Chapter 6

“And rest. Well done. That was a tough one, but you did it. Give yourself a round of applause.” I clap with the group as they clap or high-five each other. It’s been six weeks since I started the classes, and they have grown week by week. This HIIT class now has ten members, including Stacey and Melanie.

“I think you hate me.” Stacey wipes the sweat from her shining face.

“But you feel good, right? Look how much stronger you’ve got.” I pat her shoulder.

“I should send you my clothing bill. I’ve gone down a size already.”

“Congratulations, and nice try.”

“Are you coming to the pub tomorrow?” Melanie joins us, retying her ponytail and wiping her face and neck.

“No, I’m going back to London for the weekend.” Friday nights have become a regular get-together at the pub, with Drew and Merrick coming along when they can get a sitter for Willow. This weekend I’m going home. I’ve got to decide what to do with my house. It’s not the first time I’ve been back, but it’s silly to be paying a mortgage on a property I’m no longer living in. I’ve got appointments with two estate agents for valuations. Merrick advised me to look up similar properties, and I was blown away, it’s staggering how much these houses are selling for.

I’d been lucky and bought it at a low price because it needed to be completely renovated. The inheritance from my frugal grandfather paid for the majority of it. He’d scrimped and saved and left me a tidy sum when I hit twenty-one. After his death, my parents moved into his large, imposing home.

I don’t need to decide to sell it now or hang on until I know what I want to do. If it looks like it will be easy to sell, I may do that. But we’re only a couple of weeks from Christmas, and I doubt anyone is looking at houses at this time of year.

The drive into London reminds me of why I wanted to leave. The motorway part was easy, even through Bristol, but now I’ve been stuck in traffic for nearly half an hour. The constant inching forward as other motorists try to squeeze me out or push in front at a junction is making me scream. Finally, I reach the narrow, cobbled street that leads to my home.

When I open the door, I sigh. It’s good to be back, surrounded by my belongings. The cottage in Calston Cove has everything I need, but it’s not mine. The table is covered with a layer of dust, which means I have some serious cleaning to do before the first appointment tomorrow. The chrome kitchen appliances are still gleaming, and the blue Moroccan tiles shine brightly. I take the stairs to the first floor and my bedroom, where the large bed takes centre stage. Such a shame it hasn’t seen much action lately. How would it have felt if we’d come back here that night? Would he have stayed the night? How would I feel to sleep in a bed with so many amazing memories? Would I be even more infatuated with him, or would it be too hard to sleep in it alone? It didn’t happen like that, so there’s no point in me dwelling on what could’ve been.

After dropping my bag on the bed, I head to the next floor. The glass wall and open eaves in the ceiling make it look a lot bigger than it is. The small outdoor space with its decked floor and rattan furniture is full of stories of nights with Merrick, Josh, and sometimes Trent, Josh’s brother.

But as much as I love my house, in the short time I’ve been in Calston Cove, I’ve fallen in love with the little seaside town.

Drew says if you can love it in the middle of winter with the wind and rain pounding down daily, then you’ll never leave. He’s right.

Satisfied that everything looks good up here, I go back downstairs and start cleaning. Stacey, in her professional capacity as an estate agent, has given me strict instructions on what to do to make the house look tip-top for its valuation. When I’m done cleaning, I put fresh flowers in the vases and lemons and limes into a wire bowl, both containers on loan from her.

At midday precisely, I open the door to a tall, slim, attractive woman. She’s every inch the business lady in what must be five-inch glossy black stilettos, smart black trousers, and a dark purple silk blouse. Her dark hair curls down her back and over her shoulders. Her cool smile shows perfectly white—and I’m guessing—veneered teeth. I’m already intimidated by her.

“Mr McClean? I’m Isabel Wright from Wright Bespoke Estate Agency.”

“Hello.” I shake her hand. Her grip is firm, confident. “Come in.”

She looks around the living room. “This kind of property doesn’t come up for sale very often. How long have you lived here?”

“About twelve years. It’s had major renovations. It was pretty much derelict when I bought it.”

“It’s unusual to have someone so young buy one of these houses. How much did you pay for it then?” She asks it as if she can’t imagine me having the money to buy it.

“I can’t remember. I’ll leave you to look around.” Like I would tell her how I could afford it.

She gives me a nod and struts away, her heels clicking sharply on the wooden floor. For some reason, she’s grating on me. I hate the definite air of superiority in her manner. She shuffles in my bedroom. A door opens and closes—the walk-in wardrobe most likely—and water turns on and off. Then it goes quiet, so she must be on the top floor.

Five minutes later, she comes back downstairs, typing on her iPad. “How quickly do you want a sale? I have people waiting for a property like this one. If you want a quick sale, I can have it signed and finished for three point two. If you’re happy to wait, I can put it at three nine, maybe four.”

She’s talking millions! Merrick was right about the price. I knew it had gone up in price, but nowhere near that. It’s crazy money.

“Thank you, Ms Wright. I have another agent coming around this afternoon. If you can put the numbers in an email for me, I’ll get back to you with my decision by the end of the day.”

She nods, but I don’t miss the glower of annoyance. She’s already calculating her commission. “Very well. I have your details, so I’ll get it all to you right away.” She steps out of the garage, into the kitchen, and through to the front door. As she walks out, she turns to me again, flipping her hair back from her shoulder. “If you want it sold correctly, Mr McClean, you’ll choose me.”

“Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” I wait until she’s got in her expensive Porsche, and close the door.

I lean against the door and let out a low whistle. That’s so much money. What could I do with that? The answer is anything I want. I can live my dream and have my own gym. On the other hand, she could be full of grand ideas and bullshit. Another agent is due soon. Maybe I’ll get a better feel about them.

When the doorbell rings again, I’ve checked out Ms Wright a bit more. Her business is well respected, but some comments mentioned her pushy attitude, and both purchasers and vendors found themselves bulldozed into making a decision.

The new agent is also expensively dressed in a suit to die for, but he’s a lot more approachable, and his enthusiasm for my house makes me feel a little less anxious about actually selling it. He comes with roughly the same figures but isn’t anywhere near as aggressive in his pitch. I already know I’ll be using him, but I promise to let him know by the close of business today.

Just past four o’clock, I call him to confirm his offer. After agreeing to read and sign the contract he sends, my house is on the market. I also agree to leave it furnished, allowing prospective buyers a better idea of size and space. The next call isn’t as pleasant.

“Mr McClean, how prompt you are. Are you ready for me to send over the contract?” she says sweetly.

“Unfortunately, Ms Wright, I’ve decided to use a different agency. Thank you for your time this afternoon.”

“You’re making a mistake.” The words are sharp enough to cut glass. “But I guess I’ll have to wait. You’ll be back in touch when you don’t get a sale from the other agency.”

“I doubt that very much.” I give her a curt goodbye and end the call. She really is full of herself.

I check the time. It’s early enough to drive back to Devon. I don’t want to be here by myself for another night.

As I get back in my car, I give Merrick a call. “I’m on my way home.”

And that’s exactly how it feels.