The December afternoon had closed in. It was dark already.
As she trailed him up the short path, she glanced at the miniature Christmas tree glittering in the bay window. Darren reached out, pressed the doorbell.
‘It’s a very desirable area, this,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Don’t stay on the market long.’
Sheila buried her chin into the collar of her coat, the moist warmth of her breath reflecting back onto the lower half of her face. A terraced house.At this point in her life. The door opened but she couldn’t see round Darren’s pin-striped back.
‘Hello, Mrs Bennett. We’re here for the 4.30 viewing.’ Darren spoke loudly, slowly.
Mrs Bennett was lingering in the hallway. She was white haired, had bright, eager eyes; was wearing a cardigan, slacks. Sheila nodded a greeting as she tracked Darren through to the lounge.
‘With a place like this you’ve got to look at the potential…’ Darren began, but Sheila wasn’t listening. The carpet was a faded pink; the sofa, dated but not worn; there was an armchair backed up under the window; a small, central coffee table; a TV in the corner. The room wasn’t a bad size.
‘…It’d be easy to stamp your own identity…’
Sheila followed Darren through the lounge, past the stairs.
‘…only minor cosmetic…’
She looked round the dining room: a small, oak table and four chairs, a floral print hanging on the wall. Darren flicked a switch. Through the patio doors she could see a brief lawn leading down to a rickety shed. Somewhere she could potter. She scanned the compact kitchen. The place was better than she’d thought it would be.
For a moment, Sheila paused in the dining room doorway, watching Mrs Bennett pull closed the curtains in the lounge, then she followed Darren up the stairs.
The bathroom was functional. She’d prefer a shower but that could be remedied. The master bedroom was a reasonable size; there was even a built-in wardrobe. In the spare room there was plenty of space for storage.
‘…only cosmetic…’ Darren repeated as he led back downstairs. ‘…at a very accessible price.’ He paused in the lounge, looking back over Sheila’s head. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bennett,’ he called sonorously.
Mrs Bennett trotted through from the kitchen.
‘Was everything alright?’ she asked, breathless.
‘It’s a lovely home,’ Sheila mumbled, her words muffling in the collar of her coat.
‘Everything was fine, thank you.’ Darren said, continuing through the lounge. ‘Thanks again, Mrs Bennett,’ he called, wrenching open the front door.
In the hallway, Sheila hesitated, the cold air washing over her as she watched Darren saunter splay-footed up the path. He stopped beside his car, jabbing at his smartphone. There was a gentle tug at Sheila’s coat-sleeve. She looked round, down into Mrs Bennett’s upturned face.
‘You like it, don’t you?’ the old lady asserted, quietly, confidentially.
Sheila drew back her head slightly.
‘Why don’t you come back and have a proper look round,’ Mrs Bennett urged.
Sheila hunched her shoulders, frowned. ‘I could, I suppose,’ she murmured, uncertain.
‘Tomorrow?’ Mrs Bennett gripped Sheila’s forearm lightly.
Sheila nodded towards the estate agent. ‘I’ll organize it with Darren.’
‘Oh, don’t bother with him. Shall we say five?’
Stepping out into the premature evening, Sheila pushed her hands deep into her pockets.
‘Tomorrow at five, then,’ Mrs Bennett said. She gave a little wave, then closed the door.
Sheila moved along the corridor to the door of her flat, unlocked it. She palmed on the light-switch. Looking blankly at the still-sealed boxes stacked against the walls, she slid the keys back into her coat pocket. For a few seconds she listened to the stark, lifeless silence, then, crossed to the television, turned it on. The on-screen voices babbled their quiz show bonhomie as she walked through to the kitchen.
She stared into the fridge, empty save for a half-full carton of milk and a tub of margarine. Yanking open the freezer, she dragged out the top drawer and extracted a gelid sachet of cod-in-butter sauce, then slid it skating across the worktop towards the hob. As she kneed the door shut, the gas boiler on the wall flared into life, emitting sharp, metallic cracks. Turning to pick a pan from the draining board, she heard the first soft ripple of rain against the window over the sink, glanced up. A ghostly pale, translucent face stared back at her; for a split-second she didn’t recognize herself. She touched a hand to her cheek. How old she looked. Too old to be starting again.
