Finding Home (3 page)

Although the living situation wasn't perfect, Simon was a model boyfriend. I could always count on the odd token of affection: a bouquet of 50% off flowers from the Whistlestop at Waterloo Station; my favourite falafel wrap with no onions brought home when he was working late; text messages that he was sitting in another boring meeting with Saudi investors and would rather be home with me watching
University Challenge
. After a year or so, the tokens dwindled, and the lean years began: me working round the clock on my thesis; him working round the clock at the investment bank. But we still had the weekends, mostly spent curled up together on the orange crush velvet sofa that we found in a skip in Wapping and together managed to upend through the window of the flat. We ate a lot of takeaways, drank a lot of wine, watched a fair few films, and when we weren't too tired, had sex in the narrow double bed decorated with the crocheted duvet cover I bought at Petticoat Lane market. All in all, it was a nice existence rather than a great love story – but in the real world, there's nothing wrong with nice. And in the last few months, things had been looking up: I began teaching English literature at the college, and the bank promoted Simon to vice president of emerging markets. My life, signed, sealed and delivered. My life…

I pick off one of the cucumber slices and eat it. Around me, the sight of wall-to-wall Artex and avocado bathroom suite make my stomach give a little lurch. Why am I here when I should be standing at the head of a table filled with clever and interested students, engaging in intelligent debate about ‘The myth of feminist identity in Jane Austen'? What happened to the future that ‘might have been': a scene in a romantic restaurant, wine and candles; Simon taking something from his pocket, down on one knee, everyone else stopping their conversations and turning to watch. I imagine the ring – he knows I like antiques, so maybe it will be something vintage – Victorian with seed pearls and tiny diamonds. And instantly, I will have joined the sisterhood of women who, after going through toil and hardship, finally get a happy ending.

A happy ending. Was I so wrong to want one?

I wash the mud off my face and look in the mirror. The woman who stares back is a little thinner than a month ago, with what a novelist might glibly describe as a heart-shaped face and porcelain skin. Her shoulder-length hair is thick and dark, and cut in a long bob. Only her eyes seem to have lost a little of their sparkle. While the sting of being usurped by the perfect ‘Ashley' (‘I'm really sorry, Amy, but when I met her at that little “do” for new teachers, I just knew it was destiny') has begun to numb slightly, the ache of what the hell I'm going to do now lingers on. A temp job is not what I had in mind. But I have to do something – anything – to get back on my feet, even though my knees still feel like jelly. I do a few facial exercises in the mirror and practice my best ‘interview' smile. It's always nerve-wracking trying for a new job, but really, how bad can it be?

I brush my teeth and don my fuzzy slippers. Before leaving the bathroom, I poke my head into the hallway to check that the coast is clear. The TV is off and there's a light on under my parents' door. I venture down the hall to the airing cupboard in search of Mum's sewing kit, but it isn't there. Hurrying back to my own bedroom, I pop in a pair of blue foam earplugs bought last week following a nocturnal emergency – noises coming from my parents' room in the middle of the night. I cross my fingers that I'll get a job quickly, earn some money, and soon be able to afford ‘a room of my own'.

But until then, all I can do is lie down in the narrow bed, crawl under the duvet, and pull the pillow tightly around my ears.

Two little words.

My heart plummets as I stand on the pavement outside the golden Bath-stone office of
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
, debating whether to go inside or jump back on the train never to return. This isn't an ultra-respectable firm of solicitors or an accountancy office. It isn't a doctor's surgery or a career consultancy. The office where, if I'm lucky, I might be able to get a temp job, is none other than an…

Estate agent.

Estate agents – the profession that everyone loves to hate. For me, it's the profession that I'll forever associate with the scene of my ultimate humiliation. The memory of that look on my estate agent's face after I threw the mobile phone at Ashley – his fleshy stiff-upper lip, ever so slightly amused – is permanently etched onto my brain. The unfurling of a spotty silk handkerchief when he came to the rescue of the damsel with the bloody nose. His parting words to me as I ran down the stairs to the street, my dreams in tatters, my face puffy and tear-streaked: ‘So, Miss Wood, can I assume you won't be putting in an offer?'

