The Open House

by Sam Carrington

  Suzanne nods and disappears again.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says as she reappears moments later. ‘It really isn’t there. He might’ve accidentally taken it with the others he just removed—’

  Before she can finish that sentence, I turn and leave. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret later.

  My mind is buzzing as I walk back to work – and not in a good way. My palms are sticky with sweat where I’ve had my hands balled into fists. My heart is banging as though I’ve just treated it to a direct injection of caffeine.

  I was right to be worried.

  Not because Carl has lost my key, as I first thought, but because he’s purposely avoiding giving it back. Why would that be?

  Maybe my only course of action is to get the lock changed.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Barb

  My eyes are heavy; my limbs too. I try to rub away the stiffness in my legs. I’m so tired. I lie awake worrying most nights. I have done for a long time, but it’s been even worse since Amber split up from Nick. I honestly didn’t see that coming. After a shaky beginning, where I didn’t think Amber was good enough for my Nick, I grew to accept, even love her. I treated her like a daughter because she’d lost her own mother at a young age. How stupid of me to have trusted her with my family. With my house.

  Looking back, I’ve made a number of mistakes, though. Or maybe I should say errors of judgement. It’s not just Amber who has the monopoly on that. If I hadn’t had to ask Nick for help – get that second mortgage, put his name onto everything – I’d have the money to buy my house back now. But, I did what I had to do at the time. I was struggling financially – had been since Bern’s death. Eventually, the only way of keeping the house was to get Nick to put his money in. Which, of course, meant that when I agreed he and Amber should have the house for themselves, he only had to buy my share. If I’d insisted on them moving in with me, instead, I’d still be there. But I didn’t. I sank that money, and the only savings I had, into this sheltered bungalow. Even if I could sell it right now, I couldn’t raise enough money to buy the house back outright. And clearly, at my age, I’m not going to be able to get a mortgage. Not even a loan with my credit history.

  Thanks, Bern.

  People start to ignore you when you hit a certain age, I’m sure of it. Not in the sense they don’t speak to you anymore, no – it’s more that they don’t see you. And what they choose to see isn’t always the reality. For example, I know Amber sees me as the annoying mother-in-law. More than that, she sees me as a bit frail – arthritis limiting my movements. It does affect me, that’s very true, but it’s not debilitating yet. I don’t need to limp or hobble. That’s what Amber perceives because sometimes, I admit, that’s what I choose to show. There’s a certain sense of safety in her believing I’m not as agile as I actually am.

  I suppose it’s an element of control that I have. That I need.

  That way, I remain under the radar.

  I’m sitting with one of my photo albums on my lap, the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. I love having something solid to hold; physical proof of my once happy family. I think it’s such a shame this tradition is being replaced with images on a phone, or computer. It’s not the same. I love flicking through my albums, remembering happier times.

  When I had Nick and Tim.

  When I had Bern.

  I slip one of the photos from its clear, protective sleeve. It’s a rare one of my boys all together in the house. I remember taking it. We’d all been sitting around the dining-room table, having just finished eating dinner. And Tim had looked at Bern and said, Good day at work, Dad? Bern had seemed taken aback – it was usually him enquiring about their day at school. He’d appeared genuinely touched someone had asked him for a change. Within moments, he and the boys were deep in conversation – even Nick, who was only seven, was engrossed. I got up from the table unnoticed and managed to snap this photo at just the right time. All of them chatting together – a normal, cohesive family.

  One that would be destroyed soon after that moment.

  I touch their smiling, immobile faces now. A joyful moment in time, forever captured. I close my eyes and try to recall their voices, their vibrancy.

  The three of them together.

  Bern looks happy, too, in this photo; his last. That’s what I choose to see.

  “Barb ’n’ Bern”. It had always been how people referred to us. We came as a pair. We were spoken of as a pair. I smile at the memory – but then I feel my face slacken. A cloud descends. There were bad memories, too.

  His sudden death; its aftermath.

  The funeral.

  Losing Tim.

  Huge tears bump down over my cheeks. So much loss.

  I slam the photo album shut and wipe my tears away. I can’t live through any more pain.

  I replace the album underneath the coffee table and get up, walking towards the back of the bungalow, a bit stiff. I still have my Nick. And for the moment, I still have Amber, Finley and Leo. I must hold on to them. Crouching down, I reach an arm to the back of the utility cupboard, retrieving the black, leather-bound A4-sized book I concealed there. I take it to the lounge and flip through the pages until I get to the details I need.

  The phone vibrates in my hand – it’s not ringing, it’s jiggling because my hands are. It’s not that I want to do this; I have to. There are only so many things I can think of doing that will prevent me losing everything. Stop Nick from losing everything too.

  I dial the number beside the name, pressing the buttons slowly; decisively.

  The woman answers on the fourth ring – a bright, cheerful Hello.

  ‘Oh, hello. Sylvia Mann, is it?’ I ask. My voice has a tremble to it; I cough to clear my throat and restore some strength to my tone.

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  ‘You don’t know me, but I’m aware you’re looking at property in the area,’ I say more confidently now. I allow a pause before I continue. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m interfering, but I wasn’t sure you’d been given the full facts.’

