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~ Clean keyboards with a Post-it note folded in two, sticky side out, to catch any dust.

E xactly forty-eight hours after I'd shown the Pedersens around the Doom Barn, they made an offer.

Slightly under the asking price, but an offer nonetheless and one that the Bradys lost no time in accepting.

‘And that,' I said, hanging up on the call, ‘is the last we'll see of that !'

Johnny leaned back in his chair. ‘Did you tell them about the Woman in Grey?'

‘Nope.'

He pulled a face.

‘One,' I said, counting on my fingers, ‘it's a load of nonsense, and two, I don't want to give them cause to sue the vendor for falsifying the Fixtures and Fittings should a ghostly apparition not appear in the pantry.'

‘Yeah, well, don't blame me if it comes back to bite you on the arse,' he muttered.

‘It's a ghost, Johnny,' I said, ‘not a vampire.'

I opened up the Memorandum of Sale document, as per the office timetable, filled in what I could, then while I was on a selling roll and the weather was nice, I went out and filmed another video walk-through, this time for a flat near the park that boasted no suspected hauntings but was decorated entirely in the colours of Longhampton United (red and black).

I might have spent a bit longer on that than I meant to, because when I came back after lunch, Diana accosted me. She was brandishing a sheaf of papers, bristling with Post-its; she had a colour-coded range of them to indicate priority, starting with a brisk yellow and culminating in an urgent cerise. There was only one stage above cerise and that was Diana herself standing by your desk while you completed the paperwork.

‘I hope those aren't all for me!' I eyed the stack nervously.

‘Not all,' she said, sectioning off the top two-thirds. The little flags were mainly cerise. ‘Most of them, though. I have had two clients ask if you're still working for us, as it's so long since they've heard from you.'

‘It's been mad busy, sorry.' I tried to keep my face neutral as I glanced at the top letter: a set of queries about a retirement flat that I thought I'd forwarded on to the buyer last week. Oops. Obviously I hadn't.

‘We've spoken before about your paperwork, have we not?' Diana was keen on her rhetorical questions. ‘Have you sent the Memorandum of Sale to the Pedersens?'

‘I'm doing it! Just waiting for some additional information from the vendor.'

‘Well, that needs to go off today.' Her beady look intensified. ‘ Today .'

‘Absolutely.' I was saved by the arrival of a middle-aged couple at the door, casting their gaze awkwardly around as if looking for someone before committing to entering the office. ‘Would you excuse me, Diana? I think they're here to see me.'

I gestured at the couple, who waved with some relief.

‘Buyers?' enquired Diana.

‘Potentially.'

‘Memorandum of Sale. By close of play,' she repeated, and stalked off to grill some other poor sod about their to-do list.

I went over to the potential buyers and escorted them to my desk.

OK, so they weren't potential buyers. As far as I knew, anyway.

‘Hello, there,' said Dad, loudly. ‘We're looking to buy a house. Do you have anything for about a million pounds, with its own helipad?'

‘Paul!' hissed Mum, as if him saying that aloud might obligate him in some way.

‘With two helipads,' Dad corrected himself. ‘His and hers.'

‘Do sit down while I check my current portfolio of properties,' I said. ‘Ah, I see we have a couple of those, are you proceedable?'

‘What does that mean?'

I leaned forward. ‘Is your own house under offer?'

‘No!' Mum looked horrified. ‘We're not moving! Paul, stop it!'

‘I must say, you're very busy,' said Dad, gazing around the office.

‘That's because Marsh the sight of Johnny typing, frowning and eating a banana at the same time would have diluted the aspirational effect I was aiming for.

‘That's a fine piece of equipment,' said Dad, approvingly. He loved a kitchen gadget. ‘Do you want a hand?'

I let him accompany me to press the various buttons and as we returned, bearing microfoamed lattes, I spotted Mum hastily shoving her phone back in her bag. From her guilty expression you'd think she'd just shoved my laptop in there as well. And the free pens.

