (11 page)

She remembered him, now.
 
At the Sports Centre, getting out of a customised white car. Rapping the desk, demanding immediate attention from the receptionist, who happened to be on the phone.
 
Fin had registered an instant dislike for Colin Jebb, in his designer kit and hard-man haircut.
 
She had emphasised the title “Ms” when the model had taken her name, and this clown had not even troubled to read it properly.

“No, Mr. Jebb,” she replied with tragic dignity, fixing him with an intense stare, “my husband will not be available on Thursday, or any other time.
 
He’s dead.
 
And I don’t think we’ll be doing business.
 
Goodbye.”
 
She paused for a moment to enjoy his reaction, and left.

After shutting the shop she made it to Victoria Drummond Properties just before the 5.30 closing time, but there was no sense of irritation or rush about either the proprietor or her friendly assistant.

“Come and have a seat …do call me Victoria …now tell me a bit about the cottage, if you would… can I offer you tea or coffee?”
 
Victoria radiated charm and enthusiasm. Her sandy hair, touched with grey, was beautifully coiffed, and her navy and white outfit looked smart and appropriate. The difference between the two businesses could not have been more marked, and Fin looked forward to showing Victoria round the cottage the following afternoon.

She laughed to herself in the car on the way home.
 
This was only Monday, the day after the squash game, not even forty-eight hours after meeting Ellie; and already, her house was almost on the market.
 
The speed of events was exhilarating. She hadn’t even talked to Rosemary yet, and as the hours went by it seemed there was an ever-increasing mountain of stuff to relate. She would need to ring her tonight.
    

However, she still had to address practicalities, such as what to do about the shop. The one certain, non-negotiable plan was to move to the city.
 
Be in the thick of things.
 
Begin a new life.
 
Harford was too far for a daily commute, but could she entrust the running of the shop to Margaret, her dependable part-time assistant, and would Margaret even want to go full time?
 
Oh well, not today’s problem, houses didn’t sell in a week, and everything would work out the way it was meant to.
 
Wouldn’t it? She would
make
it work out.

At eleven o’clock that night she was still adjusting cushions and blinds. She had scrubbed, polished, dusted and Dysoned, singing and gyrating to Monsters of Rock as she did so. Leaning against the door-jamb and surveying the sitting-room, she made her final decision of the day.
 
The brass candlesticks on the mantelpiece would need to be moved, say, another half-inch inwards, for perfect effect.
 
Otherwise… all was ready.

A crashing weariness overwhelmed her, and she could hardly drag herself off to bed. She collapsed between the sheets, and oblivion swiftly wiped the day’s slate clean, leaving only blankness.

“Oh, this is
utterly
charming,” declared Victoria, leaning back in the best easy chair as she sipped her tea.
 
Fin would not have been surprised had she kicked off her neat court shoes and drawn her feet up into her chair. “Your viewers are certainly going to ask why on earth you would want to move away from such an idyllic spot.”
 
A compliment, combined with a bit of shrewd preparation.

“I’m going to Harford, to do a degree,” replied Fin, the fabrication emerging into the daylight without any forethought whatsoever. Well, it would make a reasonable excuse to justify the move.

“Oh, well done
you
,” enthused Victoria, “first time, or adding to a sackful of scrolls?”

“Erm, first time, I’m afraid – left school a bit too soon...”

Then they talked business.
 
Victoria had expressed delight as she moved through the house with sonic tape and memo-recorder, taking numerous digital photographs and sketching the floor plan on a notepad.
 
She requested a mock viewing, and Fin gave a confident and relaxed performance, her sales pitch honest but with a dash of spin.
 
Victoria commended her technique, and added, “
That’s
what I like, but so rarely get – house and owner prepared and ready!”
 
Marketing and price were discussed and agreed, and Victoria promised to e-mail draft details next day.
 
Once approved, they were off.
 
The cottage was for sale.

On Thursday, a sunlit pin-up of the property appeared in the agency window, which Fin examined on her way to work.

“
Utterly
charming,” she cooed aloud, mimicking Victoria’s voice and reflecting that if the cottage wasn’t snapped up instantly, she would be quite amazed.
 
The way it looked now, behind the glass, she could almost fancy it herself.

The next task, of course, would be to talk to Margaret.
 
It was tempting, in Fin’s radical mood, to sell the business, too.
 
But she was only too aware of how her commercial endeavours had failed to fit her for a decent job.
 
Besides, she had built up a good little business over the years, giving her a respectable if unexciting income.
 
It had also provided focus and distraction when things were difficult at home; she would be loth to abandon it.
 

