Page 6 of Lost In Someone

Drew says if you can love it in the middle of winter with the wind and rain pounding down daily, then you’ll never leave. He’s right.

Satisfied that everything looks good up here, I go back downstairs and start cleaning. Stacey, in her professional capacity as an estate agent, has given me strict instructions on what to do to make the house look tip-top for its valuation. When I’m done cleaning, I put fresh flowers in the vases and lemons and limes into a wire bowl, both containers on loan from her.

At midday precisely, I open the door to a tall, slim, attractive woman. She’s every inch the business lady in what must be five-inch glossy black stilettos, smart black trousers, and a dark purple silk blouse. Her dark hair curls down her back and over her shoulders. Her cool smile shows perfectly white—and I’m guessing—veneered teeth. I’m already intimidated by her.

“Mr McClean? I’m Isabel Wright from Wright Bespoke Estate Agency.”

“Hello.” I shake her hand. Her grip is firm, confident. “Come in.”

She looks around the living room. “This kind of property doesn’t come up for sale very often. How long have you lived here?”

“About twelve years. It’s had major renovations. It was pretty much derelict when I bought it.”

“It’s unusual to have someone so young buy one of these houses. How much did you pay for it then?” She asks it as if she can’t imagine me having the money to buy it.

“I can’t remember. I’ll leave you to look around.” Like I would tell her how I could afford it.

She gives me a nod and struts away, her heels clicking sharply on the wooden floor. For some reason, she’s grating on me. I hate the definite air of superiority in her manner. She shuffles in my bedroom. A door opens and closes—the walk-in wardrobe most likely—and water turns on and off. Then it goes quiet, so she must be on the top floor.

Five minutes later, she comes back downstairs, typing on her iPad. “How quickly do you want a sale? I have people waiting for a property like this one. If you want a quick sale, I can have it signed and finished for three point two. If you’re happy to wait, I can put it at three nine, maybe four.”

She’s talking millions! Merrick was right about the price. I knew it had gone up in price, but nowhere near that. It’s crazy money.

“Thank you, Ms Wright. I have another agent coming around this afternoon. If you can put the numbers in an email for me, I’ll get back to you with my decision by the end of the day.”

She nods, but I don’t miss the glower of annoyance. She’s already calculating her commission. “Very well. I have your details, so I’ll get it all to you right away.” She steps out of the garage, into the kitchen, and through to the front door. As she walks out, she turns to me again, flipping her hair back from her shoulder. “If you want it sold correctly, Mr McClean, you’ll choose me.”

“Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” I wait until she’s got in her expensive Porsche, and close the door.

I lean against the door and let out a low whistle. That’s so much money. What could I do with that? The answer is anything I want. I can live my dream and have my own gym. On the other hand, she could be full of grand ideas and bullshit. Another agent is due soon. Maybe I’ll get a better feel about them.

When the doorbell rings again, I’ve checked out Ms Wright a bit more. Her business is well respected, but some comments mentioned her pushy attitude, and both purchasers and vendors found themselves bulldozed into making a decision.

The new agent is also expensively dressed in a suit to die for, but he’s a lot more approachable, and his enthusiasm for my house makes me feel a little less anxious about actually selling it. He comes with roughly the same figures but isn’t anywhere near as aggressive in his pitch. I already know I’ll be using him, but I promise to let him know by the close of business today.

Just past four o’clock, I call him to confirm his offer. After agreeing to read and sign the contract he sends, my house is on the market. I also agree to leave it furnished, allowing prospective buyers a better idea of size and space. The next call isn’t as pleasant.

“Mr McClean, how prompt you are. Are you ready for me to send over the contract?” she says sweetly.

“Unfortunately, Ms Wright, I’ve decided to use a different agency. Thank you for your time this afternoon.”

“You’re making a mistake.” The words are sharp enough to cut glass. “But I guess I’ll have to wait. You’ll be back in touch when you don’t get a sale from the other agency.”

“I doubt that very much.” I give her a curt goodbye and end the call. She really is full of herself.

I check the time. It’s early enough to drive back to Devon. I don’t want to be here by myself for another night.

As I get back in my car, I give Merrick a call. “I’m on my way home.”

And that’s exactly how it feels.

I’ve been back a couple of days and have pretty much kept my head down, except for the first night when I went to the pub for something to eat. All I’ve done is give the house a good clean and get groceries to stock the empty fridge and cupboards. It was easier to have the food delivered than face the real world. The news of my return will have got back to Drew. What kind of reception will I get from him? I haven’t forgotten the photo of Kate he sent me, still curious as to why he had. My apology has to come with an explanation and a huge dose of humble pie.

It can’t put it off any longer. I have to get it over with. I open my front door and dash to my truck. The weather is foul with the wind and the rain coming straight from the sea. I shake my head to dispel the raindrops, splattering them on the inside of the windscreen. As I search for a cloth to wipe them away, someone pulls up behind me.

It's Drew.

Is he getting out, or are we having a pissing contest?

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