‘So, if you're not buying a house …?' I prompted her when we'd made the appropriate noises about Dad's barista skills. ‘Did you just come in for the free coffee?'

‘No!' It wasn't a totally convincing denial. ‘No, we were in town, so I thought we'd pop in and say hello.'

‘Really?'

‘It's a shopping trip,' said Dad, with all the enthusiasm of someone invited to a colonic irrigation workshop. ‘For your mother. Clothes.'

‘I've been asked on a very important date,' said Mum coyly.

‘Wow,' I said. Mum's social life was her monthly book group, her twice-weekly Zumba, whatever grandson-related event Cleo had roped her into helping with, and us. We were her social life. ‘Where are you taking her, Dad?'

‘ He's not.' Her enigmatic smile broadened, but she didn't elaborate. By the significant way she was raising her eyebrows I intuited that I was supposed to guess.

I looked to Dad for help. I didn't mind putting off my admin for a bit but even I had my limits.

‘Your sister's invited your mother to be her plus one for the Women in Business Awards next week,' he explained. ‘You wouldn't have any nice biscuits to go with this nice coffee, would you?'

‘The mayor's hosting a champagne reception before the awards so you know, it's a very prestigious occasion!' Mum elaborated. ‘The local press is going to be there, so Cleo's going to get a hair and make-up artist to come round and glam us up beforehand. It's black tie, apparently. Cleo's taken the afternoon off today to help me find something new to wear!'

I knew what that meant. It was Cleo's way of ensuring Mum didn't wear her ‘old faithful' M I told myself that I needed to concentrate but the truth was that, at certain times, phone calls made me weirdly anxious and I couldn't make myself pick up. Not ideal for an estate agent, I admit, which was partly why I'd started doing the virtual viewings in the first place – it saved me from answering questions.

‘Anyway, while Hannah was helping the Pedersens check whatever it was they wanted to check,' Dean continued, ‘she asked them how they felt about moving into a house with a poltergeist.' He paused so the significance would sink in. ‘And this was the first they'd heard about it.'

Duh. Of course Hannah would have asked them about that.

Dean seemed to be waiting for me to respond.

I hesitated. What did he want me to say? That wouldn't be why the Pedersens had withdrawn their offer, surely? It would be one of those lame excuses people invented when they woke up with buyers' remorse. You'd be amazed how many people don't want to hurt the feelings of vendors they'd never meet. ‘We can't do the entertaining space justice.' ‘We don't have a pony to put in the paddock.' ‘Geoff's allergic to concrete.'

Dean sighed, and wiped his hand over his face. ‘Do I need to spell this out, Robyn? Why didn't you tell them?'

‘Tell them what … About the poltergeist ?'

This was bizarre. Dean, of all people, was not someone who'd let an imaginary friend get in the way of a sale. And it wasn't even a poltergeist, it was a grey lady.

‘You know there's no such thing as ghosts, Dean?' I said, carefully.

He leaned over the desk to make his words very clear. ‘That's not the point, Robyn. If the client thinks we've withheld information from them once, they're going to wonder what else we haven't told them.'

‘But …'

‘But nothing. This was discussed. Even the Bradys wanted it out in the open, in case it caused problems later. You chose not to follow specific instructions, and what's happened?' He threw his hands up. ‘It's caused problems. We've lost the sale.'

‘Fine, well …' I scrabbled for a fix and Cleo's words popped into my head. ‘Why don't we offer to have the house exorcised before they move in? I'm sure I can find a vicar to, I don't know, wave some sage around while they're doing the deep clean? Cleo's probably got some detergent that can shift ghosts. That oven cleaner she uses needs a chemical licence.'

‘Do I look like I'm laughing?'

‘Oh, come on, Dean. It's not as if I tried to cover up a murder . Or planning permission for a chicken farm.' I remembered fleetingly that I had actually once covered up planning permission for a chicken farm, and moved swiftly on. ‘Look, I'll ring them and apologise. I can explain.'