Sheila forked in a mouthful of rice, her eyes fixed on the screen. Bombs were being dropped on some faraway country, ‘Because that’s the right thing to do,’ the Prime Minister pronounced. Resting her fork on her plate, she reached down the side of the armchair, groped for the remote control. She changed the channel, found the local news. Better stories about potholes and parking charges than death and suffering. Especially when she was eating. Her mobile phone was ringing.
Sighing, Sheila stood, placed her plate on the seat of the armchair and crossed to the door where her coat hung from a hook. She pulled the phone from her pocket, sighed again.
‘Hello, Mum.’
‘Sheila?’
‘What’s wrong?’ Sheila watched the images on the screen; a man in an anorak standing by a swollen river.
‘Nothing’s wrong. I’m just seeing how you are.’
‘Everything’s fine, Mum,’ Sheila said wearily.
‘What are you doing, Sheila? What’s that in the background?’ There was a note of suspicion in her mother’s voice.
‘The television, Mum. I’m trying to eat my dinner,’ Sheila explained, patiently.
‘Not those cod things again.’
Sheila rolled her eyes, stared up at the artexed ceiling.
‘You should be looking after yourself.’
‘I am looking after myself.’
‘And you shouldn’t be sitting on your own watching television. You should be getting out there, meeting people, not moping, feeling sorry for yourself.’
Sheila watched the pictures of a court-house. Someone on trial for something.
‘Are you there, Sheila?’
‘I went to see a house today,’ she said, flatly.
‘Where?’
‘Borovere Avenue.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Bottom end of town.’
‘I still don’t understand why you’d want to stay there after everything.’
‘You’re always telling me I should be moving on. That’s what I’m doing,’ Sheila said, exasperated.
‘But if you moved somewhere else you’d get more for your money. You’d be better off. You could move back up here.’
Sheila was shaking her head. ‘I’ll make my own decisions, Mum.’
‘I only worry about you, Sheila.’
‘I know, Mum. I’ve got to go, my food’s going cold. I’ll call you later.’ She knew she wouldn’t. ‘OK. Bye.’
After the early rush of workers and school kids, the tide of customers in the mini-market had slowed to a steady flow. Sheila stood behind the counter, her arms folded. She glanced up at the clock over the shuttered cigarettes. Three hours until Dave started his shift and took over on the till. Then she could escape and re-fill the shelves until it was time to finish.
She looked along the bread aisle. Helen, the overweight store-manager, was straddling wide as she bent to a low shelf, assessing stock, a broad crescent of moon-white flesh exposed where her jacket and shirt had ridden up.
‘You’re late.’ That’s how Helen had started this morning.
‘No, I’m not.’ Sheila had nodded towards the clock.
‘And where’s your hat?’
‘Hat?’ Sheila had said, feigning innocence.
‘Your Santa hat, Sheila.’
‘I’m not wearing one,’ she’d said defiantly.
Helen had snorted knowingly. ‘Well, we’ll see what the Area Manager has to say about that.’
Sheila watched Helen straighten and pull down her jacket, hitch up her trousers, then wander round the top of the aisle. There was no way she would be wearing a Santa hat; it wasn’t in her job description.
The automatic doors swooshed open admitting two builders, both wearing high-vis jackets and mud-caked rigger boots. They were working on a development at the top end of town, came in every day. Their voices rose from beyond the shelves; Helen’s braying laughter split the air.
Sheila turned as the entrance doors swooshed again. A young woman entered with a wailing new-born in a pram, a wide-eyed toddler bouncing along beside her. Sheila felt the sudden deep ache, the cavernous sadness opening in her chest, swallowing her from the inside. Malcolm had never wanted children, ‘I can’t commit to that sort of responsibility,’ he used to say. And she’d accepted it. Then one day, it had been too late.
Helen was laughing again.
‘Come in, luvvie,’ Mrs Bennett said, backing into the house.hen.
