Chapter 7 Charlotte Six months later
Charlotte
Six months later
“Tall ceilings,” the woman remarked.
She hadn’t taken her shoes off. Nor had her husband. It made my teeth itch. Dad had hated shoes in the living room.
“Yes. Tall,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be giving a sales pitch. Tiff had coached me on some choice lines, but considering I wanted these people out of my house as quickly as possible, it was probably better to keep my mouth shut.
The man wandered to the French doors and peered through the smudges in the glass at the back garden.
Once upon a time, Dad had sat out there on sunny days with the radio on and his book of crossword puzzles.
The man’s bored eyes glided over Dad’s antique roses, the bird table, and the shed.
He appeared to be counting the cracks in the paving flags.
The pond had been home to Dad’s koi carp, sparkling with flashes of gold as one swam near the surface. Now, algae and leaf debris floated on the dirt. It was another job for my list.
“We’ll have to dredge that pond.” The woman wrinkled her nose as though this small body of water had personally offended her.
I hadn’t asked their names, and I didn’t care enough to ask now.
“And get it paved out front to fit both cars on the drive,” the man said.
My stomach dropped. Dad had worked so hard on his beautiful hydrangeas. I’d done my best to keep them going. I made to protest, but they disappeared into the kitchen as though they already owned the place.
The woman’s eyes roamed over the breakfast bar with disinterest. She hammered a fist on the wall that partitioned the kitchen from the dining room. “We can knock through and make it open plan. It will be a great space for entertaining.”
Ridiculous idea. That was a structural wall. They’d knock it through and the entire house would fall down. With any luck, they’d still be inside at the time of collapse.
The man sighed and glanced at the battered kitchen island. “I still think we’d be better with a newbuild.”
The woman shook her head. “I want character. This place actually feels like a home.”
Because it is a home. My family’s home. Every scratch and dent in this place told a story.
These strangers wouldn’t appreciate that.
Who did they think they were? Walking in here with their dirty shoes, rubbing their greedy hands together, thinking about lowballing us on an offer.
I wouldn’t be accepting a pound below the asking price, that was for sure.
Tiff had definitely let the estate agent underprice us.
I turned my face to the kitchen window so the intruders in Dad’s house wouldn’t catch my irritation. There was no reason to dislike these people so intensely, other than that they didn’t deserve this house. The sooner we got this over with, the better.
Squeezing around the kitchen island past them, I ushered them back through the hallway. “You probably want to see the bedrooms.”
They ambled up the stairs. The woman glanced at Dad’s stair lift. “Will you be getting rid of that or is that our responsibility to remove it?”
It was on my list of the million jobs I had to do to get the house ready. “The company will come and collect it.”
“Will you leave any of the furniture?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I’d have to, otherwise I’d be trying to ram it all into the one-bedroom flat I’d found to rent. But it was hard to even know where to start. Most of it was so old-fashioned, it wouldn’t get a good price second-hand, but I couldn’t bear to throw it away.
I hung back on the landing while the couple surveyed the bedrooms and the bathroom. The woman nodded enthusiastically when she saw the maroon bathroom units.
“I saw something like this on Instagram the other day. The retro aesthetic is a vibe.”
They probably thought I was out of earshot, but I caught the man’s sarcastic reply. “Sure. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Resolve hardened my heart. It was bad enough that we had to sell.
At least we could sell it to the right people.
Dad would have wanted decent people moving in here, not people who didn’t appreciate his rose bushes or took the piss out of his bathroom.
And absolutely not the kind of psychopaths who didn’t take their outdoor shoes off in the living room.
The woman twisted in a circle, surveying Dad’s bedroom. Nobody came up here. A stale smell hung in the air, even when I opened the windows. Dad had slept downstairs. I’d spent most of my nights next to him on a camp bed. It was easier when he needed to use the commode.
A saccharine smile formed on the woman’s face. “I like it, actually. It’s cozy. I always felt like, when it was the right house, I’d know. It’s like falling in love, isn’t it? When it’s right, you just know.”
No. You don’t know. Go and fall in love with someone else’s house.
I gave her a polite nod when really I wanted to roll my eyes so far back I’d see my own brain.
It didn’t matter what my heart was saying.
I had to dig deep and get this done. This wasn’t just about me.
