‘He only watches CBeebies, Jess,’
‘He’s still going to grow up with a deformed neck at this rate. Ooh! A nice one’s just come on in Weald. I know we wanted to stay in Tunbridge Wells, and not be in a village, but it’s really sweet – and a nice garden, close to the primary school. Let’s phone the agent now!’
‘Hang on, let’s do this Bent Avenue one first, then we will. We need to stop for lunch anyway. We could pop into their offices after that.’
‘But Ed, this one in Weald looks really nice, and let’s face it – you’re right, we’re never going to get Thrent Avenue. It’ll go to sealed bids – we won’t get a look-in. James isn’t in the mood anyway, and he actually is going to need a nap soon. Let’s just sack it off and make the Weald one the last one we view.’
‘Sweetheart, I know it’s Thrent, and not Bent,’ Ed says gently. ‘When we were kids, it used to be one of those roads in town you didn’t really hang around in, partly because there used to be a really dodgy pub nearby where loads of fights used to kick off. I still struggle with the fact you now have to pay well over half a million quid for the privilege of living there when you used not to be able to sell a house on that street for love nor money.’
‘Oh, I see.’ I manage a smile. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK. It was already on the up by the time you moved here; you weren’t to know. Jess, are you alright?’ Ed reaches for my hand. ‘You seem a bit niggly. It was what that bloke said back at the last house, wasn’t it? About children growing up quickly.’
I sigh, more deeply this time as Beth runs around the cathedral paths in my mind, laughing happily. The agent couldn’t have been more wrong. They stay your babies forever. ‘A bit, but don’t worry – I’m OK.’
Ed lifts my hand and kisses it, before letting me go. ‘James is going to fall asleep about two minutes before we get there, isn’t he?’
‘Probably. If he does, you go in and I’ll stay in the car with him.’
Ed shoots me a look.
‘I can’t pretend I’ve not gone off this place now,’ I explain. ‘Sorry.’
‘We’re nearly there now, Jess. We might as well. What’s the harm in looking?’
* * *
James manages to stay awake, but also does something that makes him completely incompatible with going into someone else’s house. Ed insists on changing him so that I can make a head start however, probably in an attempt to re-enthuse me. I climb out, scanning the slightly neglected – in comparison with its neighbours – Edwardian end terrace in front of me, but all I feel is confused. I don’t understand. This should be crawling with eager potential purchasers lined up in back-to-back ten-minute slots. Where is everyone else?
‘Hello, hello!’ the agent grins from the doorstep. ‘A moment of respite, eh? Now, I’ll just double-check first before we crash in.’ He knocks loudly, and waits. ‘I probably should say, this is a divorce,’ he whispers. ‘He’s looking for a quick sale – although I didn’t say that – and she doesn’t want to go. We advised an open house; she refused. The compromise was to do a couple of “gentle” viewings to get things underway, which is ridiculous given the level of enquiries we’ve had already. You are one of the lucky two selected applicants. I’m not actually making this up,’ he insists at my expression of disbelief. ‘If you play your cards right, you might be about to get the early Christmas present of your life. Right, I think we’re safe. In we go!’
He slides the key confidently into the lock, and shoves the door open. It judders slightly, catching on the ground, having swollen over the years with damp and not been rectified; the kind of noise the family no longer notice any more because it’s become part of the fabric of their lives.
The agent rolls his eyes. ‘Easy to fix though,’ he says. ‘After you. I’ll leave it ajar for your husband so he can just let himself in.’
I step into a very dark hall. The stairs are right in front of me, with two doors side by side to my left leading off to different rooms. Further down the passage is a closed, stripped pine door, which must lead to the kitchen. Everything is closed off and unwelcoming, not helped by it being freezing cold, and painted an oppressive royal blue. There’s a sad, out of control palm tree in an earthenware pot in the corner next to the cupboard under the stairs, twisting around trying to find the light, and lots of African prints and tribal masks on the wall. I glance at the coat hooks immediately to my right, crammed full of various sage-coloured macs, brown jackets and faded cotton fringed scarves that smell very similar to a heavy, cloying Body Shop perfume I used to hate in my teens – Ananya, I think it was called? I step away, also to avoid tripping over the jumble of mud-encrusted walking boots and faded trainers cascading off a wooden rack.
‘Interestingly, of course, with this one, the owners haven’t done the obvious – despite being here nine years – which is to knock the sitting room into what is listed as the study, although it’s much larger than that description suggests. They’ve kept them separate, but if you have a look at the floor plan here,’ the agent shoves it under my nose, ‘you can see the solution is to make it all one downstairs space, even going into the side return and extending out what’s currently the dining room. It would flow beautifully and make it all much, much lighter. It’s almost unheard of now to find a property like this not done up within an inch of its life. Do you want to start in the sitting room?’ He gestures to the first door on my left.
I look around me. I actually don’t want to start anywhere. I don’t know why, but I don’t like this house. ‘No, the kitchen, please, so I can see the garden.’
‘Of course.’ He opens the door, and we walk into a dining room. Stripped wooden floorboards are contained by the gunmetal grey walls, and a small chandelier hangs from the low ceiling. A vase of faded roses with drooping heads sit on the scrubbed table, and one chair is pulled out, as if someone left in a hurry. It reminds me of the private dining room of a wannabe gastro pub that doesn’t get used very much.
‘Very Miss Havisham,’ the agent remarks drily, nodding at the roses.
Perhaps that’s how you know you’re in an overpriced area: the estate agents make literary references. I walk uncertainly across the room and glance into a small kitchen that definitely needs updating, with a sink full of dirty breakfast things.
‘While the presentation leaves a lot to be desired, set it right, give it back to me next year, and you’ll more than double that investment. Easily… plus, you could be in by Christmas!’ He turns to me, suddenly serious. ‘I honestly think if you make an asking price offer this morning you’ll get it. You must have one hell of a guardian angel, that’s all I can say.’
I smile blandly and say nothing as I move on. I trust only my own instinct these days. Glancing through the back window into a surprisingly nice garden however, I spy a mature apple tree and a nice long strip of grass, wet tufts blowing in the wind.
‘So have you lived in Tunbridge Wells for long?’ the agent asks conversationally.
‘My husband has lived here all his life. I moved here for work, um – nine years ago, which is when we met. Wow. I didn’t realise it had been that long.’
‘Practically a local yourself now,’ he says warmly. ‘I don’t need to sell the area to you in that case, you know exactly how desirable it is. What work is it you both do, then?’
‘My husband works in London in sales. I’m a freelance copy editor. When I first moved here I was editing a local magazine. Well,’ I correct myself, ‘what I mean was I spent all day wading through hundreds of emails and selling advertising space, with the occasional feature thrown in.’