No one in the family was surprised Agatha left me her house when she died a decade ago. It was worth over a million even then. Barney wanted to put it straight on the market to pay off the mortgage on our own six-bedroom home in Surrey. But I, always the strategic thinker, was more interested in playing the long game. I wanted to be able to retire at fifty, buy a farmhousein the Dordogne or Provence, and split our time between France and the UK.
I’d seen what canny property developers had done with other houses in the crescent and estimated I could squeeze nine bedsits out of the five-bedroom house. With other landlords in the area charging tenants £700 a month for a single bedsit, I was confident Number Twelve could generate over seventy grand a year in gross income. By the time I was fifty I’d have built up a nice little retirement fund.
Felix advised me to set up a management company to keep my direct involvement under the radar, so I registered Claremont Crescent Property Holdings Ltd with Companies House, enlisted the services of the cheapest building company I could find, and the conversion began.
Thanks to London’s housing crisis, the bedsits were snapped up within days, and I felt a certain quiet pride when the first tenants moved in. At work, I campaigned tirelessly on behalf of the homeless. At home, I ensured my beloved Granny Aggie’s house was a refuge for the displaced and the desperate. Yes, there were issues with the plumbing, the walls were thin plasterboard and the basement and ground floor suffered from rising damp, but I was giving people a roof over their heads, wasn’t I? Maybe notgiving. It wouldn’t do to bend the truth too much.Providing. I provided nine occupants with a place to call home.
I sat back and watched the money roll in. Everything was going swimmingly until a chichi café opened at one end of the street and a high-end boutique sprang up at the other. Half a dozen homes were bought by people who proceeded to gut them and restore them to their former glory. The last straw came when a flower shop opened its doors. It meant one thing: the area was in the grip of re-gentrification.
It didn’t take long for Barney to cotton on. I shouldn’t have been surprised when, behind my back, he asked an estate agent to value Number Twelve.
He phoned me at work, squawking so loudly with excitement that I’d had to hold the phone away from my ear.
‘Two-point-five million,’ he crowed. ‘That’s what the estate agent said. Two-point-five fucking million.’ I could picture the pound signs lighting up his eyes. ‘You need to get it on the market pronto before interest rates rise again. We’re sitting on a goldmine, Vic. A fucking goldmine.’
Iwas sitting on a goldmine, I silently corrected him. It was my name on the deeds and mine alone. Further, I was sole director of Claremont Crescent Property Holdings Ltd. A decision that seemed prudent at the time.
Maybe if I’d made Barney a company director I might’ve been able to lay some of the blame for what happened next at his feet.
But it’s too late for that. I’ve made my bed. Sooner or later I’ll have to lie in it.
25
AMBER
Two Months Before
I should have left then. I should have pushed past Rob, yanked open the door and fled up the stairs to the safety of our office. I still don’t know why I didn’t. Was it out of fear? Naivety? Stupidity? You tell me.
Instead, I pressed the release catch and lifted the top panel of that bloody photocopier. Feeling his eyes boring into my back, I peered down at the rollers and trays looking for a scrunched-up piece of paper.
‘Can’t see anything wrong.’ I snapped the panel back down and hit the reset button, mentally crossing my fingers that it would work and I could get the hell out of that claustrophobic room. The machine whirred back to life and I stepped away, jumping out of my skin when I almost collided with Rob. ‘Sorry,’ I said automatically.
‘No need to apologise.’ That cold smile again. It made my skin crawl.
I sucked in a breath. ‘We probably need to wait a couple of minutes.’
‘Fine by me. I’m not going anywhere.’
I rocked back on my heels, one eye on the door as I willed the red warning light to disappear.
Rob broke the awkward silence. ‘D’you have any plans for the weekend?’
‘Um, my boyfriend’s taking me to the new exhibition at the V&A tonight. And on Sunday we talked about driving down to Whitstable. There’s a fish restaurant he’s been wanting to try for ages.’
‘Whitstable, eh?’ Rob’s piggy eyes narrowed. ‘How terribly middle class.’ He took a step closer to me, under the pretence of checking the display screen. A blast of beery breath hit me. He was so close I could see the specks of dandruff on his black lambswool sweater. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘The error light’s come back on again.’
I had a bolt of inspiration. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you give me what needs copying and I’ll bring it up when it’s done?’
My gaze slid down to Rob’s empty hands and my stomach flipped. Of course. He didn’t need anything copying. Who photocopied anything anyway these days, when it was so much easier to send an email?
He’d seen I’d noticed. ‘Try it again,’ he ordered.
‘Sure.’ I bent back over the machine, willing the bloody thing to work.
‘You’re not doing it properly. Here, let me show you.’
Suddenly, he was pressing against me, his arms around me as he fiddled with the control panel.