Sheila mustered a timid half-smile as she stepped through to the lounge. Lingering by the coffee table, she could hear a low rumble, the kettle boiling in the kitchen.
Mrs. Bennett shuttled through towards the dining room. ‘Tea?’ she asked without looking back.Milk and sugar?’
‘Erm, yes. Thank you.’ Sheila watched the woman veer from view.
‘Milk and sugar?’ called the voice from the kitchen.
‘Just milk, please, Mrs Bennett.’
‘Irene,’ the woman corrected, a teaspoon clinking in a cup.
Sheila unbuttoned her navy pea-coat. There weren’t any photographs, she noted, though there were six or seven Christmas cards on the sill in the bay window. On the drawers by the sofa, a carriage clock ticked softly. She noticed a tall, pine bookcase behind the door from the hallway, leaned towards it, scanning the contents: Maeve Binchy, Miriam Keyes, antique editions of Dickens. On the shelves below, The Rudiments of Music, musical scores, books on composition, music theory. She straightened when Irene shuffled back into the lounge, transporting two mugs on a tray.
Sheila perched on the edge of the sofa, her elbows on her knees, cradling the cup in both hands, warming her chilled fingers. Irene carefully shunted herself back into her chair until her slippered feet didn’t quite touch the ground. She patted her hair, then smiled at Sheila.
‘It’s very kind of you inviting me back like this,’ Sheila said.
‘It’s a pleasure.’ Irene settled her elbows on the armrests, nestled the cup in her lap. ‘So you like the house then?’ Irene smiled again
‘Yes, it’s very nice.’ Sheila nodded, sipped her tea. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘It’s been perfect for me.’
‘Mmm…’ Sheila nodded cautiously, trying to discern a hearing aid.
‘But it’s getting too much now. The stairs you see.’
‘You still seem very active.’ Sheila sipped her tea again.
Irene laughed slightly. ‘It’s more difficult when you’re on your own, though.’
Sheila nodded. Had her husband died or something? Listening to the insistent tick of the clock, Sheila studied the tannin ring on the inside of her mug.
‘Are you on your own?’ Irene asked.
For a moment, Sheila’s face clouded.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, turning the cup so her fingers passed through the handle.
‘What happened, dear?’ Irene leaned forward.
For an instant, Sheila stared searchingly at Irene, then she bowed her head.
‘Divorced,’ Sheila pressed her lips together, squinted. When she looked up, Irene was watching her, waiting. She was nodding encouragement, smiling. ‘It just happened, really.’
‘That’s how life is,’ Irene said, gently.
‘It started in January…’ Sheila sniffed. ‘He started dressing differently…different haircut.’ She spoke quickly, towards the coffee table. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t stop the words from flooding out. ‘Then, in February, he started taking the dog out for these long walks. At night. Three hours sometimes. Was only getting in at two in the morning.’ Sheila looked up at Irene. ‘I asked him, you know, “What’s going on?” but he just said that he enjoyed the night air. Then the dog got fleas. So I asked him “Where’s the dog got fleas from?” And he just said, “Sniffing hedgehogs.”’ Sheila dipped her chin, widened her eyes.
Irene laughed quietly.
‘And like an idiot, I trusted him…I always trusted him.’
‘That’s only natural, dear.’
‘Mmm…’ Sheila pouted sourly, arched her eyebrows. ‘Anyway, not long after, I couldn’t find my mobile. Needed to make a call, you see.’ Sheila cocked her head to a side, stared past Irene, at the miniature Christmas tree, trying to remember what that call was, but the detail eluded her. She shook her head. ‘So I got his mobile out of his coat. Noticed there was an answer phone message. I know I shouldn’t have done, but I listened to it. Someone playing love songs down the phone. Katy bloody Melua! Sorry.’
Irene’s gaze didn’t waver.
‘I didn’t say anything, not straight away. But I followed him when he took the dog out. He let himself into a house just round the corner. Two hundred yards away. Had his own key.’ Sheila straightened her back for an instant, then hunched forward again. ‘A cat came scooting out when he went in. And suddenly it all made sense.’
