Chapter Nineteen Bella
Chapter Nineteen
Bella
He turns to me, cocks an eyebrow, and smiles in that way that reminds me of the first time I saw him. He steps closer and trails a finger down my spine.
Goosebumps travel up my arms.
‘Felt you staring,’ he says, with that crooked grin. ‘I’ve got time if you want to go back to bed.’
I desperately do want to, but I’m already zipped into my navy sheath dress, hair smoothed, make-up done. I set my mug in the sink. ‘Tempting, but I’ve got to run.’
He wraps an arm around my waist and tugs me nearer. ‘Nice warm duvet. Nice warm hands.’
‘Don’t you have to get to work too?’
He shrugs, lips grazing my ear. ‘Yes, but there’s no rush.’
‘Lucky you,’ I reply, snagging a slice of his toast and taking a bite of its warm, buttery deliciousness.
I turn at the sound of the mail landing on the mat. The usual waste-of-paper circulars, along with an ominous brown envelope that looks suspiciously like it’s from HMRC. For a wild nanosecond, I allow myself to imagine that maybe they’re giving me a rebate.
Ha, as if.
I drop Reece’s toast back on to the plate and head into the hall, bending to retrieve the envelope. I rip the letter open rather than giving in to the urge to toss it in the bin.
Audit.
HMRC are doing an audit. I feel the blood recede from my hands.
The word hangs in my head, echoing with bureaucratic venom.
I scan the letter again. It’s not a summons or a court date, but still .
. . an audit. There’s no reason given, only instructions, and it feels personal, like a grudge.
My saliva dries out. I fold the letter quickly before Reece can read it.
I don’t want him to see me panic about money.
It’s a weird pride thing, maybe. Or self-preservation.
I’ll have to call Jenny, my accountant, see if she can shed any light.
‘Everything all right?’ Reece’s voice floats over my shoulder.
I fold the letter back into its envelope and shove it in my handbag. ‘What? Oh, yeah, fine. Just tax stuff.’
He nods, but I feel his gaze lingering. I wonder if I should say more.
That I’m worried, that I always feel like I’m one mistake away from disaster.
I want to tell him about the late-night spreadsheets, the little lies I tell my accountant so she doesn’t judge.
But I don’t. It isn’t the kind of relationship where we talk real talk, even after all this time.
I guess you could say it’s a little superficial.
I’m not sure how or why we’ve ended up this way – maybe we’re both too worried about scaring the other off.
Or maybe Reece’s life really is that perfect, and I’m too afraid of showing him that mine is not.
‘You sure?’ he asks, and there’s a softness to it that makes me uneasy.
I wonder if I should tell him. If I should unload my problems, or at least this one.
But what if he isn’t sympathetic, or he brushes it off?
Reece always tells me he was attracted to my boss-bitch energy.
That he loves how independent I am. If I show him my vulnerable side, might it make us stronger? Or would it ruin what we have?
I think about my parents, how they communicate in code, never quite saying the thing directly.
I was raised on subtext. My mother’s way of apologising is to cut up fruit and leave it on my desk.
I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed either of them cry – maybe Dad once when our dog, River, died.
But Mum . . . never. Even when Dad had his heart attack, she was stressed and panicked, but I never saw actual tears.
Maybe she shed them in private. Maybe not.
I adopted all their defensive strategies, and now I barely know how to have a feeling in front of another person unless I disguise it as a joke.
I force a smile, zip my bag shut. ‘All good,’ I reply, kissing Reece goodbye. My breath feels stale, my teeth too big, and while I’m not a crier, I get the weird urge to sob.
By the time I’m at the car, the sky has collapsed into a classic winter drizzle, cold and grey and relentless. I fire up the engine and sit for a full minute with my hands on the wheel. I have to show a house in half an hour. I have to pretend none of this is happening.
Traffic is an insult – endless lorries and a yellow double-decker with the nerve to break down on the roundabout near my flat.
I tap at my steering wheel like I know Morse code, but it doesn’t make the van in front of me move any faster.
All the while, that HMRC letter pecks away at my brain, the word ‘audit’ hammering at my skull.
My phone buzzes with two new messages, both marked ‘urgent’. One from Jenny, and the other from Talia at the office. I don’t read either of them.
The showing I’m meant to attend is at a new ‘luxury eco-village’ development along the A337. The kind of place that has marketing copy about ‘elevated living’ and ‘village amenities’ but is actually just a bunch of identical boxes with a sculptural bike rack and a pond masquerading as a lake.
When I finally swing on to the road, I’m only five minutes late, but my clients – an engaged couple who want to buy before their wedding next spring – are already there, huddled under a green umbrella that’s too small for both of them.