It was about Tiff. Tiff had kids and loans. She needed the money.
I smacked my hands too loudly on my thighs. “Shall we wrap it up? Thank you for coming.”
The couple chattered happily as they followed me to the front door.
“Oh.” The woman clapped her hands suddenly. “I forgot to ask the obvious. Why are you selling?”
Because Dad is gone. Because my sister is forcing me. “I’m not.”
The words hung in the air between us. My heart pounded.
The woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You’ve had another offer? Already? The estate agent said we’d be the first to view.”
“Right. I’m sorry. We made a mistake. It’s not for sale anymore.”
Stop. What are you doing? Panic gripped me. My mouth was spewing words that my brain hadn’t approved. If this woman phoned the estate agent to tell them the house wasn’t for sale anymore, then Tiff would know I’d messed this up.
Maybe it would be different if it was someone nice.
Someone who had complimented Dad’s roses and didn’t want to bulldoze a structural wall.
No. Who was I kidding? Even if the world’s best person walked in here, I’d struggle with it.
Malala could show up carrying her Nobel Peace Prize and declare she wanted to set up a school for girls, and I’d still be annoyed she needed to knock a wall through to fit in the desks.
“Sorry about the inconvenience.” I folded my arms. “Thanks for coming.”
“Are you sure?” She exchanged a glance with the man that was so soppy it made me wish I hadn’t thrown the sick bucket away. “We kind of love this house.”
Tough luck. I loved it first and much harder. “Yes. Sure. Big mistake. Not for sale. Goodbye.”
I closed the door before I had to face any more excruciating awkwardness.
Tiff was going to kill me. We’d been having the same conversation for six months.
I sank down against the hallway wall to sit on the faded carpet.
The constant ache in my chest was like a knife buried so deep, I’d never be able to remove it. We had to sell. It was the only way.
Framed photos cluttered the opposite wall.
They were all group shots of boys standing shoulder to shoulder in bottle-green uniforms. The hairstyles changed over the years: mullets, buzz cuts, curtains, even a mohawk.
What had happened to all these kids from Dad’s school?
They probably had dazzling careers and partners and kids of their own.
They’d probably traveled. They’d probably done exciting things.
My gaze landed on Cole in the back row of one of the photos.
A strange heat buzzed through me. I stood and traced a finger over the sullen-looking teenager who had once been the most important person in my life.
Cole Thorner could afford this house. It was such madness.
He’d shown up here like a genie offering to grant my wishes, and all I had to do was marry him.
The problem was, he hadn’t made it clear whether the deal would also involve rubbing his magic lamp.
Marrying a man who had treated me the way Cole had was preposterous.
No one in their right mind would ever consider it.
But I had been considering it. How could I not?
The offer had drifted to mind constantly over the past six months.
My head was such a mess after losing Dad, I couldn’t give it the proper attention.
One of my old paintings on the wall caught my eye—a carpet of bluebells among tall trees.
I’d spent every spring in the woods painting.
I’d been obsessed with the way such beautiful flowers could bloom in the coolest, shadiest parts of the forest. Back then, my future as an artist had glittered brightly in front of me.
I pulled out my phone and texted the number I’d saved. My thumb hovered over the keypad. Six months had passed since the wake. It was so surreal that maybe I’d imagined the whole thing. I took a deep breath and messaged. Is the offer still open?
I added another line in case he was regularly proposing to women from his past. It’s Lottie, by the way.
I chewed my fingernails, feeling increasingly nervous.
Maybe he’d propositioned someone else and already had another fake wife.
Cole wasn’t the type to wait around for things.
He was impatient. If he wanted something, he’d always gone after it.
I added another line. It’s fine if it’s not open anymore. I just wanted to check.
Blue ticks appeared next to the messages, but no reply. Perhaps I was going crazy. Grief could send you mad, couldn’t it? Maybe that entire conversation with him was some epic multilayered hallucination. Dots danced on the screen as he replied. Hello, Charlotte. The offer is still open.
A jolt of adrenaline went through me. No. It was ridiculous. My head was a mess. This was too much to process. I tapped out a reply. Actually, forget it. Sorry. I changed my mind. I can’t.
I shoved my phone deep into my pocket. No more of that. Cole Thorner was a genie best kept firmly in the bottle.