  ‘Oh? And what might they be?’ Sylvia Mann is unsure now, her tone inquisitorial.

  ‘For example, were you aware that property developers are trying to buy up the houses in Apple Grove, which I believe is the estate you were specifically interested in?’

  ‘Sorry, what did you say your name was again?’

  I ignore this and rush on. ‘I suspect you’ve been told it’s not going ahead, however, that’s not entirely true. It was only the first phase of the planning that was turned down and they have already put in a counterclaim and will go through any “back doors” to get what they want in the longer term. They’re intending to take a great deal of the gardens that back onto the fields they want to build on and eventually will force you to sell the whole property to them and demolish the lot for their huge development. That’s what these big companies do, you see – they bully you into selling. And one of the houses, the one next to the property you wanted to view, has already been snapped up by them …’

  ‘Right, well … er …’ Sylvia sighs. ‘Thank you for your call, I guess.’

  The line goes dead.

  I hadn’t finished, really – I’d more to say. But that’ll give her something to think about for now. It might even be enough. This knowledge would certainly make me think twice about wanting to buy the house.

  I return the diary to the utility room. I’ll make a note of the other numbers later, then sneak it back – hopefully as easily as when I slid it from the desk into my tote bag when their backs were turned. Carl will assume he just misplaced it due to the stress he’s under. Being a familiar face at Move Horizon has offered me some unexpected opportunities. Suzanne is happy to oblige even when I ask for updates on the sale of a house that no longer belongs to me and often lets little snippets of info slip when I’m there, hovering. My near-invisibility proves quite useful.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Amber


  I must’ve been so visibly distracted when I returned to work after being at the estate agent’s that Olive told me to go home early. The last appointment had cancelled, so she said she’d finish up. I didn’t hesitate to take her up on the offer.

  I falter at the front door, nervous to put my key in the lock. I still haven’t let go of the idea there’s a missing thirteenth viewer, hiding in the house. I’ve tried. Apart from me believing I’d counted thirteen go in, and only twelve leave, there’s no evidence to confirm my suspicion.

  I push the key in the lock and open the door.

  There’s no evidence to categorically refute it, either.

  It’s eerily quiet when I step inside. Too quiet. I can’t even hear the deep, struggling thrum of the fridge. I don’t close the door, and I stay right beside it. I want an unimpeded exit if required. Even the street outside seems uncharacteristically quiet. All the kids are still at school, though – I guess it’s a time I’m not usually at home. Still. It adds to my uneasiness. The fact, too, that I’ve managed to make it this far without Davina hollering across the road at me is incongruent.

  Why is it so quiet?

  I try to reason with myself that the silence is a good thing. If someone was inside, I’d be able to hear them. No one could keep themselves this quiet – I can literally hear the drip of the tap from the upstairs bathroom. I exhale long and slow, then turn to close the door.

  Just to put my mind to rest, I go to the kitchen – I’ll grab a knife from the block and check each room of the house to be sure. The silence in the kitchen is all wrong. I open the fridge. No light. Shit. It’s finally packed up. I wanted it to last until I was ready to leave. But then I realise it’s not the only noise that’s missing. I check the freezer, then switch on the lights. Nothing.

  A power cut.

  I almost laugh. I’ve allowed my imagination to carry me in the wrong direction yet again. How long has it been off, though? As I’m about to nip outside to ask a neighbour, something catches my eye in the lounge. For a moment, I can’t figure out what’s wrong; something is off, but I’m not sure what. There’s a different feel about it. It seems bigger, somehow.

  My legs weaken and I back up to the wall, leaning against it for support.

  The solid-wood coffee table has been moved. It’s no longer in front of the three-seater sofa, it’s beside it, underneath the window.

  My eyes dart around the room, quickly assessing whether anything else is out of place. I don’t think it is.

  Carl must’ve moved it. Yes, that’s most likely it. He and that man came in earlier. I remember he looked as though he had a tape measure. Of course, he was probably measuring to see if his own furniture would fit, and they simply forgot to move the table back.

  I heave a sigh of relief and pull myself together. What is wrong with me?

  Outside the front door, I catch a couple who are walking by in the hope they live in one of the houses in this estate.

  ‘Hi,’ I call. ‘How long has the power been off, do you know?’

  ‘You got a power cut, love?’ The man stops at the kerb and gives me a quizzical look.

  ‘Yes, haven’t you?’

  ‘Nope. All good at number thirty-two. Not heard anyone on the estate having any issues today. I’d call your provider, love. See what they’ve been up to.’

  ‘Yes, will do,’ I say, putting a hand up in thanks.

  It’s times like this when I wish Nick was here because he’d have immediately known what to do. Maybe it’s a simple fuse-box issue – I’ll try that first. I go back inside, duck down under the stairs and begin pulling shoes out the way, reminding me how I did this only a few days ago, and access the box by pulling the lid down. Every single switch is pointed up. Is that right? If it is, then this box clearly isn’t the problem. I flick one of them down, just to check. Immediately I hear the droning hum of the fridge.