Usually, I like to get to a property early so I can turn off the alarm and check the place over first. No chance of that now.
The property itself is a two-storey eco-home with a biometric lock and dark solar panels that gleam from the roof even in this muted light, but .
. . what the hell? The path to the front door is no longer a path.
It’s a mudslide. Someone has dumped a literal mountain of wet, brown earth and rubble right in front of the house, so the walkway is blocked from kerb to door.
There’s no way around it except to wade through the grass, which is a soup of rain and clay.
Is this some construction delivery gone wrong?
I leave the dry interior of my car and step out into the drizzle, having left my brolly at home. I plaster a smile on and power-walk towards Molly and Ted, boots immediately saturated, skirt catching splatter. I briefly fantasise about the ground opening up and swallowing me whole.
‘Molly and Ted?’ I say, breathless and smiling like this is all perfectly normal.
They nod, and I thrust out my hand. ‘Hi, I’m Bella Newbury. Charming weather, eh?’
Molly smiles half-heartedly.
‘Is this the property?’ Ted asks. ‘Only we can’t see the house number behind all this . . .’ He gestures at the mud.
I ignore the lump in my throat. ‘Yes, this is it!’ I reply brightly. ‘There’s a bit of construction happening, but it’s all part of the neighbourhood’s new landscaping plan.’
The couple exchange glances, their faces tight with British politeness and the raw, biting cold.
‘Should be done by next week!’ I add, trying my best to smooth things over.
Molly gives a brittle laugh. ‘Will we be able to get in?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting here a sec, I’ll see if I can skirt around and get to the front door.’
My shoes sink into the soggy fringe of grass, and I feel the squelch of waterlogged earth through my boots as I edge past the mound that’s almost at head height.
With a sinking heart, I see that it’s been dumped right up to the entrance with no space to get to the door.
The door itself is spattered with flecks of brown, like the house has contracted a skin disease.
I’d have to get a shovel to clear a path, and I’m not doing that.
I turn to the couple and hold up a finger, asking them to wait a minute.
Maybe I can get in around the back. I push at the six-foot-high wooden side gate, but it’s not budging.
Must be bolted from the other side. I give the vendor a quick call, but it goes to voicemail, so I leave an urgent message.
I take a moment to collect myself – wet, muddy, out of breath, and one soggy misstep from a total breakdown.
Then, resigned, I limp back towards the prospective buyers, who are silently watching me from the safety of their umbrella.
Molly flashes me a look of commiseration, while Ted’s jaw tics in the way I imagine people’s do when they’re plotting a one-star Google review.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, cheeks burning. ‘There’s no way in. I’ve left a message with the vendor to find out what’s happened. As soon as I hear back, I’ll give you a call to reschedule.’
Molly gives me a sympathetic smile, but Ted huffs his annoyance. Irritatingly, this listing is also on with another agency. I hope the pair don’t decide to go with them instead.
‘I truly am sorry,’ I repeat.
I watch them pick their way back to their car, umbrella bobbing with each step.
I let a sigh leak out, roll my eyes at the rain, and trudge back to my own car, where I sit behind the wheel with my sodden coat on the passenger seat.
I reach for my phone, see five missed calls and two urgent texts, all from people who would almost certainly like to yell at me or, worse, demand things I can’t possibly deliver.
I don’t answer any of them.
I stare at the windscreen, tracing the way the droplets race down the glass, forming rivers that collide at the bottom and disappear.
I like to imagine that if I could hitch a ride on one of these droplets, I’d end up somewhere far away from all of this, preferably somewhere warm and dry.
Instead, I start the ignition and pull out of the development.
On the way to the office, I stop at a petrol station to pick up something for breakfast since all I’ve eaten today is a bite of Reece’s toast. The place is empty except for a cashier so deep in a TikTok scroll that she doesn’t notice me at all, which suits me fine.
I grab a Red Bull and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps, then add a Snickers for good measure, because why not?
The cashier rings me up without breaking eye contact with her phone, and I tap my business card on the reader.
Back in my car, I rip the crisp packet open and eat with desperate, greasy fingers, letting the crumbs fall where they may, imagining the entire audit team at HMRC laughing at my expense claims while sipping taxpayer-funded tea and biscuits.
I down the Red Bull next, enjoying the buzz.
My plan was to save the Snickers for later, but I’m already tearing the wrapper off.
I’m not ready to go back to the office. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I have to, because everything relies on me being a functioning cog in my own life. I dust the crumbs from my skirt, take a breath, and finally – finally – pick up my phone to answer my messages.
I click on my accountant’s first: Bella, please call me as soon as you get this.
My stomach clenches, and I drop the phone back into my bag, all my good intentions evaporating.