I take a deep breath to steel myself as the button on my jacket begins to strain across my chest. The only way I'm going to get out of the hole I've fallen into is to get a job – any job. I have to keep my eye on the prize – moving out of my parents' house and into a flat that I can make my own. I have to go inside.

A little bell tinkles as I push open the door. Instantly, everyone inside the open-plan space is abuzz with activity and energy. At one desk, a spiky-haired man in an impeccable suit is laughing into a phone cradled on his shoulder and gesturing with a pen. At the back of the room, an older woman in tweed flashes me a coral-lipped smile as she pours milk into her coffee cup, and even the heavily pregnant woman at the first desk as I enter – Mrs Harvey's niece, I presume – looks up from her computer screen grinning through teeth gritted like a Cheshire Cat. I seem to be the only one who can't make my lips curve upwards.

I approach the niece. Everyone leans in like plants growing towards the sunlight.

‘Hi, uhh, I'm Amy Wood. Your aunt was going to ring this morning. About the job for maternity-leave cover?'

Instantly, the electricity in the room fizzles out. Everyone falls back into their various tasks like marionettes with broken strings. The niece looks at me with disdain.

‘Take a seat. Mr Bowen-Knowles is on a conference call.'

I skulk my way over to the waiting area that's, in a word, beige. Needless to say, there are no leather-bound books or cheery brass lamps. I sit down on the edge of a firm beige sofa with chrome arms that's flanked with potted palms. The beige-wood coffee table is covered with piles of property particulars. One pile is an advertisement of available properties in an estate of new-build mansions. I recognise some of the mysterious lexicon: ‘top-quality fixtures and fittings to suit' – referring, I surmise, to the fake marble pilasters, white carpet, and shiny black kitchens in the photo. The other pile contains a mixture of one-bed flats and village semis in the greater Somerset area – many of them in ‘charming villages' (no supermarket for miles); or ‘easy commuting distance' to places as far away as London and Cardiff. I peruse the particulars for a one-bed flat in a newly gentrified part of Bristol, and gasp at the ‘newly reduced!' price. Even if I hadn't been categorically sacked from my teaching job, I'd still have trouble affording the down payment on even a small flat on my own. My shoulders begin to droop—

‘Amy Wood?'

‘Yes, that's me.' As I stand up, the button on my jacket heralds my grand entrance by popping off onto the floor and bouncing like a flat rock skimming the surface of a placid lake. And unfortunately, the man standing at the door of a tiny beige-walled office is
not
smiling. His eyes follow the progress of the button until it lands petulantly under the niece's desk.

His gaze moves to the tiny wrinkle of black lace at the top of my bra that I'm aware is now peeking out of the V of my blouse. All I can do is wait – for his eyes to reach my face just as my cheeks flush bright red.

‘Come into my office. I'm Alistair Bowen-Knowles.'

He ushers me inside. The large desk that takes up most of the office is unnaturally tidy. On the walls are architects' drawings of modern houses and six framed ‘Salesman of the Year' certificates, all arranged to the millimetre. Mr Bowen-Knowles is wearing a starched pink shirt with cufflinks, pin-striped trousers and a purple and silver tie. His eyes are set too closely together, his nose long and wolf-like.

Mr Bowen-Knowles steeples his fingers. ‘So, Miss Wood. What can I do for you?'

Smiling, I launch into my prepared answer. ‘I understand you might have a job opening in your office. I'm looking for work and I thought I'd make a good… uhh… fit.' I hand him my one-page CV (highlighting my education, and downplaying the fact that I have absolutely no relevant experience). He takes it from me and scans it, his eyes narrowing.

‘Are you sure you're in the right place?' His lip twists in disdain. ‘The bookstore's down the street.'

I shift in my chair, ready to make a dignified exit. Things have been hard enough without adding Mr Salesman-of-the-Year to my woes. My eyes settle on the white business cards neatly displayed in a Links of London holder. Beneath the script words
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
is a line of small print that I hadn't noticed before: ‘
Specialists in unique and historic properties
.' I take one of the cards from the holder.

Unique
.
Historic
. Two little words...

And just like that, the noxious mist clears from my mind.

