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Immediately, her eyes prickle. She hasn’t had much sleep. Emily is only a month old and Samantha still feels like a leaking bag, like a cow, like a shapeless mess of flesh she no longer understands. But he has only moments ago told her how wonderful she is, how amazing.
‘What’s the job?’
‘Creative writing course. Beginners. Piece of cake for someone like you.’
She flounders. ‘But my degree is English lit. I don’t really—’
‘Of course you do.’ He reaches out and takes her hands. He is so very tender – he is the man who pressed his palm to her cheek that first night, who wanted nothing more than for her to be brilliant, listened to, understood. ‘You write poetry, don’t you? You only need to be half a page ahead, trust me. It’s all about confidence.’
She pushes the stew around her plate. It is delicious, like everything he cooks, but her head is mince. ‘I’m not sure my confidence is at an all-time high just at the moment.’
‘Nonsense.’ Softly he strokes the back of her hand. ‘Trust me, you’ll ace it. It’s only ten weeks’ maternity cover. And it doesn’t start until January. Perfect foot in the door, nothing too strenuous, and I’ll help you.’
‘But I want to teach English as a foreign language. Or teach people to read. I want to help people.’
‘Exactly.’ He smiles. ‘That’s what I told Harry. It’s a stepping stone, but you need to keep your hand in, not let the grass grow, et cetera. A woman of your intelligence and capabilities can’t be stuck at home. It’ll look bad on your CV.’
‘But what about Emily? And who’s Harry? And how do I get from there to helping people?’
He chuckles. ‘Slow down. Harry’s head of humanities at the college. I went to school with him; he’s a good bloke. And I’ll arrange my schedule so that I can look after Emily. You’ll only be out of the house for three hours, three and a half at most, and she’ll be, what, nearly four months old by then? Trust me, darling, this will be brilliant for you. And it’ll help if you ever want to get your collection published. Editors would take you more seriously.’
She can’t believe this is true. She would need to be a university lecturer, surely. An academic. But still, Peter looks so pleased with himself, and she is so tired, too tired to argue, and it’s not until after Christmas. She doesn’t have to think about it now.
‘I’ll help you,’ he says in his soft, low voice. ‘Don’t worry – you’ll be fine. You can do it for a while and then take a break to do your MA, maybe when we have another child. The contracts will arrive a week or two before.’
It really is all sorted, she thinks. A little like her pregnancy: no sooner announced than taken over, supervised, organised. Peter is looking after her is what she tells herself. He has everything under control. So why does she feel as if control is the exact thing she has given up?
Eight
Lottie
Lottie watches the Murphy family through the windscreen of her car. They can’t see her, there in the road, wouldn’t notice her if they did, not from this distance. They’re leaving fifteen minutes after they said they would, which is irritating. Their Ford Galaxy follows the A-2-B removal van out of the close and then, after a moment, she pulls forward, turns into their drive and parks her car. The Smiths won’t be here until this evening. They’re driving up from Exeter and it takes at least four hours to get to Lancashire from there, more if the M6 is jammed, unless they pay the rip-off toll, of course. That’s why she always goes early: no traffic, no toll.
She slides the key in and out – once, slowly. That’s the way with a newly cut key – a bit like heating oil in a new frying pan, then wiping that oil off and starting again with new oil so that the omelette doesn’t stick. She loves omelettes, makes them all the time … but anyway, with new keys you have to be careful or they jam up on you. She slides the key in again, closing her eyes at that lovely scratchy sliding sound … pulling the door hard towards her, the click when the key turns. That’s the knack with this particular door. She opens her eyes to it swinging away into the ample hallway. Open Sesame.
Inside, the house feels empty already. Weird how quickly that happens. When she showed the Smiths round, you could hear the kids’ music upstairs. You could just feel that there were people in. But now that they’ve gone, the house has that echo to it when she shouts, ‘Hello? Is anybody home?’
