by Gemma Rogers
I considered for a second, chewing the inside of my cheek. ‘I don’t know. Names out of a hat maybe? It has to be fair; you can’t choose.’
Gareth’s face sagged and he turned back to the game. Who did he want to pick?
Suddenly there was an awkwardness where it had never been before. We’d been playing in his room since we were tiny, but for the first time the atmosphere was charged. I pretended I needed the toilet to get out of there.
Had I made a terrible mistake, coming up with the idea? Would the whole thing be around school before we even started the new term? The idea of the blonde bitches getting hold of it made me hyperventilate. If this was going to work, we couldn’t tell anyone outside of the group.
The next stage was convincing my friends to do it. We’d spent a lot of time talking about it. But talking about doing it and actually doing it were two different things.
4
September 2018
As we left 32 Park Lane, I tried to shake off the feeling of unease Gareth’s death had brought with it. A blanket of foreboding attached itself to my shoulders and I carried it with me, hunched over from the weight. The news seemed to thrust old memories, long forgotten, to the forefront of my mind. We could have walked a different path if I’d changed my mind back then.
When Hope and I returned to the office, I told the team I had to make some calls and retreated behind the comfort of my desk. Closing the door, a sign to be left alone, safe in my sanctuary to gather myself. I typed Gareth Dixon into Google to see what popped up. There were a few hits for a consultant, LinkedIn and Facebook profiles, but there was one from the local paper reporting the accident. The article was brief and gave very little details other than Gareth had died in a car accident and they were appealing for witnesses to come forward.
My shoulders sagged as I bent over the desk, finding the website for Interflora and ordering some flowers to be sent to Sue and Jim. They were like a second set of parents to me as a child, their home as familiar as my own.
My mobile rang, vibrating loudly and skittering across the table. I jumped at the interruption. The number was withheld, but that wasn’t unusual. I slid my finger across the screen to answer.
‘Hello, Sophie White speaking.’
At first, I didn’t hear anything. I strained my ears, just about to end the call, but then I heard a clicking sound and a man’s voice spoke.
‘Sophie, she was the one. I was crazy about her back then.’ There was a cough and the line went dead.
‘Hello? Hello?’ I dropped the phone and it bounced on the floor.
That voice, weirdly familiar. Who was it? It had to be a joke, not that it made any sense.
I tugged my blazer around me. Was the air con turned up too high, or was it the hint of something that ran through my body, turning my veins frigid? I had to get out, go for a walk and clear my head.
I told Frank I was popping out and took off down the road, striding at a pace to stamp out the thoughts that spiralled. I wandered around the village, on a tour of all my old haunts. Places I hadn’t visited for years because I no longer had any reason to. The postbox at the end of the road where we used to meet, the park and then Robyn’s house. Afterwards I made my way to Becca’s and then to Gareth’s, whose parents were the only ones still living in the same place. I almost knocked, but the sight of their closed curtains changed my mind. They were grieving, shut away from the world, and I didn’t want to disturb them.
I carried on walking, unable to remember the exact house Hayley had lived in, so many had been painted or had extensions built that it was hard to distinguish which one was hers. Gradually, the sun began to fade and it was time to head back. My head filled with happier times.
Frank was the last one left in the office, and I caught him as he was locking up.
‘You all right, poppet?’ he asked, eyes narrowed.
‘Yeah, one of those days. An old school friend died at the weekend; Mum rang me yesterday. It’s weird how it brings back old memories I’d forgotten.’
‘Bad ones?’ he asked.
‘No, not all bad.’
I squeezed his shoulder and sent him home. His wife Diane would be waiting with something warm in the oven.
My mobile rang again, and I fumbled in my pocket to get it, my stomach sinking. I made sure I was inside the office with the door locked and lights off before I answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Sophie?’ A lady’s voice this time. Not another prank call.
‘Speaking, how can I help?’