‘It's too late. They're adamant it's not for them. The husband is very sensitive to things like that, he says he could never settle there now.'

‘What if the vendors dropped the price? Might he settle then?'

Dean looked outraged. ‘What? No! It's not up to you to tell the vendors to take a hit because of your cock-up! I'm sorry, Robyn, but this isn't the first time we've been here, is it? Offers withdrawn because of information not disclosed? There's a reason people don't trust estate agents. It's been a mission statement from day one: be honest.' He gestured at the wall where the agency slogan was painted in already slightly dated calligraphy: Our business is home truths.

‘But if you look at my sales record …'

Dean ignored my protest. ‘And then there's the issue of your admin. Diana says she's had some phone calls. Again, holding up the progress of sales, letting clients down.'

‘Yes, well …' I squirmed. I hated being hauled over the coals for things I knew I should have done better.

‘Shape up, Robyn. We live in interesting times,' he said, meaningfully.

I didn't know what he meant by that.

‘And just so you know,' he added, as I was on my way out, ‘that was another verbal warning.'

I was slouching back to my desk – where Dad was still happily flipping through magazines and sipping an elaborate hot chocolate – when the door was flung open by a woman in a full-length cashmere cardigan. She stormed in so aggressively that the cardigan seemed to fly out behind her like a beige cape. While I was still admiring her dramatic entrance (and also wondering how much the cardigan had cost) she spotted me, pointed a finger in a not very friendly manner, and started to make a beeline in my direction.

‘Everyone's looking for you today, Robyn,' observed Diana, tartly.

I fixed my face into a smile while I racked my brain. This woman obviously knew me. I wasn't so sure I knew her.

Johnny stopped his clickety-clackety typing – why was everyone behaving as if they were in the background of News at Ten ? – and stared. So did Karina the receptionist and Tim Pollard, agricultural sales. So did the clients sitting at Hannah's desk, and the two random people sitting in the reception area waiting for someone to get to them.

Dad remained engrossed in Tractors Today.

‘Robyn? I want a word with you,' the woman began.

‘Fantastic! Can I get you a coffee?' I played for time. Was she the vendor from this morning's virtual viewing? Had I left a gate open? Had her cat got out? Was it my new neighbour? Was it the ex-wife of the man I'd sold my flat to, enraged to find that her idiot ex was now living on her doorstep?

‘You don't remember me, do you?' she went on.

‘Yes, I do!'

She put a challenging hand on one hip.

I floundered. ‘OK, I bet if you told me the name of your property I would!' It was a gamble. A big gamble. I'd sold quite a few properties since the start of the year.

‘Twenty-three Rookery Road,' she said icily.

Oh dear. No, I didn't remember.

We stared at each other. My smile faltered. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the office on me, and sweat began to prickle under my armpits.

She waited, both hands now on her narrow hips. She looked absolutely furious. I realised she must have stormed out of the house in whatever she was wearing, which in this case was sheepskin boots and very loungey lounge pants.

‘Um …'

My heart was racing now. The whole office had gone silent. Even the phones had stopped ringing. And she wasn't going to let me off the hook: she was waiting for me to guess wrong, so she could explode properly.

I glanced at Johnny, my eyes begging for help, but he shrugged. I could see Dean through the window of his office; even he had stood up to see what was going on. Everyone was looking at me. I wanted to die.

And then suddenly – out of nowhere – my brain finally helped me out.

‘Is it … Mrs Rossiter?'

She looked momentarily disappointed – hurray, I'd guessed right – then snapped, ‘Well, no, now it's Ms Wilson, because thanks to the total nightmare I've had with my house sale, my marriage has collapsed, along with the whole fucking onward chain!'

Johnny sank his head into his hands.

