Читать книгу The Rise and Fall of a Domestic Diva - Sarah May - Страница 15

Jessica Palmer was inside No. 8 Beulah Hill doing a viewing with a young, top-of-the-range couple when her mobile rang. She didn’t usually take calls during viewings—not unless it was Ellie or the nursery—but she took this one because it was Kate Hunter, and Kate was meant to be picking Arthur up from nursery and taking him to Swim School. In fact, Kate Hunter was her childcare lifeline.

The top-of-the-range young couple drifted upstairs.

Beulah Hill, like the rest of the streets in the postcode, had gone from destitute to up-and-coming to boom as generations of Irish and Jamaicans started selling up and moving out, and young couples started selling flats in Battersea, Putney and Clapham and moving in; taking out extra-large mortgages in order to pay for the reinstallation of sash windows the Irish and Jamaicans had replaced with uPVC double glazing. Once the sash windows were reinstalled, they moved onto the floors, replacing carpet with solid wood flooring. Sea green and lilac bathroom suites were ripped out, along with any dividing walls—to create living spaces that allowed lifestyles to circulate more freely. Some of the houses—like the McRaes’—got to feature on TV makeover programmes.

No. 8 had yet to be made over.

‘Kate?’ Jessica whispered into the phone.

‘Hi, Jessica?’

‘Hi…’

‘Why are you whispering?’

‘I’m doing a viewing on Beulah Hill.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I said, I’m doing a viewing on Beulah Hill.’ There was a pause. ‘Kate?’

‘Beulah Hill? You’re there at the moment? Has anyone put an offer in yet?’

‘No.’ Jessica scanned the green shag-pile carpet and green leather three-piece. The light coming through the double layers of net at the windows made the room seem as though it was under water, and had the effect of making Jesus, with his arms outstretched, executed in oils and framed on the wall above the mantle—look as if he was floating.

‘Why were you asking—?’ she joked. Then, before Kate had time to respond to this, said, ‘Is it still okay for you to take the boys swimming tonight and pick them up?’ She tried not to sound desperate, knowing from experience how off-putting desperation was but, since Peter’s death, she seemed to be perpetually desperate, and perpetually having to conceal it was draining.

When Kate didn’t respond to this, she prompted her, ‘The boys? Swimming?’ and waited.

‘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.

What had incited her to invite Jessica to the PRC?

Harriet had an almost pathological hatred of Jessica Palmer, whose misshapen life filled Harriet with horror. She treated her as though tragedy was contagious, because even dullwitted Harriet realised that the grief that comes with tragedy has the ability to shape lives in a way happiness never does.

Sighing, Kate turned the corner onto Lordship Lane.

Jessica sat for a while, listening to a dog barking somewhere close by, then turned the keys in the ignition.

Twenty minutes later, she walked into the newly openplanned offices of Lennox Thompson.

Most of the staff were out on viewings or valuations—apart from Elaine and the manager, Jake, who was almost ten years Jessica’s junior, on the Oxford Alumni, and seriously addicted to coke, which gave his skin a grey pallor that was only heightened by being perpetually offset against the white shirts he insisted on wearing.

Jake thought Jessica and him had things in common—primarily their education—which led him to keep up a repartee with her that was at once fraternal and elegiac.

Jessica knew it wasn’t Oxford they had in common—it was tragedy.

In Jake’s case, the fatal error of perpetually trying to impress parents who had never learnt how to love their children—he once told her his father used to make him weed the borders naked, as a punishment.

In Jessica’s, never having made any provision—emotional or material—for Peter’s untimely death.

‘Guess what?’ Jake said, looking up as Jessica walked into the office.

‘What?’

‘They’re opening a branch of Foxtons here.’

‘Foxtons?’

He nodded, pulled at his nose and said, ‘With a promotional six-month zero per cent commission. It’s going to kill us,’ he added, starting to chew on his nails before shunting his chair backwards and disappearing, jerkily, towards the loos at the back of the office.

Elaine looked across at her.

Jessica was about to say something when her mobile started to ring.

‘Jess?’

It was Lenny—her stepmother.

She didn’t feel like speaking to Lenny right then and started to scratch nervously with a drawing pin at the edge of her desk.

‘I was just phoning to see if Arthur got into St Anthony’s.’

‘I don’t know—the post hadn’t arrived when I left this morning.’

‘Oh.’ Lenny paused at Jessica’s flat tone.

Jessica let herself fall back in her chair, slouching uncomfortably as she started to swing it from side to side.

‘Well, give us a ring later.’

‘I will. How’s Dad?’ she said, with an effort.

The line started to break up and Jessica, now swinging aggressively from side to side, hoped they’d lose the reception altogether, but Lenny was still there. It was something she’d been trying to come to terms with since she was fifteen—the fact that Lenny would still be there—always.

‘I said—how’s Dad?’

‘He’s fine—engrossed in some new cat-deterrent he got by mail order this morning.’

At the beginning, because of what happened between Joe and Lenny, it had been more necessary for Lenny to get on with Jessica than it was for Jessica to get on with Lenny, and this early imbalance in their relationship had never really been redressed. Lenny had made huge efforts—Jessica could see that now, from the vantage point of being thirty-five—and not only out of necessity. Lenny had genuinely cared, but at the time Jessica felt she was owed too much to bother responding to overtures made by the woman her father had been having an affair with while her mother was still alive, who became the woman he moved in with after she died.

‘You keep cutting out—where are you?’

‘I don’t know—somewhere between Brighton and Birmingham; on a train. How’s work?’

‘Fine—yeah, it’s fine.’

‘Well, you know where we are if you need anything—why not bring the kids down and have a weekend to yourself?’

‘I don’t know—it’s busy at the moment.’

‘We haven’t seen them in ages, and Dad’s started on that tree house for Arthur.’

Jessica tried to think of something to say to this, but couldn’t.

‘And I miss Ellie—I really do.’

‘I’ll call,’ Jessica said, as the line broke up for a third and final time.

As she came off her mobile, the office phones started to ring. ‘Lennox Thompson sales department—how can I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to someone about the Beulah Hill house you’ve got on the market.’

‘Well, you’re speaking to the right person.’

‘Wait a minute—is this Jessica?’

‘This is Jessica—Jessica Palmer.’

‘Jessica—it’s Ros.’

‘Ros?’

‘Ros Granger from No. 188?’

‘Ros…’ Why was Ros calling? Ros never called her…

had never called her since she took Toby to McDonald’s in Peckham that time for Arthur’s fourth birthday. In fact, nobody from the PRC apart from Kate had phoned since Arthur’s fourth birthday—and that was nearly a year ago.

‘So—how’s it all going?’

‘Fine.’

Ros let out a long, smooth laugh as though Jessica had just said something funny. ‘I was phoning to arrange a viewing -.’

‘You’re not thinking of moving as well, are you?’

‘Who else have you been speaking to?’

‘Nobody,’ Jessica said quickly.

Ros paused. ‘Today would be good.’