The wordhomebounces off the polished floor tiles –home,home,home, like that. There are pale rectangles on the staircase walls. A wedding photo; a boy of about ten with his arms around his younger sister, both in school uniform; a grinning man holding a salmon. These photos are not there now; the empty rectangles are their ghosts. The actual pictures have been packed into boxes along with the rest of the family’s things, on the way to the coast to be hung in another happy family home.
In the kitchen, the white goods have been left as agreed. The curtains and blinds are all here, which she always likes. In the dining room, the carpet’s got those funny flat patches where the table and chairs and the sideboard were, and when she presses her hand to the dining-room radiator it’s still warm. The boiler is in the downstairs utility, so it’s easy enough to pop the heating back on. Back in the kitchen, she pulls her dirty linen from her holdall and puts it in the washing machine. They haven’t left any detergent, but that’s all right; she always brings her own. She measures out 35 ml because it’s a small load, and selects the mixed wash quick option. Hopefully she’ll have time to take advantage of the dryer too while she’s here. She has another viewing at one, so she’ll have to get a move on obviously.
The slosh of the washing in the drum is a cosy, homely noise. Already the place feels like it’s got a family in it again, which is what a house should have. Her little portable radio adds some music to the mix. She’s extra lucky today because the Murphys’ leather three-piece suite and their beautiful pine super-king-size bed are too big for the cottage they’re moving into, and the Smiths are coming from a smaller place, so they did a deal on the suite and the bed and the matching units. She doesn’t know how much the Smiths paid, but she bets they got a right bargain. She doesn’t have any super-king bedding, which is a shame, and it wouldn’t have been her place to suggest the Murphys leave theirs. She’s way too professional for that, and some people are weird about that kind of stuff. Some people are weird full stop. You see all kinds if you work for an estate agent. Beggars belief, some of it.
It’s getting on for eleven, so she puts the kettle on. From her handbag she pulls coffee, powdered milk and a couple of mugs, both withCoffee Timeon the front in a red handwriting-style font. A nice cup of coffee each, that’s what they need. It’s instant, but it gives that barista taste. It doesn’t, actually; it just tastes like any old coffee, but that’s what it says on the tin. To be honest, it’s nowhere near as good as Costa. Costa’s her favourite, but only for a Friday treat. Too expensive to have it every day like some do. She always nicks a few sugar sachets while she’s in there, keeps some in her bag in case Joanne fancies some. She likes hers sweet, especially if there’s no biccies on the go.
The Murphys’ sofa is as soft as it looked when Lottie was showing the house. She didn’t sit on it then, obviously – that would be totally unprofessional – but she sits on it now all right. It’s so soft she sinks right down into the cushion and the coffee almost spills into her lap. She has to put the mugs on the floor while she rights herself because there’s no coffee table. It’s OK because there’s no rug either, so there’s no danger of spoiling anything, although she’d move pretty quick if she knocked a cup over, obviously, because liquids stain wooden floors if you leave them to soak in. Cripes, that would give the game away, wouldn’t it? Talk about red-handed – it’d be someone else’s name engraved on the Nash and Watson shield this year before you could sayshow home. Not that she’s doing anything wrong as such. Not really. It’s unprofessional, obviously, but what the eye don’t see …
The coffee is too hot to drink but it’ll soon cool down, so she wanders to the foot of the staircase.
‘Joanne!’ she shouts up. ‘Your coffee’s ready, love. Don’t let it get cold.’
She knows what she’s doing isn’t, strictly speaking, on the level, but this house is going to be lying empty for the next few hours, and she’s not hurting anybody or damaging anything, so as far as she’s concerned there’s no harm in it. There’s plenty of people doing much worse than her in this world – blowing up buildings and sending bugs through the post. She’d never do anything like that. All she wants is an hour with her best girl.
Nine
Standing on the front step, Samantha nuzzles Emily on the head before stretching up to kiss Peter goodbye.
‘Sure you’ll be OK?’ She pushes her folder of teaching notes into the new Hermès leather satchel that Peter bought her for her first day.