‘It’s Mrs Davidson, Judith. I’ve taken the house off the market with Osbornes. I tried to speak to them about lowering the price and the salesman told me I didn’t know what I was talking about.’
I listened intently. I knew if she gave them enough rope, they’d hang themselves.
‘So, I’d like you to take it on. Shall we agree a price of £375,000. How does that sound?’
‘Yes. It’s more in line with what I was thinking, Mrs Davidson. That way it catches everyone looking up to £400,000. I believe offers in excess of that, what Osbornes were asking, is not realistic in today’s market.’
‘Perfect, I’ll pop in tomorrow to make it official. Shall we say 10 a.m.?’
‘Of course, I’ll have the paperwork ready for signing,’ I agreed.
Mrs Davidson ended the call and I chuckled; she was a force to be reckoned with.
The week flew by and on Friday morning Gary had arranged five viewings for 32 Park Lane, three of those being property developers looking for a fast turnaround. The only issue with that was, even though they had no chain and were cash buyers, they often wanted the property at a knock-down price. Having a bigger profit at the end of it was what enticed them to buy after all. Mrs Davidson was happy with the progress and a cream ‘For Sale’ board with Whites’ logo took pride of place at the front of her garden. I’d sent Gary and Hope to take the photos and measurements. I had no intention of going back to that house anytime soon.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ Hope crashed through the entrance to the office, hopping from one foot to the other. A take-away coffee cup gripped in one hand.
‘Hope!’ I hissed, my nostrils flaring at her outburst. Thank goodness it was a little too early for customers.
‘Sorry,’ she lowered her voice.
I tried to conceal the laugh that was forming in my throat. She looked like a princess who had trodden in faeces.
‘What is it?’
‘A rat, that’s what. A bloody rat. On the doorstep! I just stepped in it! Disgusting.’ Hope kicked off her high heels and stomped barefoot to the kitchen.
I shook my head. Rat? What rat? I’d come in the back way from upstairs so hadn’t been out front yet. It wasn’t until I opened the door to the street, I saw the carcass of a dead rat, mouth hanging open and pointy little teeth on show. It was laid across the concrete below the step up into the agency, bloody and flattened like it had been run over, a gash exposing its entrails. I took a step back, my hand over my mouth, bile rising fast.
‘It’s okay, I’ll deal with it,’ said Frank in a calm voice as he came in, stepping past me over the threshold, managing to avoid what Hope had not.
‘What the fuck?’ I hissed, leaning back on Frank’s desk. There was no way that rat had just decided to croak at my door. It had been killed and placed there for my benefit. Who would do such a disgusting thing?
Osbornes, it had to be Osbornes. Revenge for stealing Gary and taking on Park Lane. I was too old for childish bullshit. They wouldn’t have dared pull a stunt like that with my father in charge.
Grabbing my blazer from the peg, I thrust my arms in, white-hot flashes blurring my vision.
‘Where are you going? Sophie don’t do anything rash,’ Frank called, clutching a bin bag, as he emerged from the kitchen.
I didn’t answer him, leaping over the rodent corpse and storming up the street.
A minute later, I was banging on the door of the estate agents, who
were yet to open. When Colin the branch manager answered, I pushed past him. He looked half asleep, clutching a mug of steaming hot coffee. I was tempted to tip it over him.
‘Sophie, always a pleasure. Please come in and good morning to you too.’ The sarcasm dripping in his voice.
‘What the fuck, Colin? Aren’t we past this kind of juvenile behaviour? Because, trust me, you don’t want to go to war with me. I’m one crazy bitch,’ I spat. I must have looked mental. Wild-eyed and ready to blow. The vein in my forehead throbbed.
‘I’ve got no idea what you’re on about. Did you forget to take your meds this morning or what?’ Smarmy little shit.
I scowled, balling my hands into fists to stop myself lashing out, but I hadn’t failed to notice the genuine confusion on his face. ‘The rat. Are you telling me that wasn’t you?’