‘You may look at my CV and think that I'm overqualified.' I sit up a little straighter. His right eyebrow twitches upwards like he'd had no such notion.

‘But the truth is, academia was a bit stodgy. I've read a lot of classic English books that feature “unique and historic properties”. And I think I'd be the perfect person to sell them. Your agency's speciality is right “up my street” – so to speak.' I smile, really warming up now.

The niece waddles in, her smile now looking more like a grimace, and puts a cup of coffee on the desk in front of me. I ignore it.

‘In fact, I've loved old properties ever since I was a girl and my dad did up our cottage. It was full of character and quirks – just like a person. I adored it – and was gutted when they moved.' I lean forward. ‘I'm sure I'll be able to sell lots of unique and historic properties and find lots of people their perfect home. Maybe be… uhh… Salesman of the Year – like you.' I laugh nervously. ‘Saleswoman, I mean.'

Satisfied with my ‘pitch', I sit back. Instead of looking duly impressed, Mr Bowen-Knowles is fiddling with his right cufflink.

‘Are you finished?' he says curtly.

‘Yes.' I shrink in the chair.

‘Good.'

He picks up his BlackBerry and frowns at the screen. The silence is painful as he begins tapping a message on the tiny keys.

‘How old are you?' he says, without looking up.

‘I just turned thirty… one.'

‘And where did you go to school?'

‘I did my D.Phil in history and literature at UCL.'

‘Before that?'

‘Willowdale Comprehensive. In Wookey Hole.'

‘It shows.'

‘Sorry?'

Mr Bowen-Knowles sets down his BlackBerry with an irritated sigh. ‘Ms Wood,
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
has a very exclusive clientele. Our buyers demand taste, refinement, and discretion.' He looks down his nose at me. ‘I'm sure it's impressive that you've read books about historic houses, and that your father “did up” an old cottage.' He shakes his head and tsks. ‘But frankly, I question whether you have the right demeanour to work here. This is a business – it's about numbers and commissions; not some kind of pie-in-the-sky matchmaking service. We expect the refinement and gravitas of Cheltenham Ladies College; not Wookey Hole.'

The styrofoam cup pops in my hand, startling both of us. I'm not sure whether to laugh in his face, or stand up and storm out. Maybe I have been blathering a bit and obviously, I don't have any sales experience. Maybe he's testing me, or maybe he's just rude. All I know is, now that he's telling me that I'm not worthy to be an estate agent – even a temporary one – I'm determined to prove him wrong.

‘Mr Bowen-Knowles…' I lift my chin and sit rigid in the chair, ‘I understand your concerns. But if you hire me today, you won't regret it, I promise. I'm smart and enthusiastic, and I learn quickly. Plus, I know Somerset, Wiltshire and Gloucester like the back of my hand. I'm asking you to give me a chance…'

Give me a chance
– I'd said that to Simon when he came back to the flat we shared in Docklands to officially break up with me. Give me a chance to learn to cook. Give me a chance to clean up my papers, books, and clutter. Give me a chance to watch Sky Sports with you on Sunday nights instead of
Antiques Roadshow
. Give me a chance…

Did I really say those things? How pathetic.

Mr Bowen-Knowles doesn't bother to respond. He picks up his BlackBerry again and checks the screen.

I stand up, sighing inwardly. If I've learned anything from surviving the worst month of my life, it's that there's no point sticking around to be humiliated further. I'll just thank him politely, walk out with my head held high, and forget I ever set foot—

All of a sudden, there's a commotion in the outer office.

‘Shit Sally!' someone male yells.

‘It's not shit, it's my waters breaking,' wails a female voice.

‘Shit!' Mr Bowen-Knowles echoes, his lip twisting in annoyance.

I fling open the office door. The pregnant niece – Sally – is standing next to her desk, with gooey fluid running down her leg and puddling at her feet. The other woman I saw earlier is nowhere to be seen, and the spiky-haired man has a look of disgusted horror on his face.

I rush forward, strip off my jacket, and push up the sleeves of my ivory silk blouse. Only then do I realise that I don't have a clue what to do. Sally's body tenses and she begins to moan. The sound crescendos into a deep groan and rises in pitch, climaxing into a shriek.