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‘Shall we look upstairs?’
She bends to slip off her court shoes. The stair and landing carpets are cream, some developer’s bright idea. She’s not about to point out how impractical that is, obviously, just hopes that when they see her … Ah, bingo, they’re following her example, taking off their winter boots and dropping them onto the more durable laminate floor of the hall.
‘It’s a four-bed, is that right?’ Bev is obviously the chattiest, bless her. The women usually are.
‘That’s right.’ Lottie goes up ahead, sliding her hand lightly up the pine banister. ‘I don’t know if that suits your situation, but it’s always good to have spare rooms. Depends what you need, I suppose. I’m in a two-bed flat myself, but there’s plenty of room for me and my daughter so it suits us perfectly.’
‘How old is your daughter?’
‘She’s coming up for nineteen. She’s at uni, actually.’
They’ve reached the top of the stairs. Bev gives her a warm woman-to-woman smile and says, ‘Nineteen! You don’t look old enough!’
Lottie bats off the compliment, even though it’s true. It’s just something people say, isn’t it? Like, if you saidguess my ageto someone, they’d lop off at least ten years, wouldn’t they? So it’s not as if Bev was going to say, bloody hell, I thought you’d have grandkids by now, you old bag. Nah. No way. People are much more polite than that, especially in professional transactions. Along with the moment of the key going into the lock, it’s another one of her favourite aspects of the job: the politeness. There’s never any need to be rude – another of her nan’s old sayings – and the more professional you are, the less chance there is. If there’s one thing Lottie can’t stand, it’s rudeness.
It’s probably why she’s won Nash and Watson Regional Agent of the Year from 2010 through to – and including, she hopes – 2016, which will be announced soon, what with it coming up for December. She’s smart, she’s clean, she’s literally never late and she knows the houses like the back of her hand. When a client comes into the office, all they have to do is describe what they’re looking for and she doesn’t even need to get the files up. It’s like they’re all stored in her head. She knows how to make conversation with the clients without getting too familiar, so to speak, and she knows how to share a little about herself without bombarding them with personal information. It’s funny, because if you met her outside work, you’d say she was quite shy. Not snotty or anything, just keeps herself to herself. She doesn’t go out, only stays half an hour at the work Christmas drinks. She’s happier at home with a book and a hot chocolate, or a Baileys if it’s Friday. But once the work shoes go on, the uniform and her badge, she’s a different person. She’s a professional, that’s what she is, from her head down to her toes.
Professional.
Six
Marcia is gaping at her like a goldfish. They are in the shabby kitchen of their Vauxhall flat. If you stand on a chair, you can see the MI6 building. Well, a corner of it.
‘But you’ve only just met him,’ she offers.
‘I know. I know that. But it feels right. I can’t explain it. And he’s so sure too. He says he’s never felt like this before.’
‘Does he now? Do you love him?’
‘I love the way he makes me feel. I love the way I can see I make him feel. Does that make sense? So yes, I love him.’
Marcia is still unsure when she helps Samantha move in a week later. Greets Peter at the door with a wary eye.
‘I told you I’d come for your bags,’ Peter says as Samantha stumbles down the chequerboard hallway, beckoning Marcia to follow.
‘I only had two,’ she says. ‘And Marcia wanted to see the house.’ She giggles. ‘That sounds wrong. Marcia wanted to meet you, didn’t you, Marcy?’
When she looks back over her shoulder, Peter is shaking Marcia’s hand, telling her he’s heard a lot about her, which Samantha doesn’t think he has, not really. Marcia is still on the step.
‘Come in,’ Samantha says. ‘Stay and have a cuppa.’
Marcia thrusts her hands into her pockets. ‘Actually, I have to get going. I’ll see you soon, yeah?’
Samantha follows her down to the front gate, onto the street. ‘Are you OK?’
Marcia is staring at her trainers. ‘I’m fine.’ She glances up, one eye closed, a freeze frame of a wink. ‘He’s quite a bit older, isn’t he?’
Samantha shakes her head, defensiveness flowering in her chest. There is something in the air that she can’t name, something final.
‘He’s not even forty yet, but yes, he’s a … a grown-up,’ she stutters, strengthens. ‘And that might not be what you want but it’s what I want, OK?’
‘I just wish you could have waited a bit longer, made sure of your feelings, yeah?’
‘I am sure.’
Marcia shrugs, yields grudgingly to a hug, hands still in her pockets. Samantha watches her go, all the way to the end of the street, watches her become a silhouette, then disappear around the corner, back towards the town.
Out on Richmond Hill, the light is falling. It is the end of October, barely five o’clock. This time next month, it will be dark at this hour, and when Samantha looks back on this moment, she will wonder whether it was now that the subterfuge started. As it is, she feels only the setting of her bottom lip, the burgeoning resentment at her friend passing comment, passing judgement. Her relationship with Peter has nothing to do with anyone – not her mother, not Marcia, not anyone. In future, she will keep it to herself. She turns away from the empty brow of the hill, heads back and moves in with Professor Bridges.