‘Mmm…’ said Irene.
‘He denied it at first. Lied through his teeth. But I knew what I’d seen.’
Irene nodded again.
‘In the end he said, “Sheila, it is possible for a man to love two women.” Said he couldn’t make a choice, so I made it for him. And here we are.’ Sheila turned a palm upwards. ‘I mean, it’d been going on for months and no one told me.’
‘It must have been very difficult.’
Sheila reached into her pocket, pulled out a tissue, blew her nose, then pushed the tissue up her sleeve.
‘Sounds almost comical when I say it.’ Sheila sighed, sipped her tea. ‘Seventen years like it never happened. He’s living with her now.’ Sheila dipped her chin, a mischievous glint in her eyes. ‘Good luck to him, I say. She’s got a beard. I mean, a proper beard.’
As Irene laughed, Sheila felt herself blush, certain she’d revealed too much. Shelowered her gaze, swilled back the rest of her tea.
‘Thanks,’ Sheila said, raising the cup. She looked away again, unwilling to meet the woman’s eye, guilty, like a child who’s accidentally disclosed an incriminating secret.
‘Would you like to look round again?’
‘Is that alright?’ Sheila felt the relief wash through her.
‘Of course it is. Help yourself.’
Sheila stood, held out her cup. ‘Where do you want this?’
‘Just pop it in the kitchen, if you don’t mind.’ Irene leaned back.
Sheila descended the stairs slowly, thoughtful, then stepped back into the lounge.
Irene was manoeuvring to the edge of her chair. ‘Everything OK?’ she asked, struggling crookedly to her feet.
‘It’s a lovely home.’ Sheila began to button up her coat.
Irene exhaled heavily. ‘Yes, it’ll be difficult to leave.’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘Where will you go?’ Sheila said, turning up her collar.
Irene seemed not to hear, was looking towards the dining room, distracted. For a moment, the two women stood in silence.
‘Well,’ Sheila said, bending her knees. ‘I’d better be off.’ She sidestepped towards the door, paused. ‘Thanks for the tea, Irene. And thanks for letting me look round again. It was really helpful.’
Irene shuffled towards Sheila and laid an arthritic hand on her sleeve. ‘I think you’ll like living here.’ Irene’s face crumpled into a smile; she blinked, bobbed her head forward and gently squeezed Sheila’s arm.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, frowning.
‘You must come again,’ Irene said brightly as she reached across Sheila and pulled the front door open, the cool air rushing in. ‘Tomorrow night?’
‘I don’t think I really need to.’ Sheila stepped outside.
‘It’s better to be sure though, isn’t it?’ Irene urged.
Sheila shrugged slightly, nodded.
‘Shall we say five?’ Irene said through a narrowing crack in the door.
Sheila moved off down the hill towards town. It struck her after she crossed the entrance to a Retirement Home. Her stride slowed, she rocked back her head and clamped her eyes shut. ‘Oh God!’ she whispered towards the sky. Why had she just blurted all that out to Irene? What would she think of her? She felt rain on her face, lowered her head and watched the rush hour traffic flitting, flashing past the end of the road. Burying her chin into the collar of her coat, she accelerated.
As usual, Dave had taken over on the counter at two. After a couple of minutes of compulsory conversation, Sheila had drifted away.
She picked a pair of sliced white loaves from the tray of bread, then bent and placed them on the shelf. As she straightened, she swatted at the swinging bobble of her Santa hat so that it flipped back over her head and brushed lightly against her neck. She pressed another pair of loaves together and lifted them to the shelf. The hat, she considered, was just another in a long line of concessions; concessions that had been forced on her. She was sure Helen had enjoyed it.
‘I’m afraid the word’s come through,’ she’d said.
Sheila hadn’t responded; she’d been handing a customer her change at the time.
‘The Area Manager’s confirmed that everyone’s got to wear a Santa hat. I’m sorry, Sheila, but it’ll be a disciplinary matter if you don’t.’