‘No. I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he replied, scratching his receding hairline. Although Colin had previously employed underhand tactics on occasion, he’d never stooped so low before and I didn’t think he was lying.
Without another word, I turned and marched out of the office, walking around the block until the rage began to disperse. It if wasn’t Osbornes trying to engage in some kind of ridiculous turf war, who was it? Was it someone trying to mess with me? First the weird phone call, now a dead rat at my door. Had someone got a vendetta against me or Whites?
I racked my brain, going around in circles. Who had I upset? No one came to mind. There was a reason why I ran the business the way I did. To avoid all that kind of shit. Had I insulted someone unintentionally? Was someone trying to scare me? I was too angry to feel scared, but the rat hadn’t just decided to die on my doorstep. Someone had delivered me roadkill. Who would do such a thing?
I was mystified and still none the wiser when I returned to the office to find Frank had removed it and rinsed away the evidence from the pavement.
I called a quick team meeting to allay any fears that we were being targeted.
‘And I apologise for all the swearing. Thank you so much, Frank, for taking care of the rat. How are your shoes, Hope?’
She wrinkled her nose and eyed her stiletto. ‘I don’t think there are any more rat guts on them.’ Which got a laugh from the rest of the team.
‘Well, we carry on, business as usual. If someone has an issue with Whites, the best way forward is to push on, sell more and not engage.’
Everyone went back to work, and Frank took me aside in the kitchen as I made tea.
‘Was it Osbornes?’ he whispered.
‘No,’ I said, sure it wasn’t. Colin’s bewildered expression told me he had no idea what I was talking about.
‘Is there anything I should know, Sophie?’ Frank’s brow furrowed.
‘No, Frank, and please don’t mention it to Dad.’
‘Then who was it?’
I knew he was concerned. There had never been anything like this when my father was in charge.
‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.’
5
September 2018
On Saturday morning I called a security company to install a discreet camera at the front of the agency. Something that would not be obvious to the general public; a small white dome on the edge of the fascia board, connected to my wi-fi so I could view the exterior through an app on my phone wherever I was. No one was going to be able to pull a stunt like that again and not be recorded. I hadn’t reported the dead rat to the police; Frank had cleared it quickly and I hadn’t thought to take any photos. I was more focused on ensuring it was moved before any customers arrived.
Saturdays were busy, we opened until one o’clock but functioned on a skeleton staff, taking turns who worked from one week to the next. I had Lucy and Hope with me in the office to field customer enquiries and the morning was busy with people coming in off the street who wanted to register. We handed out property particulars like sweets and I had to get Hope to print some more and restock. I received a cheeky offer from a property developer who’d been to see 32 Park Lane. It was twenty thousand under the asking price, so I was reluctant to give Mrs Davidson the news.
Luckily, Hope booked a second viewing. A young family who were keen to visit that day. They weren’t put off having to modernise, as they needed a bigger house, but were struggling to find anything within their budget. Hope asked if she could handle the appointment and I was happy for her to go. I was confident Hope could manage it and I was only on the end of the phone if she needed me. Second viewings were often a formality, a time for measuring and deciding what furniture would go where. The decision to buy was made the first time a family entered the house.
‘Can you let Mrs Davidson know that she’s had an offer, tell her how much it is, but tell her not to rush into agreeing anything. We’re aware it’s a low offer and hopefully we’ll be lucky with this second viewing. We could have another offer for her on Monday.’ I didn’t want Mrs Davidson to accept anything less than what the house was worth, and I knew the developer was chancing his arm.
At midday, there was a lull in traffic and I retreated to my desk to eat a sandwich I’d grabbed from the supermarket. I hadn’t slept well all week; thinking about Gareth and then, last night, every time I closed my eyes, I saw rats. Their dead eyes staring up at me accusingly, as if I’d slaughtered them. It was niggling me as I had no idea who would have done such a horrible thing. Whoever it was must hate me or Whites and that made me feel vulnerable. I was living alone, in a flat above my place of work but I was also the one in charge of the business. Sometimes the enormous sense of responsibility overwhelmed me. When that happened, my dad would have to talk me down from the ledge.
