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‘Um, no, you see, as we said–’
‘You get to read people pretty well in my job. I always know when someone’s lying – like so-called buyers who just want to snoop around or rival agents bullshitting about how much commission they’re on.’
‘Hellooo?’ called Mrs Davis.
‘We’ll talk later,’ said Deborah and headed into the Games Room.
I followed her in.
Wow. She was good. Awesome as this room was, only an estate agent could make it sound like the welcoming front room of an aristocrat’s house – a much better idea than my intention of schmoozing clients by saying that it was the perfect place to act out some bloody battle or sexy seduction from Game of Thrones (well, doesn’t everyone watch that show?).
‘Bedrooms, next?’ she said and I led them upstairs, disappointed to hear Deborah explain that the two rooms full of Walter’s stuff needed sorting before you could get a real sense of their space. They wouldn’t be unlocked unless the Davis’s wanted a second viewing.
‘You’ll adore this room,’ Deborah said to Mrs Davis, ‘it’s wonderfully feminine and lush.’ Gingerly, she pushed open the door to where I slept.
I gasped. How did those cushions get on the floor? Why was the ceiling lampshade hanging loose? Who’d thrown my rouge onto the walls and pulled the paintings well crooked? Groucho lay in the middle of the bed, innocently licking his paws. If he was a Great Dane he might have done some of the damage but I could hardly blame a ten inch tall Jack Russell.
‘I, um… don’t understand,’ I muttered as the buyers raised their eyebrows.
Deborah bit her lip. ‘Perhaps we should move along,’ she said in a stiff voice, ‘to the room once used as an office.’ We walked past the locked room opposite the top of the stairs to the one where’d I’d just updated my Facebook status.
‘I was just in here two minutes ago!’ I said in a high pitched voice and gazed around at the knocked over swivel chair and papers scattered across the beech desk. ‘Look, um, let’s go down to the kitchen,’ I said. That would impress them and maybe a fresh cupcake would make them forget all this mess.
‘I hope we aren’t wasting our time,’ said Mrs Davis, in a tight voice as we all walked along the landing. ‘We’re very busy people.’
‘I can’t apologise enough,’ said Deborah. She caught my eye as we followed the couple down. I shivered. Maybe the mean spirit – the one that had grabbed my foot – was back.
With bated breath, I led the way into the kitchen, praying I wasn’t about to walk into puddles of food colouring. I sighed with relief. Everything was as I’d left it, the cupcakes neatly in their box, utensils draining, flour and other ingredients presumably still in their packets. Deborah ushered the couple to look out of the window. Despite the low winter cloud, the garden still looked magnificent.
‘… and you must see the hot tub.’ Deborah led them to the French patio doors. But eyes narrow, jaws set, they stopped by the glass. Tossed to one side was the cover and clumps of flour floated on the water, along with jet black pools, just like the marzipan ladybird dots.
‘Is this some joke?’ said Mr Davis to Deborah, looking around, perhaps for some hidden camera. ‘What sort of amateurish outfit do you work for? We won’t be using you again.’
‘Wait, please…’ she spluttered and hurried after them into the hallway. It was no good. The couple slammed the front door behind them. Deborah swore under her breath and we went over to the front window to watch them leave. Luke was at the end of the drive and they were talking to him. A man carrying a large camera walked past them, heading for Melissa’s house.
‘I would say sorry for the mess.’ I stared at Deborah. ‘But you know it wasn’t my fault.’
She threw her hands in the air. ‘Happens every time – an angry couple ring me, followed by the housesitter on the phone swearing blind they had tidied up.’ She sighed. ‘I know. I should have told you, that this place is… But it sounds so stupid… Have you seen the smoke? Heard the strange gale?’
‘Yes. And the White Christmas tune.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘That’s a new one on me.’
Inside I felt kind of warm. So Walter hadn’t revealed himself to the previous sitters. Perhaps he could relate to me because I baked like his wife. Or perhaps I’d picked up psychic abilities by watching so much Most Haunted.
‘What about the lights going out?’ she said. ‘And has anything, um, physically made contact?’
‘You mean grabbed me? Yes. I could have been seriously injured. You should have warned us this place was haunted.’
‘Sounds mad, doesn’t it?’ said Deborah. ‘But what else could explain this mess? I’ve cherry-picked the housesitters so far – all reliable, sensible sorts. In fact, you two have been my biggest gamble, with no references and you’re quite young.’
‘Come on. I reckon we both need a cupcake,’ I said and we headed for the kitchen. ‘I made a batch of those marzipan ladybird ones I promised for your kids.’
‘Sod the kids.’ Deborah smiled.
Twenty minutes later we were sitting in the green velvet armchairs in the lounge, coffees on the low oak table, a plate with a cupcake on each of our laps.
‘Have you told Mr Murphy why the house won’t sell?’ I said and took a large bite.
‘What would I say? Word would get back to my boss. If anyone got to hear I thought a ghost was in one of my properties, my reputation would be in tatters.’ She took a mouthful of sponge. ‘That reminds me. Mr Murphy’s down here on business the day after tomorrow – said he’d drop by here in the morning. So it goes without saying…’
‘I know. I’ll make sure everything’s spotless and hope no astral being messes it up.’ I’d have to do an early tidy up on Thursday morning, as Terry would be around the night before for telly. Walter would be pleased to have his nephew visit.
Deborah licked strawberry buttercream icing from her top lip. ‘Mmm.’ She sighed and slipped off her shoes. ‘Do I really have to give the rest to the children?’
I grinned. Perhaps the viewing wasn’t so bad I thought, taking another mouthful. There’d be others. I was determined to get this place sold.
‘So what exactly have you told Mr Murphy?’ I asked.
‘The same excuse I gave you – that times are hard and that pre-Christmas is a notoriously bad time for the market. I suggested he should lower the price if he wants a quick sale. He said another agency had told him the same – that’s his way of letting me know he might take his business elsewhere.’
‘But you found him housesitters!’
‘For the commission on a place this size, any agency would do the same, whether he’s friends with the boss or not. You and Jess… Are you definitely staying? You won’t run off in the middle of the night?’
‘No.’ I wanted to help Walter. In any case, what choice did I have? Adam was no nearer to taking me back and more importantly, pregnant Jess needed stability for at least a few more days.
A sudden rapping on glass came from the kitchen. Deborah looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get going – appointments to keep, piles of paperwork to plod through…’
‘I’ll just get you the rest of those cupcakes. Come round again and I’ll make you those toffee teddy bear ones I mentioned, with peanut butter icing.’ I grinned. ‘For the kids, of course.’
The knocking became more frantic and whilst Deborah slipped on her shoes and went out of the front of the lounge, I dashed to the door at the back, almost skidding around the corner into the kitchen. Outside stood Melissa, leaning against the patio doors – hair bedraggled, black, gold-trimmed velour tracksuit grass-stained. Perhaps she and Jonny had, ahem, sunk a few holes on their mini golf course. I opened the patio doors and a gush of cold air breezed in. A little unsteady, she held out a jar of black olives.
‘Hello, darling,’ she mumbled. ‘You left these behind, yesterday.’
I sniffed. That was some “perfume”. I recognised the alcoholic bite to it straightaway. It was from the same range as Mum’s – let’s call that Eau de Cider. Melissa’s smelt slightly classier – Eau de Prosecco, perhaps. The golfer’s wife half-smiled, then promptly tripped over the patio frame. The olive jar and England’s number one birdie – appropriately – went flying.
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