‘I strongly object on the grounds that this infringes my fundamental human rights.’ That’s what she should have said. Instead she’d just replied, ‘Why aren’t you wearing one then?’ She’d known it sounded petty as soon as she’d said it.
Sheila collected another couple of sliced whites, placed them on the shelf, patting the last in line to close the gaps. She turned, lifted the empty tray from the stack, paused. Was that it? Life? A Santa hat you’re forced to wear? A series of concessions, compromises and failures? She dropped the tray onto the tiled floor; it landed with a clatter.
She’d been betrayed by her husband; wasted her best years. She’d lost her home; then there was her Mum; and now this Santa hat. No, she’d made the last of her concessions. She was going to buy this house; didn’t care what anyone else thought. It was something no one could take away. A little piece of Sheila.A planted flag. It might not be the right thing to do, but she was going to do it anyway.
Sheila pincered a pair of seeded granary loaves, squatted and shoved them roughly onto the next shelf.
‘Would you like a biscuit?’ Irene called from the kitchen.
‘No, I’m fine, thanks, Irene.’
Sheila pulled off her coat, dropped it over the arm of the sofa.
‘Feel free to look around,’ Irene piped.
As Sheila climbed the stairs, she already knew. There was a tranquillity to the house. A calm. It was snug, safe; it didn’t have the same drab, oppressive silence of her flat; this was peaceful somehow. She opened the door to the master bedroom. Yes, it was a place where she could begin again. It could be home. A lick of paint, a new carpet.Nothing really. She would put in an offer. Then everyone would know she was moving on.
Back in the lounge, the mugs were already on the coffee table.
‘Here you are,luvvie.’ Irene came through from the kitchen, holding out the plate so Sheila couldn’t refuse.
Sheila placed the plate on the table. Rich Tea. Out of courtesy she picked one up, nibbled off an edge. She glanced at her cup, but wasn’t sure she and Irene had reached a sufficient intimacy for her to start dunking biscuits. But more importantly, she needed to discuss money.
‘So, do you work?’ Irene asked.
Irene leaned forward, reaching for her mug.
‘Just at the shop in the middle of town. The Co-Op.’ Sheila covered her mouth with her hand.
‘Oh, I know the one.’ Irene was hitching back into her chair.
‘It’s nothing much. But it keeps me going.’ Sheila remembered the previous evening, her confession. ‘So what about you?’ Questions and feigning an interest, she knew, were the best defence against those difficult personal topics.
Irene sipped her tea, looking over the rim of her cup.
‘What did you do?’ Sheila nibbled at the biscuit.
‘I was a music teacher. Cello.’ Irene smiled. ‘So lovely hearing the young ones develop. I taught in schools for the last twenty years.’
Sheila widened her eyes appreciatively as she washed the biscuit down with a gulp of tea.
‘And were you married?’
Irene’s head sank. ‘Well, no,’ she said towards her lap, ‘There was a first violin. In an orchestra. Not a soloist…’ Irene’s eyes glazed for an instant. ‘Quite brilliant, but…’
How long, Sheila wondered, should she wait before she talked about money. She glanced around the room as Irene continued. If she could get the place for £10,000 less than the asking price, with the money from the divorce, the house sale, she would only need a £30,000 mortgage. She could manage that with the job at the shop.
‘…that’s men though, isn’t it? They lie.’ Irene pulled her cardigan across her chest.
Yes, she would definitely put in an offer. She’d do it in the morning. Sheila pushed the rest of the biscuit into her mouth, was chewing when she realized Irene had lapsed into silence. She swallowed.
‘I was actually thinking of putting in an offer tomorrow,’ she said tentatively.
Irene looked up.
‘But I just wanted to run it past you first.’
Irene blinked at her.
‘How would you feel if I put in an offer of two-sixty. I can afford that. It’ll be tight. But I can do it.’
Irene breathed in deeply.
‘Would you be happy with that?’ Sheila asked.
‘I’m sure that’ll be fine, luvvie, since it’s you…’
Sheila smiled as she reached for another biscuit.
