me a look. She calls Cooper to come with her, clipping on his lead. She swipes one of the key cards from the table before leaving. I wave at her just as Steph answers my call.
‘Hi, Steph,’ I say, downing a large mouthful of wine. ‘What’s the problem?’
I only catch half of her reply.
‘I can’t hear you. Will you say that again?’ I look at my screen. Reception is poor, so I stand at the window. The chess family are still playing, with Mum and Dad taking a turn now. The two of them are leaning against each other, pointing to the pieces.
‘Bishop to C4 . . .’ I say.
‘Bishop what?’ Steph asks as the line gets better. ‘Gina?’
‘Sorry, nothing. Hannah said you called. Is it Evalina Street?’
‘How did you guess?’
The place gives me the creeps. Last time I went there,I swore I wouldn’t go again, especially alone. Not after what happened.
‘The thing is,’ Steph says, ‘Adrian wants me to get some builders’ quotes to send to the owner in the hope it might spur him into action.’
At the mention of Adrian’s name I feel cold and numb.
‘But the keys aren’t in the office,’ she goes on. ‘I was wondering if—’
‘Oh hell,’ I say, suddenly realising. ‘I’ve got them, haven’t I?’ I drain my glass.
‘I think so,’ she says gently. ‘You were the last one to sign for them, Gina.’
I get up off the bed and rummage in my handbag – the same one I was using last week at work. I check the side pocket where I always put client keys.
‘Oh God, Steph, I’m so sorry. I have them here. What an idiot I am.’ I cover my eyes. I can’t face the thought of driving all the way back to Oxford on a Friday night. ‘When do you need them?’
‘The builder’s coming to quote on Monday morning.’
I don’t say anything in the hope she’ll offer to drive out here and pick them up, or at least volunteer the services of a junior agent. She doesn’t.
‘I’m not in the office until next Thursday,’ I reply.
Steph is silent.
‘I suppose I’ll have to drop them at your house over the weekend then. It’s just that Rick booked some spa treatments for me and . . . and I don’t want to miss them.I want to do the weekend the way he’d planned. Does that sound silly?’ I take another mini bottle of wine from the fridge, trying to open it with one hand.
‘That’s not silly at all. Look, why don’t I meet you at the property itself on Monday morning about nine? That would cut some time off the journey for you.’
‘Thanks, Steph,’ I say, finally getting the cap off the bottle. ‘Nine o’clock at the house then.’ After a quick chat, we say goodbye.
I can’t help the feeling of dread at the thought of going there again. Various alternatives race through my mind – could I arrange for a courier to pick up the keys and deliver them? Or perhaps put them in a taxi instead? But I can’t really justify the fare and Adrian would never condone the expense. He makes everything as difficult as he can for me.
I never told anyone what happened the last time I went to the property. I simply couldn’t face any more pitying looks, or comforting words. Everyone in the office knew I wasn’t sleeping, that I’d been taking tablets, that I was getting help from a counsellor. They understood that my mind played tricks from time to time; twisted my grim reality into something more palatable. Mick, my boss, had been really good, allowing me time off for appointments, but the atmosphere had changed. I felt like the odd one out.
So I decided to keep quiet about what happened that day.
That I
saw
him.
I was so sure Rick was alive and inside 23 EvalinaStreet, his face peering out of the upstairs window at me – an unshaven, grey-looking version of the vibrant man he once was – but I didn’t tell anyone, worried they’d have me locked up, sent away to a psychiatric hospital.
But he was
there
.
When I glimpsed him from the street, I rushed inside, fumbling to get the key into
‘Hi, Steph,’ I say, downing a large mouthful of wine. ‘What’s the problem?’
I only catch half of her reply.
‘I can’t hear you. Will you say that again?’ I look at my screen. Reception is poor, so I stand at the window. The chess family are still playing, with Mum and Dad taking a turn now. The two of them are leaning against each other, pointing to the pieces.
‘Bishop to C4 . . .’ I say.
‘Bishop what?’ Steph asks as the line gets better. ‘Gina?’
‘Sorry, nothing. Hannah said you called. Is it Evalina Street?’
‘How did you guess?’
The place gives me the creeps. Last time I went there,I swore I wouldn’t go again, especially alone. Not after what happened.
‘The thing is,’ Steph says, ‘Adrian wants me to get some builders’ quotes to send to the owner in the hope it might spur him into action.’
At the mention of Adrian’s name I feel cold and numb.
‘But the keys aren’t in the office,’ she goes on. ‘I was wondering if—’
‘Oh hell,’ I say, suddenly realising. ‘I’ve got them, haven’t I?’ I drain my glass.
‘I think so,’ she says gently. ‘You were the last one to sign for them, Gina.’
I get up off the bed and rummage in my handbag – the same one I was using last week at work. I check the side pocket where I always put client keys.
‘Oh God, Steph, I’m so sorry. I have them here. What an idiot I am.’ I cover my eyes. I can’t face the thought of driving all the way back to Oxford on a Friday night. ‘When do you need them?’
‘The builder’s coming to quote on Monday morning.’
I don’t say anything in the hope she’ll offer to drive out here and pick them up, or at least volunteer the services of a junior agent. She doesn’t.
‘I’m not in the office until next Thursday,’ I reply.
Steph is silent.
‘I suppose I’ll have to drop them at your house over the weekend then. It’s just that Rick booked some spa treatments for me and . . . and I don’t want to miss them.I want to do the weekend the way he’d planned. Does that sound silly?’ I take another mini bottle of wine from the fridge, trying to open it with one hand.
‘That’s not silly at all. Look, why don’t I meet you at the property itself on Monday morning about nine? That would cut some time off the journey for you.’
‘Thanks, Steph,’ I say, finally getting the cap off the bottle. ‘Nine o’clock at the house then.’ After a quick chat, we say goodbye.
I can’t help the feeling of dread at the thought of going there again. Various alternatives race through my mind – could I arrange for a courier to pick up the keys and deliver them? Or perhaps put them in a taxi instead? But I can’t really justify the fare and Adrian would never condone the expense. He makes everything as difficult as he can for me.
I never told anyone what happened the last time I went to the property. I simply couldn’t face any more pitying looks, or comforting words. Everyone in the office knew I wasn’t sleeping, that I’d been taking tablets, that I was getting help from a counsellor. They understood that my mind played tricks from time to time; twisted my grim reality into something more palatable. Mick, my boss, had been really good, allowing me time off for appointments, but the atmosphere had changed. I felt like the odd one out.
So I decided to keep quiet about what happened that day.
That I
saw
him.
I was so sure Rick was alive and inside 23 EvalinaStreet, his face peering out of the upstairs window at me – an unshaven, grey-looking version of the vibrant man he once was – but I didn’t tell anyone, worried they’d have me locked up, sent away to a psychiatric hospital.
But he was
there
.
When I glimpsed him from the street, I rushed inside, fumbling to get the key into
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