I wasn’t sure I wanted the family business and all the history that came with it. The pressure to succeed, to keep turning over money for a family I may never have. Ironically, since I took over, there had been no time for dating anyway. But it was my name above the door, my dad’s name and his before him. I owed it to them to try my best and growing up here I’d learnt everything there was to know about selling houses.
I was going to my parents’ house tomorrow for Sunday lunch as I usually did. Every week I’d go and check in on them both to see if they needed anything, catch up on what they’d been doing. Mum was cooking roast lamb, my favourite, but I knew the conversation would centre around Gareth’s death and for that reason I wasn’t looking forward to it.
On Sunday morning, I woke with the same sense of dread as the day before. I’d tossed and turned all night, imagining I could hear someone scuttling around in the office below. The rat had got me spooked and I considered fitting cameras inside the office as well as outside, to put my mind at rest.
Fuelled by coffee and a hot shower, I trudged downstairs to check everything was normal. The office was empty, as I had left it. There was no sign of any disturbance or that anyone had been inside. I cringed, remembering waking in a daze and being close to calling the police as I was convinced of an intruder. Realising eventually, I was caught up in my own paranoia and no one was in the flat.
Then I saw it. The envelope was handwritten, with only my name on the front, so it caught my attention immediately, sitting on top of the pile of post that had dropped onto the mat. I always picked up the post early every day, even Sunday, in case anything had been hand-delivered. Saturday’s post must have been delivered late, after we’d closed, which wasn’t unusual.
I bent down to pick up the pile, a flash of recognition that the handwriting looked familiar. Then I remembered the strange sentence written on a blank piece of paper earlier in the week. What I had thought to be a publicity stunt. That was addressed to ‘The Owner’; this one was addressed to Sophie White.
I turned the envelope over in my hand as I walked to my desk, discarding the other mail. Dread erupting in the pit of my stomach, causing the hair on my arms to bristle and I shivered involuntarily. Nothing good was going to be inside.
Steeling myself, I ripped open the envelope. It wasn’t a let
ter this time, but a greetings card. A picture of two bright red cherries bound by their stalk and a pastel-green leaf embossed on the front. The slogan ‘You are the cherry on my cake’ printed in black surrounding the image.
Inside, in the same handwriting as before, was a single sentence:
Who popped yours?
Fear gripped my stomach, wrenching it violently, saliva filling my mouth. All at once, it made sense. Now I understood the connection between the messages: ‘Who was my first?’ and ‘Who popped yours?’ What did it matter who my first was? It wasn’t anyone’s business. Who was playing this silly game?
I tried to tell myself it was a prank, a childish joke, but my jaw tightened. Grinding my teeth as my brain whirled. What if the person sending the notes was the same one who left the rat at my door? But why? It was twenty-odd years ago. Who cared who I lost my virginity to?
I hurried back upstairs and sat at the kitchen table, the card standing to attention like a centrepiece as I scrolled through Facebook. I hardly ever used Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. I didn’t have a large group of friends who were dying to know what I did daily or what I had for dinner, but I had to find Elliot and my friends from back then. I believed I was the only one who never left Copthorne.
I typed in Elliot Peters and, as I expected, a long list of people appeared on the screen. I scrolled down and clicked on a few, expanding their tiny profile pictures to see clearer, but none were him. I clicked on Gareth; we’d friended on Facebook a few years ago, exchanged a couple of messages to say hi and catch up.
Gareth’s page was still live, his wall full of condolences. Friends sharing their memories and photos of him. I scrolled through them, my stomach flipping. Gareth looked as I remembered him, although he had been seriously hitting the gym. Underneath the muscles, that sweet little boy was still obvious in his chiselled jawline.