  ‘Excellent! Well, done, girl.’ I proceed to position all the switches down, and then check the downstairs lights and appliances. Everything now seems to be working.

  For a moment, I feel chuffed with myself. But then concern washes over me. Why were all of the switches up? I remember Nick saying that the lightbulb blowing in the bathroom had tripped them once before, but I’m sure he said that it isolates that one; it doesn’t make all the switches flick off. My mind whirs.

  And because of the power issue, I’d forgotten to check the whole house.

  I quietly manoeuvre out from under the stairs, take my handbag and keys and walk back outside. While locked inside my car, I make a call. Thankfully, he answers.

  ‘Nick,’ I say, trying to hide the tremble in my voice. ‘I don’t suppose you could pop over, could you?’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong? Are the boys okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes – boys are fine. I’m about to pick them up from school. It’s not them. It’s me.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ His voice becomes flat. He doesn’t owe me anything, I know. And I get the feeling if it were the boys who needed him, that would be different. But the moment I mention it’s me, I can sense the deflation.

  ‘I know this might sound …’ I struggle to find the right word. ‘It might sound a bit mad. But I have a terrible feeling, Nick.’ I stop to take a breath; I’m not doing it to create a dramatic pause, it’s because I’m scared to vocalise it. I’m putting off saying it out loud to my soon-to-be ex-husband because I don’t want him to think I can’t cope without him. And if Richard lived close by, it would be him I was calling now. But he doesn’t. And Nick’s a cop, so in this kind of situation, he’s the one I have most confidence in.

  ‘Go on,’ Nick says. He sounds impatient.

  ‘There’s someone in the house, Nick. I think they’ve been hiding themselves in there since Sunday.’ I hold my breath again after I deliver the words.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Outside, in my car.’

  ‘Don’t go back in. Walk to get the boys, then go to the park. I’ll pick you up from there. I’m on my way now.’ He ends the call.

  ‘Thank you, Nick,’ I say breathlessly into the silent phone.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Amber

  Finley and Leo are excited to be going straight from school to the park – and even more excited that their dad is going to be picking us up. They’ve taken the change in our circumstances remarkably well, I think. Maybe it’s because they weren’t used to seeing Nick a great deal anyway, due to his working hours. And, despite any bad feeling on my side about Nick’s “illicit encounter” with his work colleague, the key focus moving forwards has always been how to minimise the impact of our separation on the boys. Of course, the fact I’m planning on moving away from the area, as well as bringing a new man into their lives, will be tricky to manage. Another transition Finley and Leo will need to make. How Nick and I deal with the situation and each other now will be an important basis for how the boys will cope with what’s to come.

  ‘Is he staying for tea?’

  ‘Is he taking us to Maccies?’

  ‘Are you coming too, Mum?’

  I let them gabble out their questions one after another, then when their excitement abates, try to let them down gently.

  ‘He’s popping in to see you; it might not be for long,’ I say.

  ‘Is it a spur-of-the-moment thing again then?’ Finley asks, a hint of disappointment in his voice. It’s something I often tell him if Nick makes fleeting visits. I smile at him – he always remembers such sayings and stores them away for future reference; he makes me laugh.

  ‘Yes. I think he had a slow day at work and finished early, so wanted to take the opportunity to see his boys.’

  They both grin, then Finley gives Leo a playful punch in the arm. ‘Come on, Squirtle, last one to the slide is a rotten egg!’

  They both run off, happy in the moment. I wish I felt as carefree right now.

  It’s another half an hour before I see Nick’s car pulling into the car park. My heart
does a rapid, double beat as he comes into view. He’s wearing a dark-tan leather bomber jacket, stonewashed blue jeans and Aviator sunglasses – his favourite kind; he has about six pairs of them. My pulse quickens again. I mentioned to him, when we first met, that he looked like Tom Cruise, only taller. He’d been chuffed with the comparison and since that time had revelled in the attention that emulating Tom got him. His current look appears to be from Tom’s Top Gun days. I can’t help but grin. I also can’t help but be attracted to him still. I may have lost that loving feeling, but he’s good to look at. As I think this, I have to stifle a giggle at my own joke. His concerned expression as he reaches me reminds me of why he’s here, though, and any hint of my smile disappears.

  ‘So, what’s going on?’ He gets straight to the point in his typical detective fashion.

  The boys haven’t seen him yet and are busy spinning each other around on the roundabout. ‘Hi, Nick,’ I say, and without conscious thought I push myself into him, my arms wrapping around his middle. My face is against his chest, and I breathe in the smell of Dior Sauvage. The aftershave I bought him last Christmas, and the three before that. It immediately comforts me yet makes me feel vulnerable at the same time. I pull away before he does.

  ‘You’re going to think I’m over-reacting,’ I say, averting my eyes from Nick and gazing across the playing field instead. I may have already acted vulnerably, but I don’t want him to catch it in my eyes too.

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’ If I had a penny for all the times he’s uttered that phrase.

  ‘Barb probably told you I let Carl arrange an open viewing of the house on Sunday?’