Sheila stood behind the counter, absently chewing at a fingernail. It was two o’clock and the estate agent still hadn’t called. She’d put the offer in at nine. She pulled her phone from her pocket. Still nothing.
Dave slouched towards the counter, thumbed the code into the keypad and pushed through the security door.
‘Hello, Sheila? How’s everything?’ he said, sidling behind her.
He was fifty-five, had lank, grey hair, with a bald spot hidden under his Santa hat. He’d lived in a caravan since his mum died five years ago. Sheila wasn’t in the mood for Dave.
‘Not too bad,’ Sheila said, edging towards the door. ‘You?’
‘Oh, you know. Not only is the skylight in the caravan still leaking, but this morning I had a terrible shock…’
Sheila sensed he was about to launch into one of his stories. There was always something with Dave. She shouldered out through the door.
‘Sorry, Dave,’ she said, looking back, ‘I’ve really got to get on. Helen’s been at me,’ she lied. ‘Sorry, Dave.’
The door thumped shut behind her.
‘No problem, Sheila,’ Dave said, sympathetically.
At four o’clock, the tinned tomatoes fully replenished, Sheila wandered through to the locker room at the back of the shop, pulled off her Santa hat, collected her coat and bag. Why hadn’t the estate agents called? It was a certainty; it had been agreed.
Sheila walked back into the shop.
‘Night, Sheila,’ said Will. He was one of the young ones, in for the evening shift, wearing a pair of flashing reindeer antlers.
‘Night, Will.’ She turned up her collar as she strode along the aisle towards the entrance. Helen was by the vegetables, leaning on a shopping trolley, talking to a customer.
‘…she’d been drinking in the mornings, so they had to sack her…’
Sheila hurried past them. More gossip; about the postwoman this time.
As she approached the automatic doors, she could hear Dave in conference at the counter.
‘…right there under the caravan,’ he said.
‘No. Not in Britain,’ a voice counselled.
‘Honestly. It was a snake. Massive.Looked like it was smiling at me.’
She didn’t stop to find out what he was talking about.
Outside, the darkness was already well settled. The air was sharp, refreshing. It cut away the dull, torpid atmosphere of the shop. She pulled out her mobile phone. Still no reply from the estate agent.
Sheila dropped the sachet of cod-in-butter sauce into the pan of boiling water, then checked the rice simmering beside it. Her head jerked to a side. Was that her phone ringing? She scurried through to the lounge, plunged her hand into her coat. Expectantly, she checked the screen, then tutted and dropped the phone back into her pocket. She couldn’t deal with her mum right now.
By ten o’clock the next morning, Sheila could wait no longer. Still she’d heard nothing from the estate agent. Whilst the shop was empty, except for Helen, who was talking to the builders, Sheila crept into the small office behind the counter, pulled out her mobile phone. She dialled the estate agent’s number, then flipped the bobble back over her head and lifted the phone to her ear. She held the door ajar with her foot, watching the till.
Darren answered. After the formal niceties she quietly inquired, ‘I was just wondering where we are with the house. Have you heard anything back from Irene?’
‘Which house was that, Mrs Lomax?’
Sheila’s eyes bulged slightly, she sniffed. ‘Borovere Avenue.’ She could hear Helen cackling out in the shop.
‘No, I’m afraid we’re still waiting.’ Darren sounded reserved, distant.
‘Couldn’t you give her a nudge, or something?’ Sheila pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezed her eyes closed. She hadn’t slept last night.
‘I can, if that’s what you want me to do.’
‘If you would.’
‘I’ll do it now.’
‘Thanks. Bye.’ She ended the call, dropped the phone into her pocket and edged back out behind the counter. She turned as the doors swooshed open; old George bundled in, broad-hipped, short-legged.
Helen was still talking, laughing in that whinnying way.
‘Hello, dear,’ said George as he tilted toward the counter holding out his newspaper. There was a patch of unshaven stubble on the side of his chin.
‘Morning, George.’
‘How are you today?’
Sheila slid the newspaper past the barcode scanner.
‘Not too bad, thanks.’
‘Are you ready for Christmas?’