It was not one of Margaret’s days in, but Fin had arranged to meet her for lunch.
 
She would hate for her to see the cottage up for sale in the agency window before she had the chance to brief her.
 

Margaret was a young woman who liked certainty in her life.
 
She was presentable, reliable, honest and painstaking; not a saleswoman of great talent, but with a friendly and open manner that customers liked. She had been a tower of strength during Paul’s stay in hospital.
 
She took no part in the creative process involved with ‘specials’, but Fin was already forming the germ of a plan to try the internet as a sales medium for that side of things.
   

Less positively, Fin
 
had taken a quick look in the property section in the county paper, and had been taken aback by Harford prices.
 
Also, there didn’t seem to be an abundant choice; although whether, in a university city, that would be seasonal or the norm, she couldn’t begin to guess.
 
She had resolved to do some serious plodding online, but so far there had been no time.
 
There were two viewings in place for the cottage, by clients already on Victoria’s books who were actively seeking a rural retreat.
 
Suddenly it seemed to Fin there were rather a lot of balls in the air.
 
And she had yet to hear from Ellie.

Lunch didn’t go well.
 

“I... I don’t know, Fiona. I don’t really think I want all that responsibility...”

“You wouldn’t be doing anything you’re not doing now, Margaret.
 
And your money would go up, of course.
 
And I’m at the end of a phone if anything crops up.”

“I wasn’t actually wanting to go full time.
 
I like things as they are – it’s a great little part-time job for me... you’re actually going to move out of Cantlesham?”

“Yes, it’s decided.
 
I’ve put the house up.
 
Don’t you see, Margaret, I would never have offered you this if I thought you couldn’t handle it? You’re so good at your job, I trust you completely...
 
Will you at least think about it?”

“I suppose so...” Margaret’s expression was that of a disappointed child.
 
“You know, I look forward so much to the days when you’re in with me, Fiona.
 
It’s such fun, working with you... I sort of thought you liked it, too...”

“Of
course
I enjoy working with you, Margaret.
 
And I would still come in on the odd occasion-”

“But not all that often.”

“No.”

“Can I ask Pete what he thinks? We always discuss things.”

“Of course, Marg, of course you’ll want to talk to Pete about it.
 
It’s quite a decision, I realise that.”

“Perhaps I can let you know in a few days, Fiona? It’s a bit of a... a bit unexpected,” said Margaret.
 

“Sure, no problem at all,” replied Fin, not meaning it, and internally screaming for an answer.
 
Poor Margaret meanwhile, would be reeling, her comfortable world rocking on its axis, clearly baffled by her employer’s abrupt onset of madness.
 
What had seemed a bold and stimulating initiative was beginning to be weighted down with difficulties and complications, and its exciting lustre had been dimmed considerably by Margaret’s tepid reaction.
 
Fin could end up spending many hours commuting, or having to find a manager out of the blue, which would be both chancy and expensive.

Friday was a day of rising anxiety, and it seemed there might be no communication from either the old life or the new.
 
She could not –
would
not call Ellie.

These damned horses in midstream had horribly slippery backs.

When she arrived home there was just enough time to check that everything was pristine, and light a couple of joss-sticks to give the house a subtle smell of spice before her viewers arrived. She gave them the tour, saw them off cheerily, then checked her messages.
 
Two e-mails from Victoria, with viewings for the weekend: one tomorrow night, and two on Sunday afternoon.
 
Things were really hotting up.
 
There was a voicemail too; Ellie – at last.
 
The relief brought her out in a sweat.

“Hi, Fin!
 
Look, this will have to be quick – I’m on my way out – had a ridiculously busy week this week – take this down, OK? Meet me at 52 Mornington Road, that’s fifty-two, yah? At half past seven tomorrow.
 
Half seven.
  
Shit, I’ve
got
to go …. Oh, and just to let you know, you’ve not been out of my mind, I’ve set you up with a date.
 
See you!”

End of message.

Fin stared at the jotter by the phone.
 
This was exasperating.
 
The address would be Harford, of course, and the time coincided with her Saturday appointment.
 
Not to mention the difficulty of making the rendezvous by seven-thirty after cashing up and tidying the post-Saturday trading disarray.
 
The mysterious address wasn’t even Ellie’s; hungover she might have been last week, but she had taken in the road sign as they left for the campus; Weir Street.
 
It had stuck in her mind because she had mentally added a “d” making her snigger to herself despite her pounding head.

She called Ellie’s number, without success, and simply told the callminder she’d ring again later.
 
After three more tries, she changed tack and dialled Victoria’s mobile.