Paranoia stalks me when I’m vacuuming the house and Sam is out. I get spooked that I’m not alone – convinced a stranger is creeping up on me when my back is turned.
My spine prickles. I tense.
And then I turn.
I always turn.
Even though I know nobody is there, or can be there, because I watched Sam leave, heard him lock the front door behind him, waved him goodbye when he paused and smiled back at me from the gate at the end of our path.
And there never is anybody there.
It’s always just me, on my own.
And so I go back to the vacuuming and the cycle begins again. The deafening roar of the vacuum. The tingles down my spine. The niggling fear that if I don’t look, well . . .
It’s not rational. I get that. And I’ve talked it through with Sam, of course. Not that he’s in any way surprised. We’ve spoken about what happened to me so many times – too many times, I sometimes think. Sam likes to joke that it’s an occupational hazard for him.
I stopped the Hoover. Held my breath. Straightened my back – and yes, checked behind me again – then sighed with relief and glanced up at the skylight overhead.
I was in the rear attic bedroom, which was one of my favourite rooms in the house. It was nearly always flooded with light, even on a dreary and windy day like today. And with the off-white walls and the thick, pale carpet, I felt like I could think better up here. It gave me a sense of calm and clarity I couldn’t always find.
A safe space.
Shaking the nerves from my body, I tucked the vacuum away into its spot in the cupboard under the eaves before taking my phone from my jeans pocket and checking the time.
I was planning to go to a nearby cafe while the viewing was on. I’d take my book, order an Earl Grey tea with lemon, try to relax. When the viewing was over, Bethany would call and tell me how things had gone. If we were lucky, maybe today would be the day when we received an offer we could accept.
That’s when I saw the voicemail that was waiting for me and a twist of anxiety corkscrewed inside my gut.
Even before I dialled, I had a bad feeling about it, and when I listened to Bethany’s message, it grew worse.
I hung up, a sticky flickering in my throat, my hands beginning to buzz and hum.
Easy, Lucy.
Fifteen minutes until the viewing.
I couldn’t cancel now.
Or maybe I could, I supposed, but it would be rude and I knew we couldn’t afford to put a potential buyer off.
My mouth had gone dry. I pressed the heel of my hand to my head and tried to keep the panic at bay.
Our debts were spiralling. There were the loans Sam had taken out to cover the renovation costs, and when those capped out, the credit card bills that increased every month. Sam hadn’t been sleeping because of it. And there was so much more wrapped up for both of us in the idea of selling this place and leaving London for good. A clean slate. Starting again.
Bethany.
I liked her, even if she was your typical estate agent in most respects. She could be pushy and brash, and she’d lie as easily as breathing, but at least she was open about it, which was a kind of honesty in a way.
At night, when Sam tossed and murmured and I listened in the ringing darkness to the brittle click of the lock on a bathroom door – the metallic rasp of an unknown voice – what saved me was remembering the way Bethany had arrived at our house that very first time in her expensive coat and statement spectacles, sweeping inside to talk valuations, telling us how tastefully we’d decorated and how desirable we’d made No. 18 Forrester Avenue.
I trusted her – in as much as it’s possible to trust any estate agent – and lately I’d found myself hoping that we might stay in touch after we’d sold our house, but it was hard to shake the suspicion that she could have warned me earlier that she was running late; that she’d ambushed me knowingly.
And? You have to make the best of it now.
Hurrying downstairs, I rushed along the first-floor landing and down again into the main living area, my gaze darting around, searching for anything I’d overlooked.
The lights were on throughout the house. I’d brought home fresh lilies from our local florist and arranged them in a ceramic vase on the marble coffee table. The honey-coloured floorboards gleamed. Only this morning I’d dusted every single blade of the pale wooden shutters we’d fitted in the bay window.
OK. All good.
I spun and looked towards the kitchen area, which was sunken and lowered by several steps. I hadn’t brewed coffee. Bethany had warned us it was too much of a cliché. But I’d made sure everything was spotlessly clean.
During the renovation process, we’d knocked through most of the downstairs walls to create one large, open-plan space that ended in a set of industrial-style Crittall doors giving access to the modest back garden. We’d done nearly all the work ourselves, swinging sledgehammers, plastering walls, but the kitchen had been professionally installed and it was sleek and high-end. Expensive cabinetry, top appliances. The granite on the countertops and the expansive kitchen island had cost as much as a new car.
It’ll be worth it, Sam had told me, looking up from his spreadsheets with red-rimmed eyes and a coating of dust and grime matted in his wayward hair. At the time, I hadn’t been sure which of us he was trying to convince. It’s expensive now but it’s what buyers of a place like this will expect. It’s the best way to protect our investment.
My head swam.
I wondered what Sam would say now if I could tell him I was considering showing a stranger around our home by myself. He’d probably fall silent, think carefully, then wrap me in a gentle hug, rub my back and tell me that perhaps it was time to confront my fears.
Not that I could ask him. Sam would be finishing up a lecture and getting ready for his support group. His phone would be switched off.
And anyway, Bethany had said she was definitely on her way. I wouldn’t be on my own for long.
I chewed the inside of my cheek and glanced at my coat and scarf – I’d draped them over the back of the green velvet sofa ready for my exit – then swept them into my arms, carried them upstairs and hung them in the walk-in wardrobe we’d carved out of what had previously been the spare room next to our bedroom.
When I stepped out, I drifted towards our bed, smoothing my hands over the pleated throw I kept to one side especially for viewings. There were multiple pillows and cushions at the top of the bed, resting against the oversized headboard I’d upholstered as part of a days-long project.
The headboard was bolted to a privacy wall that shielded the en suite bathroom, and taken together, it created the impression of a fancy suite in a boutique hotel. I hoped it looked like a restful and calming place to sleep, even if it hadn’t always been that way for us.
Please be the one. Please be the one.
I caught sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror by the doorway. A pale, undeniably frazzled woman in her early thirties. Hair loosely tied back. Baggy Aran sweater and comfortable jeans. Worry lines around my eyes and mouth.
Perhaps I should change, give a different impression?
But before I could act on the impulse, the doorbell rang.