Now she snapped like that I did remember her. The Rossiters had been arguing even while I was measuring up their kitchen; he (Leon?) wanted to stay, she (Emma) wanted to sell, neither of them could agree on how much the house was worth. Nothing had worked with them, not charm, not diplomacy, nothing. They'd been seriously hard work from the first day, and maybe I hadn't been quite as diligent about progressing their sale as I might have been.

‘I'm so sorry to hear that,' I said, trying to steer her towards the relative privacy of the conference room. ‘I really am.'

‘No!' Emma slapped my hands away. ‘Don't touch me! I don't want to talk to you!'

‘OK …' But hadn't she just said she did want to talk to me?

‘You are the worst estate agent I have ever had to deal with,' she spat. ‘You promised so much! And you have. Done. Nothing. For. Us.'

I swallowed. This was humiliating. I couldn't blame her – collapsing chains were enough to make anyone emotional – but she seemed determined to have this out in a very public way.

‘Maybe we could talk in here?' I suggested, to no avail.

‘What makes it worse …' She took a long, dragging breath, stared at the ceiling, then stared directly at me. Her eyes were glittering with frustration. ‘Is that you seemed so nice ! So efficient . You promised us that we'd have a buyer by the end of the month, no bother. And we did! But since then it's been nothing but delays after delays, and I found out this morning that our vendors have got sick of waiting and put our house – our dream house! – back on the market. And …'

She took a step nearer, and I took an instinctive step back because I genuinely didn't know if she was planning to slap me.

‘And then I had a phone call from a solicitor who said it was highly unusual for him to contact us directly but since he'd totally failed to raise any response from you, he thought we ought to know that our buyers were pulling out.'

‘No!' I knew there were some emails I hadn't dealt with, but surely I'd have noticed that?

‘So now,' Emma dropped her voice to a hiss, ‘I'm trapped with that selfish, controlling, smelly bastard for the foreseeable and it's your fault.'

My heart was now thumping so hard I wasn't sure I might not be edging into heart-attack territory but I fought to keep an outward appearance of calm. I'd managed to manoeuvre us out of the centre of the office and behind a screen, which was something. But in doing so, I got a different view of the office and realised that Emma hadn't come alone. Her (ex?) husband Leon was standing a few metres away, smiling smugly.

Well, up until she called him a smelly bastard. That knocked the smile down a few notches.

He was filming everything on his phone. He pointed to it, just in case I hadn't got the message.

Oh god.

I started to panic. ‘Tell me what I can do to—'

‘I don't want you to do anything!' Emma cut me off. ‘In fact, I'm going to tell you that as of this morning, I have started legal proceedings to—'

‘Tell me what we can do,' said a man's voice behind me, as calm and fruitily English as a cricket tea.

I spun round. It was the new lettings manager. His voice didn't go with the Dad cool jeans and box-fresh hoodie. He looked as if he'd be more at home in ironed clothes.

Johnny stood up at his desk, pantomiming something about …

I squinted at his awful miming. The king? Something about his head?

‘I'm Tony Marsh,' he said, holding out his hand for Emma to shake. He had a signet ring. ‘I'm the group MD, and I'm sure we can put this right.'

Emma shook his hand distractedly, and he ushered her into Dean's office, pausing only to shoot me a truly poisonous look. Leon followed them, still filming.

He swung round to get a reaction shot of me and I was too stunned to react.

The group MD? Was that why everyone was working so ostentatiously? Because he was doing a sneaky undercover boss thing? Why had no one told me?

I glared around the office but of course now everyone was tapping away at their keyboards or pretending to make a phone call.

Above the coffee machine the words Marsh & Frett blurred and focused, then blurred again.

The tears were right up in my throat now. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been so humiliated.

‘I tried to warn you,' said Johnny.

Four minutes later, the whole episode was on TikTok. I know that because Johnny, Karina, Diana, the Pedersens, and two clients helpfully tagged me in the comments. Which were not kind. Not kind at all.