He is, however, a bit of a horror in the way he deals with the people on his podcast. Today’s guest is a landscape gardener who’s offering ideas for how to lay lawns and plant flowers that will make a house attractive without needing a lot of upkeep from landlord or tenant. The gardener lady has just spoken about the need to let lawns grow longer than tenancy agreements often allow in their terms so that pollinators can be supported in spring and summer.
‘Well, I have an even better idea than that, Judy,’ Malcolm butts in before her point is fully made. ‘Two words for you: plastic lawn.’ In the seconds of Judy’s silence that follows I turn the podcast off. It’s only making my anger bubble higher within me and that’s no good for anyone.
When I’ve finished the sausage roll, I open the driver’s door and wipe the stray flakes of pastry off my legs and onto the road. Despite my best efforts, I have made quite a lot of mess inside the car, which is another thing to try and fix before I’m due back in the office. As I shut the door, I visualise the journey back to work, if there are any petrol stations with vacuums I can use to clean everything up. My brain is blanking on where I could go as I get back into position behind the wheel, only to see Paula coming down the road towards me, pushing Natasha in her buggy.
Without Malcolm talking I can hear everything on the street even with the windows closed. There’s a squeaky wheel on the pram, and Natasha is garbling to herself, a paper bag from the bakery in her clutches, ‘Luv u mama’ on repeat. In an instant I see this for what it is, the essence of why I cannot victimise women. It would be cruel and wrong to perform anything that could affect this sweet child who, as I suspected, has no real views on the British Empire.
‘Careful with the yum yum, darling. We can’t have it looking messy in our pictures, can we?’
I am glad I came, tested myself and did not fail to keep to my moral code. It’s then I remember the hoover in the office is cordless so I’ll be able to use that to clear the crumbs and Brian won’t have any reason to moan at me. This is all working out wonderfully.
Paula doesn’t flinch at the sound of my engine starting, too busy negotiating herself and Natasha through her gate, up to her front door, taking both of them safely inside. I turn off the handbrake and am about to drive up the road, when for some reason Malcolm’s podcast kicks back in even though I thought I’d disconnected the phone from the Bluetooth. I fumble with the controls to stop him talking over the gardener about how marvellous the artificial lawn has been for humanity. The next bit is all a blur. Afterwards, when I try to make sense of it, this is what I think happens.
For a reason unclear to me, Paula is pulled back out onto the street. Maybe she heard someone, a man probably, calling her out to the road, asking for directions, although I didn’t see anyone else around. All I know is that as I fannied about with the stereo she went back out, and before I knew it she wasn’t where she should have been. Instead she was in front of my car and I was pulling out quicker than I should have, probably. When I replay the moment in my memory afterwards, it is slowed down and I notice every detail: the swing of the Perfect Property Solutions-branded air freshener from the rearview mirror, how Paula shrieks as the metal bars at the front of the Range Rover smash into her, this invisible object. Before my body and brain figure out what the hell is happening and react accordingly, I’ve driven over her, first with the front wheels and then the back.
When I stop the car, I’ve every intention of helping her, honestly I do. It’s just, as I sit, my shaking hands on the steering wheel, processing what will happen next, I realise helping Paula will only hinder me. The police will come and I don’t know how I can explain why I was here and what I was doing, which in turn may raise questions about where else I have driven this car, and so I restart the ignition and drive away, unable to look in the rearview mirror because I cannot bear witness to what I have done. If I don’t follow the rules, if I don’t punish only the truly deserving, then what am I? Who am I? The only answer I can formulate is this: I am a monster. Oh God, what have I done?
29
No good plan of how to remedy my actions comes to me on the drive back to work, so I decide to act like everything’s normal until one does. Going into the office, I feel like I have left my body and am observing what takes place from above myself. I watch as I send an email to the landlord of the flat I inspected, amazed that inconsequential admin is something I am capable of. In awe, I can attach the pictures I took of the bland flat as if this matters, as if any of it matters. It is a wonder I can write an email that says the renters are going to get their full deposit back and includes a breezy ‘Hope you’re having a lovely day!’ sign-off when the day is not lovely and hope is no longer something I have.
Brian wants me to do a little creative writing in his Notes app, because Leanne spotted him using it on the phone where all his nonsense takes place and the one on his clean phone is a bit bare. He’s already sorted a few new files, which have thoughts and plans for the business and his online presence in them. ‘You can take care of things like lists of presents for Leanne, maybe a brainstorm of places I want to take her, maybe something a bit racy in there so she knows I still get hard for her. You know, romantic stuff a husband would write. Up to you on the specifics, I believe in you.’
