‘Mrs Rook,’ she says, but her voice croaks and she suddenly looks like a rather frail middle-aged lady, her pomposity and assumed superiority punctured and leaking out of her like air from a balloon.
‘A chance is all I’m asking for,’ I say. ‘Like Jean Valjean is given by that priest inLes Mis.’
To an observer, my response may seem exaggerated, but I can think of nothing worse at this moment than leaving the room with the thought of telling Nelly that her dream is irreparably broken before she’s even had a chance to want it.
I hit the hammer down firmly on her desk. It makes such a sound that she jumps backwards and her knee thumps the underside of the drawer.
‘I’ll get her some therapy. Would that help appease your concerns?’ I stare at the headmistress. She holds my gaze. I count eleven seconds.
‘Yes, I think that would help,’ she says finally, her voice quavering.
‘Have some water.’ I lean over and push her glass towards her. ‘And thank you for your understanding.’
Chapter32Austen
Friday, 29 November
I phoned the estate agent twelve times yesterday and was told Esmae was out all day, so left several voicemails. As if by magic, she returned my calls today to say that they’ll accept our offer but as they’ve had two other offers at that level, she won’t take the house off the market. I argue my point but she is insistent. It’s fortunate that it’s a phone call, and that I don’t have the opportunity to express my dissatisfaction in person.
‘What do I need to do to secure the house and get it off the market?’ I say, quite sternly.
‘You could try a holding deposit,’ she suggests, her voice sounding distant as if she’s distracted by something more interesting.
‘How much?’
‘Five per cent might work. It would need to be non-returnable. You have to show your commitment.’ Her once charming sing-song voice is now deeply annoying.
‘A four hundred thousand pound deposit?’ I say, struggling with the sheer audacity.
‘Or just wait and see.’
‘Fine. I’ll make a five per cent deposit,’ I say, and end the call.
I don’t have four hundred thousand, but that is the least of my problems. We don’t have the additional million in cash needed to raise the five million mortgage, our house is not even on the market, and Stephen doesn’t know I’ve made an offer. But apart from these minor obstacles, all is well – I just need several miracles or a good to-do list. The latter is more practical.
Firstly, I’ll sell our house off-market without Stephen’s knowledge, which Foxtons have offered to do at an extortionate 3 per cent. Secondly, I’ll raid Stephen’s secret savings account. This should provide half of the non-returnable deposit. Thirdly, I’ll redouble my efforts to ensure that a rather deflated Stephen makes partner. Fourthly, I’ll try to stress Stephen’s mother so much that she has a terrible accident. Fifthly, if that fails, I’ll see if I can use my persuasive power to make her change her mind and help us with the loan of a million. And finally, concerning the other two hundred thousand for the deposit, I’ll have to do what I’ve always done in such circumstances – beg, steal or blackmail, and I don’t mind which.
Having written it all down, I feel better. I have an inkling that Madeleine is behind the poison pen letter and the newspaper article. If she is closing in on some truths about my background, I will have to work harder at the fourth option.
On a much more heartwarming note, we received a letter from Adams with the wonderful news that the school has reviewed Nelly’s activity day contribution and is pleased to report that she is successfully through to the next round. Hurrah! I think this might be down to the dolphin, but I may be wrong. I’m delighted. The pain I felt when I thought that Nelly would be denied her chance of a future was like losing a loved one. Or how I imagine that might feel, at least.
I told Stephen about Adams, and he cleared his throat and nodded. I asked him if he was happy about it, and he said that he wasn’t unhappy, which is an odd thing to say. But, to be honest, after the slight improvement in his mood recently, as evidenced by an extra gym session and the odd furtive glance at Aimée’s bare midriff, he’s dipped again quite dramatically and is walking about like an unhappy eunuch.
He was on the phone for at least an hour last night, I presume to his mother as it was so heartfelt and, well, if that’s not going to make you suicidal, nothing will. The sooner the ‘widowhood effect’ kicks in, the better. They wouldn’t have much difficulty digging out the grave again as the soil won’t even have fully settled yet.
I hope I helped a little by calling her three times throughout last night (at the expense of my own sleep pattern, I might add), pretending to be a rather assertive woman asking to speak to her husband and hinting at a long-term affair. When Madeleine informed this woman that he was dead, she asked if he left her the French gîte in his will as he’d promised. She was so distraught, I slept like a baby afterwards.
In the evening, I catch Stephen reading a classic novel. Not Le Carré (acceptable) or Lee Child (more acceptable), not Len Deighton or Ken Follett. For heaven’s sake, even the Thomas Harris I bought him for his birthday is untouched.
‘What on earth are you reading, Stephen?’ I enquire.
‘Just a book.’
‘What book?’
He shows me the cover. I tilt my head and read the title.
‘Jane Austen? Since when were you into romantic literature?’ I ask, shocked.