Sheila paused for a second. She hadn’t even thought about Christmas.
‘Yes, just about,’ she deflected. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh, I’m going to my daughter’s for dinner. She’s looking after me.’
Sheila watched his eyes moisten behind his glasses and remembered that his wife had died earlier in the year. He’d aged after that.
‘Well, I hope you have a lovely day,’ Sheila said softly.
George smiled weakly.
‘That’s 50p please, George.’
‘Just hang on, I’ve got it here somewhere.’ He fished in his little leather purse.
As George departed, she felt the telephone vibrate in her pocket. She retreated to the side office, answered it.
‘Hello?’ she said quietly.
It was Darren.
‘So what’s happening, Darren?’
‘Erm…’
She felt her stomach drop.
‘Well, I’m not sure how to tell you this…’
‘Tell me what, Darren?’ There was a quaver in Sheila’s voice.
‘Erm, well…Mrs Bennett has decided to take her house off the market.’
‘Taken it off the market?’
‘Mmm…’
‘Can she do that?’
‘If she wants to.’
‘But we’d agreed.’
Sheila heard the builders approaching the counter, chatting gruffly between themselves, laughing. She peeked through the crack in the door, saw they were waiting, then let the door close so she was hidden.
‘It seems,’ said Darren, ‘that this isn’t the first time she’s done it.’
She was shaking her head involuntarily. ‘Done what?’
‘I was talking to one of the other estate agents in town, and he said they’d had dealings with Mrs Bennett before. She’s quite well known for it.’
Sheila stared at the wall numbly; her thoughts had fallen away.
‘She’s done it a few times apparently.’
‘SHOP!’ It was one of the builders. They were chuntering between themselves.
‘Done what?’ Sheila whispered.
‘Did she invite you round?’
‘I’ve been back twice. The last two nights. We agreed a price.’
‘Shop!’ The builder shouted again. Sheila could hear Helen’s voice. The door to the counter clunked shut.
‘It just seems to be something Mrs Bennett does.’
‘What are you talking about, Darren?’
‘She invites people round, to view again, more informally. In the past, apparently, she’s had people round for a meal. Had them measuring up for curtains. And then when they put in an offer she takes it off the market.’
‘Why?’ Sheila asked faintly.
‘We think she’s just lonely.’
‘Lonely?’ Sheila shouted. The anger surged. She held the phone away from her ear, stared at it for a second, then ended the call. She couldn’t deal with this. She could hear Helen laughing as the builders’ voices receded.
Sheila felt the urge to scream. She pulled off her Santa hat, hurled it at the wall, watching as it silently struck the painted breeze-blocks and flop onto the floor. She turned savagely when Helen pulled open the door.
‘What are you doing, Sheila?’ Helen was still smiling.
‘I had to take a call.’
‘You know you can’t leave your till unattended when there are customers in the shop.’
Sheila shrugged.
‘Where’s your hat?’
Sheila nodded at the hat on the floor.
Calmly, Helen asked, ‘Are you going to put that back on?’
Sheila laughed. ‘No. I won’t be wearing it anymore.’
‘You’re not wearing it?’ Helen sounded uncertain.
‘Nope.’ Sheila unzipped her work fleece.
‘This is a disciplinary issue, Sheila. You deserted your post.’
Sheila shrugged again, peeled off her fleece and threw it over the chair by the desk. ‘I quit,’ she said.
‘Don’t be like that, Sheila. If you just take your verbal warning everything can go back to normal.’
‘Normal?’ She raised her voice, fixed Helen with a stare. The manager stepped aside, allowing Sheila to pass.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ she called, as Sheila made her way through the shop to the locker room.
When Sheila reappeared, Helen was waiting, flushed, her hands on her hips.
‘You can’t just walk out, Sheila,’ she said.
‘Watch me,’ Sheila muttered, without looking at her. She should have done this months ago.
‘What’s brought this on?’
Sheila didn’t answer, she just walked away. The doors swept open and then she was outside, free. Yes, she would take some time, make some choices, some changes. And Spain, she’d heard, was nice at this time of year.
