‘You and me, together, we’ll have that place sold before you can say “Mulled Wine Muffin”.’ I beamed, a chink of hope breaking through the storm clouds of my lovelife.
‘But we haven’t any experience.’
I snorted. ‘You’re joking? The way we’ve kept house for Adam and Ryan? You don’t need a CV a mile long to know how to bleach a loo or polish a mirror.’ I pointed to the window. ‘“Urgently required”’, I quoted. ‘Sounds desperate.’ I scooped my hair back into a scrunchie, unzipped my gold parka jacket and smoothed down my sequinned jumper. ‘After a few days away, the two men in our lives will be pleading with us to move back.’
‘I don’t know, Kimmy…’ Jess wiped her nose. ‘What about references? How do we explain suddenly turning up like two lost tourists?’ She stared hard at the photo and pointed to the right hand back corner of the lawn. ‘Who do you think that is?’
I screwed up my eyes and examined the topless young man with floppy chestnut hair, leaning on a spade. He certainly had his work cut out – that garden was huge.
I fixed a smile on my face and held out my hand, flat, in front of Jess’s mouth, glad she got the message but didn’t actually spit her gum into my palm. Then she smeared on her favourite lipgloss – homemade of course, using Vaseline and food essence. I took a deep breath and pushed open the glass door. Jess caught my eye and I winked. A tiny bubble of hope tickled the inside of my chest. This dream house was going to help me win back Adam.
‘You are certainly not within your rights to withhold rent.’ A woman in a smart navy trouser suit, and pristine blouse, looked up from her phone and gave a stiff smile. ‘The owner has been informed of the problem and we’ll be in touch shortly,’ she said, returning to her call. ‘Pardon? You do realise we record some of these conversations…? Well, maybe you’d care more if faced with eviction!’ Calmly, the middle-aged woman put down the telephone receiver
‘Are we sure about this?’ whispered Jess and I nodded.
‘How can I help?’ asked the estate agent, in a flat voice. Her smile had shrunk as she’d clearly worked out our luggage was bargain Primark, not Prada. We set down our bags and I placed the Christmas tree and cake box on a nearby desk. The room was practically furnished with office equipment, and talk about unfestive – there wasn’t so much as one tinsel garland.
‘We’re looking for, um… somewhere to rent,’ I beamed. There was no point looking too keen, and mentioning the house straight away.
She pointed to two black swivel chairs on the other side of her desk, which was cluttered with stationery, assorted files and a wilted, white-flowered plant.
‘It’s kind of urgent.’ Understatement. I sat down and luxuriated in office’s warmth. ‘We’re currently homeless.’
The woman’s eyes glazed over and the atmosphere seemed even darker as clouds gathered outside.
‘Homeless?’ She raised her finely plucked eyebrows.
‘It’s just a blip.’ I forced a laugh, which hopefully oozed confidence as if to say “of course a deposit would be no problem”. As long as the rent was based on Monopoly prices, that is. I glanced sideways at Jess.
‘And I’m employed at the moment,’ Jess said. ‘I work at…at…’ She sneezed loudly. ‘Nuttall’s Garden Centre.’
The woman winced. Her badge said Mrs D Brown. D for Deidre? Or Dawn? Perhaps Dragon?
‘We may only need somewhere short-term,’ I said.
‘That might make things difficult,’ she said, crisply. ‘Most landlords are looking for long-term tenants.’
‘Tell me about it.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Finding somewhere to live, in between jobs, is one of the few downsides to being housesitters – like occasionally being made homeless.’
She leant forward a little.
‘I know – it’s unusual work,’ I continued, innocently. ‘Most people don’t know the half of what’s involved.’ Ahem, including myself.
‘I’m familiar with the job spec,’ she said and tapped her biro again. ‘Aren’t you rather young for such a–’
‘Responsible position?’ interrupted Jess. ‘That’s what the agency thought when they gave us our first job.’
Go Jess!
‘But they were so impressed with Jessica’s gardening skills,’ I interrupted, wondering if housesitting agencies really did exist, ‘and my… um… housekeeping experience. You should have seen our last place. Overrun with mice,’ I whispered. Well, it was true about Ryan’s pad.
Her brow smoothed out a little. ‘I bet you’ve seen some sights.’
‘Ooh yes, um, fleas under the sofa and mushrooms in the carpet.’
Plant expert Jess shot me a puzzled look, but Mrs D lapped it up.
‘And the house before that had been well trashed,’ I continued.
‘What happened?’ The estate agent put down her biro, no longer sounding as if we were a nuisance.
‘The previous sitter had, erm, secretly arranged a party and advertised it on Facebook,’ said Jess. ‘People stubbed cigarettes out on the walls and broke toilet seats. Personally I think those social networking sites are a danger to society.’
Her last sentence was in no way a lie – Jess didn’t even have a Facebook account. I kept quiet about my four hundred and sixty-three Facebook friends and the group I once formed, “Ashton Kutcher for President”. That reminded me, I hadn’t got Adam’s laptop to borrow now, which was just as well – I wouldn’t know whether to change my relationship status to single or simply post that Adam and I were… had… Oh God, eyes going all blurry again, must switch subjects in my head.
Ow! Jess had kicked me hard. She was busy playing garden doctor.
‘… and don’t prune them until next month, Deborah,’ she was saying, ‘otherwise you’ll get fewer flowers next year.’
Ooh, they were on first name terms already. “Deborah” straightened a pile of paperwork and stared at us.
‘I’m curious,’ she said. ‘There’s no money in housesitting; it’s normally a job for retired people who simply fancy a change of scene.’
‘The agency does insist we get paid a nominal fee,’ I said, not catching her eye. ‘Just enough to cover food. They tell clients it’s worth it to get in people they can trust.’
‘Kimberley’s trying to set up her own business, you see,’ interrupted Jess. ‘Making cakes. Housesitting gives her the free time she needs. And the smell of home cooking always helps sell those properties we look after which are on the market.’
‘True – everyone loves cake.’ Deborah smiled and sucked the end of her pen for a moment.
‘What’s your favourite flavour?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, um…’
‘How about Madagascan vanilla cakes, with strawberry buttercream icing and marzipan ladybirds?’ I said, spying a photo of two little girls on her desk. ‘Or I make a mean peanut topping, decorated with toffee teddy bears. Plus currently I’m celebrating the festive season – how about figgy pudding scones? I could drop some in.’
‘No! I couldn’t…’
‘It would be my pleasure, Deborah.’
‘Well, those