He smiles sympathetically. ‘So now you stick to correcting punctuation, that sort of thing? Don’t all copy editors secretly want to be writers themselves?’
‘Nope,’ I say firmly. ‘They don’t. I’m happy to leave made-up worlds to the authors. I prefer dealing in facts and reality.’
‘Well, if you work from home now you must need a nice office space? Or at least the potential to build one?’ he adds slyly.
‘It would be helpful,’ I agree. ‘I’d like to have a room I could shut the door on at the end of the day.’
The kitchen is at least a bit brighter than the rest of it. And the agent’s right – it could easily be extended. I tussle with myself for a moment. ‘Let’s have a look at the rest of the downstairs, then,’ I say, uncertainly.
The agent nods smugly and we walk back through the dining room, our heels echoing on the boards, into the hall.
‘It might be a push, but you could try squeezing a downstairs loo in here.’ The agent pulls open the door to the understairs space, blocking my path, as I stare at a tangle of hoover tubes, a mop and bucket, a condenser dryer, a precariously balanced ironing board, tennis rackets, a rugby ball and shelves of various tins and half full plastic bottles, all fighting for space. It’s like the forest around Sleeping Beauty’s castle, only constructed entirely of domestic items. Bizarrely, it makes my mind up. Someone else can take this project on. I just don’t like this place. I really don’t like it, and it’s as simple as that. It might be deal of the decade, I still don’t want to live here. I hope Ed hasn’t bothered getting James into his coat and hat.
The agent closes the door and shuts it all away. ‘So, shall we wait for your husband,’ he asks, facing me, ‘or go straight on up and?—’
‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘I’ve seen enough. I think I’m just going to—’
‘It is you… I knew it was.’ A low voice sounds behind the agent, making him jump and turn to look over his shoulder in surprise. We both stare in confusion into the gloom of the apparently empty hall towards the light coming in through the glass panels at the top of the front door that’s now been pushed to. There is a slight movement in the jumble of coats, and as my gaze leaps left, I realise two unblinking eyes are watching me. A woman slowly peels away from where she has been leaning on the jackets, almost as if she’d quietly hung herself up. Her arms are crossed, and her hands appear to be buried inside the sleeves of a man’s grubby Barbour. She’s wearing black leggings tucked into heavy lace-up boots that only accentuate her too-thin, fifty-something frame. Dyed, dark red curls are escaping wildly from a low, careless ponytail at the nape of her neck.
Louise Strallen.
The temperature plummets, and I’m aware of my breathing instantly speeding up.
She steps forward properly into the light as the front door blows slightly open in the wind, and faces me full on, staring incredulously as if she can’t believe I’m stood in front of her. ‘I knew Simon was lying, that this sudden desire for divorce had to have come from somewhere. He promised me it wasn’t anything to do with you, and yet here you are, in my house.’ She blanches suddenly; I watch the colour literally drain from her face. ‘Oh shit. I’ve just worked it out. He’s planning to sell the house to you, deliberately cheaply – then you’ll move in here together once I’m gone.’ She puts both hands up to her mouth as she shakes her head in disbelief, like The Scream. ‘No. No! I won’t let you!’
Her hands fall away and she flies up the hall towards me. The agent steps back in shock as she passes, and I shriek, instinctively holding up my arms to protect myself because she’s suddenly flapping around me like a crow, a pointing finger becoming more vicious, jabbing at my raised arm like a sharp beak, as she shouts: ‘I won’t let you do this to me! Do you hear me? Do you hear me?’
I’m cowering, and all I can smell is a mixture of the sickly perfume, garlic and stale booze pouring from her hot, angry skin. Her hands twist into fists, and she starts to hail sharp hits down on me that become harder and harder – but in a flurry of arms and shouts, the agent begins to pull her off, trying to restrain her as she kicks out and writhes furiously while he drags her backwards down the hall. She manages to break free, spins round on the spot and glares at him. ‘Don’t you touch me, you cunt.’
Somehow the profanity is all the more shocking because she enunciates it so smartly in her well-spoken voice. This dishevelled woman is completely at odds with the one I remember from Simon’s office all those years ago, even the one that came to my house and threatened me. What has happened to her?
The agent stares at Louise in disbelief, his tie pulled out and his hair askance. I can see this will be his ‘for the first time in thirty years as an agent…’ story back at the office later, but neither is he entirely sure it’s over, and she isn’t about to attack him.
The front door judders properly open, breaking the stand-off – to reveal James straining at his reins and Ed right behind him.
‘Knock, knock!’ my husband says cheerily. ‘Sorry I took so long, I tried to put him across my lap, but that didn’t work, then I had to strap him back in his seat while I cleared a space in the boot instead, because it’s the only big enough flat space to change him. And I couldn’t find the reins after that. Anyway. We’re done now.’ He pauses, looks between us all, and then quickly reaches out and grabs James safely to him. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Wait,’ Louise is thrown, ‘you’re still married? And,’ she stares at James, then turns to me in surprise. Her eyes look almost yellow. ‘You had another baby?’
I flush. ‘I had an additional baby. Not a replacement.’
She ignores that. ‘He must be – what, two?’
‘Yes. He is.’ I’m so stunned by what just happened, I actually continue to converse with her.
‘I’m sorry, but do we know you?’ Ed is confused.
‘Darling, you might not remember,’ I say, dazed, ‘but this is Louise Strallen, Simon Strallen’s wife, who was head teacher at Beth’s school.’
I watch Ed freeze for a moment. ‘Ah,’ he says softly. ‘Yes, I know exactly who you are, now. This is your house? Well, what a very small world.’
Louise hesitates, and stares at him again, puzzled, and I realise she’s trying to decide if she recognises him or not. It’s been seventeen years since she actually saw Ben, perhaps she doesn’t remember what he looks like. Especially as both of my husbands do in fact share a similar colouring. Louise bites her lip. Not anxiously, but as if she’s testing her teeth. ‘Well now, forgive me, but I thought that you’d both separated. I’m delighted to see that’s not the case, or that, at least, you got back together. How nice for you.’
‘Thank you,’ says Ed, frowning. ‘So, you’re selling up? Moving far? Hang on, love. You can’t get down yet.’ He grips James tightly as our son tries another wriggle.
‘Well now, Ben, here’s the thing,’ she says – Ed glances at me, but doesn’t correct her – ‘I don’t want to move at all. But Simon has – out of the blue – asked me for a divorce. My friends all think there’s someone else, although he denies it, of course.’
The agent doesn’t say anything, just looks uncomfortably at the ground.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ Ed says. ‘Starting again is always difficult and we wish you well, but we won’t take up any more of your time, now. Come on, Jess.’ He holds out a hand, and I rush past Louise to stand alongside him in the open doorway.
‘You’re wrong, Ben,’ Louise says, looking at the three of us. ‘Starting again is impossible. You think everything is mended and normal, but it’s never the same. And it’s not that small a world. You know, of course, that your wife had an affair with my husband?’