He was early.
Not by much but it was enough to throw me.
The doorbell app on my phone pulsed and buzzed.
I could dismiss the notification from the app. I knew that. I could go downstairs, open the front door and welcome him inside with a forced smile.
But instead I hesitated, took my phone out of my jeans pocket and stared at the image of the man on my doorstep.
My fingers trembled. A coppery taste flooded my mouth.
I couldn’t see him clearly because his face was down. All I could really see was the crown of his head – he had wavy grey hair, neatly styled. The collar was up on his dark woollen overcoat. His hands were loosely clasped together in brown leather gloves. He had broad shoulders and looked athletically built.
I wish I could see his face.
I glanced towards the shutters that were tilted open in front of the windows, then made a quick decision and hit answer on my phone.
‘Hello?’
I said it as casually as I could, as if I was expecting a parcel delivery, and the man looked up into the doorbell camera with an easy smile.
Not someone I recognized, though that hardly helped.
He was handsome in a roguish way. A prominent brow over startlingly blue eyes. Jaw shaded in stubble. He had on a fawn turtleneck jumper under his coat.
He looked a little jaded, and for a second it made me think of him as a lounge-room singer, tired and possibly hung-over after a long night of crooning.
‘My name’s Donovan.’ The skin around his eyes crinkled as he moved to one side and motioned towards the ‘For Sale’ sign in our front yard. It had been fastened to the painted metal railings running along the top of the low side wall we shared with the neighbour to our right. The rest of our front yard was shielded by the formerly scrappy box hedge we’d tamed and kept for privacy, itself hemmed in behind more barbed metal railings. ‘I’m here for the house viewing.’
‘One second.’
Snapping a hasty picture of him on my phone, I quickly attached the image to a message to Bethany.
Just checking this is the man who made the appointment with you? Mr Donovan?
I knew Bethany would probably think it was a strange, possibly neurotic, thing to do, but right then I didn’t care. I needed reassurance if I was going to show him around by myself.
Three dancing dots appeared, and while I waited for Bethany’s reply to reach me, an anxious ache bloomed inside my chest and I swiped back to the video feed from the doorbell again.
The man had stepped back and he was leaning sideways, inspecting the stonework around our bay window, glancing up towards the roof.
Behind him, I could see a fish-eye view of Forrester Avenue. The terrace of painted and red-brick Victorian villas opposite our own. The wizened old plane trees that lined the road. Cars and tradesmen’s vans were parked bumper to bumper along both kerbs with drifts of autumn leaves scattered across them. Nearly all the cars were BMWs and Range Rovers. A few were Porsches.
There was no passing traffic but a young girl in the red and grey uniform of the local primary school was rolling along the nearside pavement on a scooter, pursued by a woman in a raincoat who was striding after her while staring at her phone, the girl’s school bag banging against her hip.
Bethany’s reply popped up at the top of my screen.
Yum! Donovan is his first name. Feel free to mention that I’m single and . . . enjoy!
I let go of a lungful of air as I tapped out a fast reply.
OK, thanks. How long until you get here?
But this time, she didn’t respond.
Slipping my phone away in my pocket, I closed my eyes for a dizzying second and told myself I could do this, that everything would be fine, then I curled my hands into fists and moved towards the stairs.
I was halfway down when I heard the shriek from outside.