put
her coat on over her
uniform (brown pencil skirt, green shirt and brown cardigan or jacket, black court shoes; it was channelling Mussolini a little too much for Jen’s liking, but not bad, actually, as uniforms went) and did what she had done many times before, walked round the corner in the hopes of
surprising Charles at his office.
Technically he was retired, but his name was still above the door. He was still a partner, although he’d handed over the reins to one of his protégés a couple of years ago, and he still liked to drop in a few times a week to survey his
kingdom.
The flagship branch of Masterson Property, and the one where Charles liked to spend his time, was a three-minute walk from The Fitzrovia. In a district of restaurants, media companies and art galleries the facade stood out like a brash cousin at
a royal wedding. The obligatory photographs of swanky properties filled the windows, although rarely with the prices attached. It was just assumed that if you crossed the threshold to enquire, then you had already resigned yourself to the fact that there were going to be an awful lot of
zeros attached.
Somehow, over the years, Charles had also become British TV’s go-to property expert. In fact, now they had him on to talk about anything – the recession, the disappearance of the green belt, the state of the nation. It had started about
fifteen years earlier, when one of his clients, who happened to work for Sky News, had asked him to go on air to talk about the trends in house prices. He had done so well they’d asked him back and, since then, he had become a regular fixture on shows like
Daybreak
and
The
One Show
. Jen didn’t always agree
with his views – he was increasingly booked to espouse a ‘We’re all going to hell in a handcart if we don’t sort out the moral decline of our society’ viewpoint. And he’d
become a sort of pin-up boy for the Countryside Alliance and
Daily Telegraph
readers. But that was just his public persona. To his adoring family and friends he was still a pussy cat in real life – a rational, reasonable, charming, funny man.
Later, she would wish that she’d stayed in the staffroom and eaten the sandwich she’d brought in with her, as she so often did. That she’d ignored the fact the sun was shining for possibly the last time that year, and put her
feet up. That she had gone out five minutes later, turned left instead of right, kept her eyes firmly on the pavement in front of her.
But it was too late. Once she’d seen what she’d seen, she couldn’t un-see it. Couldn’t pretend she didn’t know what she knew. Couldn’t rewind, erase and rewrite. However much she might want to.
9
It was something about the way they were looking at each other that made her stop and look. Ordinarily she would have run across the road to say hello, eager as a Labrador at the sound of a tin opener, but not today. Something wasn’t right.
It was Charles, there was no doubt about it. She could spot his tall imposing figure in any crowd. But she had no idea who the woman was. And, whoever she was, he was standing too close to her, paying her too much attention.
Thankfully she spotted them when she was still far enough away that they hadn’t yet noticed her. Now she had stopped, she didn’t know what to do with herself, so she rummaged through her bag, as though she was looking for something
important, while actually keeping her eyes firmly on the two people on the other side of the road.
She didn’t know what it was exactly that made her so sure this was no ordinary conversation. It was a combination of impressions. A collection of nuances that added up to something bigger – she just didn’t know what. For a start,
although she couldn’t hear what they were saying, Jen was pretty sure they were arguing. Not an all-out row – she couldn’t imagine Charles would ever sink to that level out here, in the street, whoever he was with – but one of those small, snipey
her coat on over her
uniform (brown pencil skirt, green shirt and brown cardigan or jacket, black court shoes; it was channelling Mussolini a little too much for Jen’s liking, but not bad, actually, as uniforms went) and did what she had done many times before, walked round the corner in the hopes of
surprising Charles at his office.
Technically he was retired, but his name was still above the door. He was still a partner, although he’d handed over the reins to one of his protégés a couple of years ago, and he still liked to drop in a few times a week to survey his
kingdom.
The flagship branch of Masterson Property, and the one where Charles liked to spend his time, was a three-minute walk from The Fitzrovia. In a district of restaurants, media companies and art galleries the facade stood out like a brash cousin at
a royal wedding. The obligatory photographs of swanky properties filled the windows, although rarely with the prices attached. It was just assumed that if you crossed the threshold to enquire, then you had already resigned yourself to the fact that there were going to be an awful lot of
zeros attached.
Somehow, over the years, Charles had also become British TV’s go-to property expert. In fact, now they had him on to talk about anything – the recession, the disappearance of the green belt, the state of the nation. It had started about
fifteen years earlier, when one of his clients, who happened to work for Sky News, had asked him to go on air to talk about the trends in house prices. He had done so well they’d asked him back and, since then, he had become a regular fixture on shows like
Daybreak
and
The
One Show
. Jen didn’t always agree
with his views – he was increasingly booked to espouse a ‘We’re all going to hell in a handcart if we don’t sort out the moral decline of our society’ viewpoint. And he’d
become a sort of pin-up boy for the Countryside Alliance and
Daily Telegraph
readers. But that was just his public persona. To his adoring family and friends he was still a pussy cat in real life – a rational, reasonable, charming, funny man.
Later, she would wish that she’d stayed in the staffroom and eaten the sandwich she’d brought in with her, as she so often did. That she’d ignored the fact the sun was shining for possibly the last time that year, and put her
feet up. That she had gone out five minutes later, turned left instead of right, kept her eyes firmly on the pavement in front of her.
But it was too late. Once she’d seen what she’d seen, she couldn’t un-see it. Couldn’t pretend she didn’t know what she knew. Couldn’t rewind, erase and rewrite. However much she might want to.
9
It was something about the way they were looking at each other that made her stop and look. Ordinarily she would have run across the road to say hello, eager as a Labrador at the sound of a tin opener, but not today. Something wasn’t right.
It was Charles, there was no doubt about it. She could spot his tall imposing figure in any crowd. But she had no idea who the woman was. And, whoever she was, he was standing too close to her, paying her too much attention.
Thankfully she spotted them when she was still far enough away that they hadn’t yet noticed her. Now she had stopped, she didn’t know what to do with herself, so she rummaged through her bag, as though she was looking for something
important, while actually keeping her eyes firmly on the two people on the other side of the road.
She didn’t know what it was exactly that made her so sure this was no ordinary conversation. It was a combination of impressions. A collection of nuances that added up to something bigger – she just didn’t know what. For a start,
although she couldn’t hear what they were saying, Jen was pretty sure they were arguing. Not an all-out row – she couldn’t imagine Charles would ever sink to that level out here, in the street, whoever he was with – but one of those small, snipey
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