Even at the best of times I would struggle with this. I go to make myself a coffee, which I do not need to procrastinate starting, my entire body extremely wired and turned on from the events of half an hour before. But this is what I usually do around 2:00 pm at work and I must appear normal. That’s not to say I do come across as I usually do. My consciousness is elsewhere when Gavin tries to start a conversation with me about my thoughts on the decor of a house they are uploading onto the website. It’s as if I’m underwater. I’m aware there are words and have a sense they are directed at me, but it’s not until they tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘You alright?’ that I realise it is me they wanted. They show me a picture of a hallway with a tartan carpet. ‘Abysmal, isn’t it?’ And I nod, despite thinking it’s OK, to each their own.
In the fluorescent lighting of the staff kitchen I stare at the Nespresso machine’s blinking light as it warms to make my drink. Then I stare at the solid light that tells me I can use it for so long it vanishes; the machine has turned itself off from lack of use. I restart the process, trying to time the blinks of my eyes with the blinking of the light in an attempt to centre myself, to feel grounded in reality. That’s what I’m doing when Brian creeps up behind me.
‘You got the keys for the car, space cadet? I’ve got a viewing in Earnock.’
I don’t turn around, fearing Brian will take one look at my face and understand what I’ve done. ‘Keys are on my desk. I made a few crumbs having lunch in the car, I’ll tidy it once you’re back.’
‘Cheers, my dear,’ he says to my back.
I grasp onto the worktop, visualising the car. It’s parked in the alley behind the office and looks, to my eye at least, like it always does, the bars at the front of it completely undamaged from having rammed into a woman, the wheels bearing no obvious signs of having run her over. I pray I haven’t missed some clear sign of what has happened and I’ve left it in the state I think I have. I wait for Brian to come back, to ask me what the hell I did to his car, but he doesn’t return. The light turns off on the machine again. I turn it back on and make the coffee, carrying it to my desk in both hands – one alone shaking far too much to not be conspicuous.
‘You sure you’re alright?’ Gavin asks.
‘No. I don’t think I am.’ I shove the coffee along the desk away from me, certain I will not take a sip of it.
Gavin’s about to say something else, I hear the saliva in their mouth move as their lips part. Then the phone rings and I’m saved from hearing it. I click away at my emails, opening and closing old ones until I receive a new one from the landlord I just emailed telling me that, from the pictures I sent, they can clearly see the carpet needs to be replaced and they shouldn’t have to pay for it. I am pleased with the choice the Jemma I am watching makes next.
The carpets have only experienced wear and tear. The tenant’s deposit is not for you to fund regular upkeep of the property you own and they do not. If you do not want to invest in new carpet for your property as part of the cost of doing business, maybe being a landlord is not the business for you.
Have the best day!
Jemma
I hit send and am pleased by thewhooshsound it makes as it flies from my computer to the inbox of the landlord. The pleasure lasts all of three minutes until I realise I should probably not have sent it. It is both very odd behaviour from me and almost certainly an act I could be fired over, when I need the money from this job for rent in the first instance and then maybe also for a defence lawyer in the second. There’s nothing I can do about it, though, whatever will be will be, so I continue to click in and out of things, open and shut tabs on my internet browser, begin composing and then immediately delete some Notes for Leanne, because this may be my breaking point with lying for a cheating arsehole for a living.
Speak of the devil. Brian storms into the office and my heart rate shoots up quicker than I knew possible, making me feel light-headed and like I’m going to vomit and maybe even die.
‘Bloody viewers didn’t even show up. Did they call? I go all the way to pissing Earnock for nothing.’
Me and Gavin shake our heads. Neither of us comments on it not being too far to travel at all really because it’s clear he needs the moan to get on with his day.
‘I’ll go sort out those crumbs, Brian.’
I stand too quickly, grey dots blur my vision. I stumble on the first step towards the cleaning cupboard and manage to attach and detach all the necessary pieces of the vacuum cleaner. The fresh air will clear my head and I’ll get to properly examine the car to make sure there’s no evidence I’ve missed. Maybe hope is returning, I am more resilient than I give myself credit for. Everyone makes mistakes, all I can do is learn from this one and then never allow an error like this to occur in my future endeavours. All I needed was a short wobble and look at me, back to being a woman of action, a person in charge of their own destiny.
