Sarah May - The Rise and Fall of a Domestic Diva

The top-of-the-range young couple drifted upstairs.

Beulah Hill, like the rest of the streets in the postcode, had gone from destitute to up-and-coming to boom as generations of Irish and Jamaicans started selling up and moving out, and young couples started selling flats in Battersea, Putney and Clapham and moving in; taking out extra-large mortgages in order to pay for the reinstallation of sash windows the Irish and Jamaicans had replaced with uPVC double glazing. Once the sash windows were reinstalled, they moved onto the floors, replacing carpet with solid wood flooring. Sea green and lilac bathroom suites were ripped out, along with any dividing walls—to create living spaces that allowed lifestyles to circulate more freely. Some of the houses—like the McRaes’—got to feature on TV makeover programmes.

No. 8 had yet to be made over.

‘Kate?’ Jessica whispered into the phone.

‘Hi, Jessica?’

‘Hi…’

‘Why are you whispering?’

‘I’m doing a viewing on Beulah Hill.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I said, I’m doing a viewing on Beulah Hill.’ There was a pause. ‘Kate?’

‘Beulah Hill? You’re there at the moment? Has anyone put an offer in yet?’

‘No.’ Jessica scanned the green shag-pile carpet and green leather three-piece. The light coming through the double layers of net at the windows made the room seem as though it was under water, and had the effect of making Jesus, with his arms outstretched, executed in oils and framed on the wall above the mantle—look as if he was floating.

‘Why were you asking—?’ she joked. Then, before Kate had time to respond to this, said, ‘Is it still okay for you to take the boys swimming tonight and pick them up?’ She tried not to sound desperate, knowing from experience how off-putting desperation was but, since Peter’s death, she seemed to be perpetually desperate, and perpetually having to conceal it was draining.

When Kate didn’t respond to this, she prompted her, ‘The boys? Swimming?’ and waited.

‘Swimming?’ Kate’s voice sounded vague and preoccupied.

‘You were going to take the boys to Swim School after nursery and then I was going to pick Arthur up from yours around six?’

Silence, as Kate rapidly processed these facts as if she was hearing them for the first time, which she wasn’t. ‘Fine—yes, that’s fine. Robert’s going to pick the boys up from swimming.’ She made a mental note to remind Robert.

Jessica, trying not to cry with relief, missed what Kate said next. ‘What’s that?’

‘I said maybe I am interested.’

‘In what?’

‘Taking a look at Beulah Hill.’

‘You’re thinking of moving?’

‘Possibly.’ Kate’s only appointment that morning had been a teenage schizophrenic, so she’d spent most of her time after printing off a map of the St Anthony’s catchment area, as well as two copies of the appeal form, on Rightmove. By the time she discovered that the only property with at least three bedrooms under seven hundred thousand and within the catchment area was No. 8 Beulah Hill, a dull thumping sensation had started somewhere just behind her left temple, and she knew that at some point that day she would have a migraine.

‘But you’ve got a lovely house.’

In the silence that followed, Kate realised that Jessica was waiting for some sort of explanation. ‘We were thinking of buying something abroad,’ she lied—another lie. ‘Maybe downscaling in London, cashing in on some capital and getting somewhere in France—to take the kids in the holidays.’

‘Well, how much were you thinking of spending?’ Jessica said, thinking that at least the Hunters would be around in the term-time still. Kate was the only person she knew who ever offered to help with Arthur.

‘Around four fifty?’

‘This is on for four eighty.’

‘I know, I’ve been looking at it on Rightmove. How long’s it been on the market for?’

‘Over six weeks.’

‘So you haven’t been able to shift it.’

‘Well, I’ve got a young couple here at the moment…you never know: people are unpredictable.’

There was undisguised panic in Kate’s voice as she said, ‘What about this afternoon? Could I take a look this afternoon?’

‘This afternoon?’ Jessica laughed. ‘I can’t—I’m booked through to five thirty. I think everybody in the office is.’

‘What about now?’

‘Now?’

‘I can be there in under ten minutes.’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Come on, Jessica.’

‘I’ll give you ten minutes then I’ll have to go—I’ve got another viewing.’

‘I’ll be there.’

Jessica was about to call off when Kate said, ‘Wait—I meant to ask. Did you get your letter?’

‘What letter?’

‘The St Anthony’s letter?’

‘No idea—I left before the post. Did Findlay get in?’

‘He did.’

‘Well, I hope to God Arthur gets a place then. They’re almost like brothers—he’ll be distraught if he and Findlay get separated.’

Kate tried to think of something to say—a statement like this warranted something—but she couldn’t. Arthur Palmer swore; Arthur Palmer looked malnourished; Arthur Palmer’s hair was too short, his clothes inflammatory. Arthur Palmer was all wrong and Kate had done everything she could to separate him and Findlay, but nothing worked. Ros Granger and Harriet Burgess had both commented on this—smugly—but no matter how hard Kate tried to push Findlay in the direction of Toby and Casper, Findlay refused to have anything to do with either of them.

When Kate failed to respond, Jessica said, ‘So it’s definitely okay for you to pick Arthur up after nursery?’—getting back to her primary concern.

A moment’s hesitation, as Kate fought to remember the complicated logistics involving her own children and Jessica’s, then, ‘Yes—fine. Okay, I’m leaving now.’ Kate called off.

Jessica hadn’t heard the young couple come back downstairs, and now they were standing in front of her, and she could tell from the way the man said, ‘So how long has it been on the market for?’ that he’d already asked her once, maybe even more than once.

‘Not long,’ Jessica said.

‘How long?’ he insisted.

‘Just over a week,’ she lied, ‘which is why we haven’t got round to printing details yet—and, to be honest, properties like this are going so fast, nine times out of ten we don’t even get round to printing details. A lot of the properties don’t even make it onto the Internet.’

The man was staring at the oil painting of Jesus on the wall opposite, unconvinced.

Jessica was about to give them the whole spiel on getting the loft converted into a fourth bedroom with en-suite, and how unusual it was to find a seventy-foot garden in this area, when Mr Jackson, the elderly Jamaican vendor, shuffled into his home carrying a blue plastic bag with two cans of Kestrel inside.

‘Y’all right?’ he smiled awkwardly at them all. ‘Sorry—I stayed out; thought you’d be done by now.’

‘Don’t worry, we’re just leaving, Mr Jackson,’ Jessica said as brightly as she could.

Mr Jackson carried on staring at them all, confused by the whole process. ‘That’s my wife,’ he said after a while, following the young man’s gaze and pointing to the picture of Jesus.

The young man nodded and smiled and tried not to look scared.

‘She was the one what had the religion.’ Mr Jackson paused. ‘She died,’ he added, looking hopefully at them all, as if one of them might have heard otherwise.

The young man mumbled, ‘Sorry to hear it,’ and started to propel his partner towards the hall.

Jessica followed them out.

Mr Jackson stayed where he was. ‘Y’all goin?’ he said to the empty room.