Chapter 5

‘Did you take a photo of the guest bathroom?' Mrs Anderson asks, ten minutes later as I complete the sketch of the floor-plan in the hallway. ‘It's just here.'

I shake my head. ‘Guest cloakrooms are a bit small. I won't be able to get a good angle.'

‘Are you saying I cleaned it for nothing?'

‘Afraid so.' I grin, and we both laugh. ‘I'm just going to take a few measurements, then I'll get out of your hair.'

‘I must say, you've got a fascinating job. Have you been a property photographer for long?'

‘Ten years. My best friend, Linda, is an estate agent, gives me lots of leads. Diary's full for the next six weeks.' I point the measuring device across the room and Mrs Anderson ducks out of the way, even though I told her she doesn't have to. I think it's a reflex reaction. ‘I was a shop assistant before that, did weddings and christenings at weekends, the odd family portrait.'

‘So, you've always been an artist. My son works in publishing. I've got an English degree, must run in the family, eh?'

‘Funny you should say that. My mum's an artist.' I jot down a few notes on my iPad. ‘Perhaps there is a creative gene in there somewhere. My ambition is to set up my own estate agency. I love bricks and mortar. Maybe one day.' My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I pull it out. It's Tom:

Running a bit late. Last minute eye examination. one of the golf lads got red eye. Can meet u at Theo and Linda's instead. I'll jump on a train straight to Southgate. Might be easier.

I harrumph as I quickly type out my reply, offering my apologies to Mrs Anderson.

‘Not bad news, I hope,' Mrs Anderson says, sensing my frustration.

‘Friends have invited us round for dinner tonight, but my other half is running late.'

‘Oh, that's a bummer. Is your hubby in the same line of work?' I snort at that, tell her he's an optometrist. ‘How wonderful! Must be useful for your family members.'

‘Yeah.' I scratch my eyebrow. ‘Tom looks after us all.'

‘Well, at least you're earning too and not relying on his salary.' I give her a minuscule frown. ‘What I mean is.' She's gone a bit red now. ‘If you ever find yourself in my shoes.' She thrusts a tanned bony hand out quickly, sapphire ring gleaming on her finger. ‘You won't have to sell your house to survive. Like I am.'

I raise my eyebrows. Oh,I will if Tom finds out about Frank and Liam. ‘I don't think that'll happen,' I reply a little briskly, and she looks as if I've punched her. I hope I haven't hurt her feelings. ‘But then you never know, Tina, do you?' I add politely, ‘anything is possible.' Mrs Anderson smiles, face softening. If she knew I signed a prenuptial before we got married, she'd probably put me through that lounge bay window.

The prenup was set up to protect Tom's family inheritance if we divorce. It wasn't Tom's idea. It was Gary's, his father, a consultant ophthalmologist and also penny-wise. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I must admit, I get on a lot better with Wendy, Tom's mother. Gary's a nice enough man, but he's worse than Tom when it comes to money, and let's just say that he wasn't best pleased when he found out his only child was going to marry his pregnant shop assistant girlfriend of six months.

Mrs Anderson shakes her head slowly, back against the wall, arms folded. ‘Husbands, hey? We give them the best years of our lives and then, puff, it's all over. Ben spends more time at the golf club than with me, and I'm not even joking. I just feel.' She stares at her bare feet. ‘Invisible sometimes,' she whispers, then looks up at me, her stoic persona returning. ‘So, one night I just said to him, in jest, of course, it's me or the golf clubs, and he chose the clubs.'

‘I'm sorry,' I offer, and then. ‘He sounds like a moron.' Mrs Anderson's eyes twinkle, likes it that I'm on her side.

‘There was a third party involved. Hence the sale of this place.' She gazes around the lounge dreamily, and I can tell that she's in love with her home, and possibly still in love with her husband – because you can't just stop loving someone, can you? ‘Cost us a fortune to do it all up. We'll never get our money back. We knew that from the onset but it was supposed to be our forever home.' Her eyes flick to the ground. ‘Now I can't wait to get rid of it.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs…um…Tina.'

‘It's fine.' Mrs Anderson wipes her face with both hands as if she's been crying but there are no tears. ‘Anyway, you must have quite a lot on your plate, what with a husband and a job, and giving folk like me free counselling sessions. How do you manage? Is Mum around to help out?'

‘Nah, she's away most of the time,' I say, gathering my stuff to leave. ‘On an artist's retreat in Portugal as we speak, painting the sun setting against the sea.'

‘Oh, how lovely. Is she a local artist? I might know her.' I nod, tell her she doesn't live too far from me. ‘Really? I'd love to see her work. I'm a bit of a collector. Perhaps, when she's back from Portugal, you could…'

‘No can do, I'm afraid. Zelda and I keep telling her to exhibit but she always refuses.' Mum made a lot of money from commissions, enough to buy her lovely home in Oakwood. But she just wants a quiet life now, without the stress. ‘She just loves painting.'

‘I see. Okay. Is Zelda your daughter?' Tina asks, and I shake my head, tell her she's my sister. ‘I wish I had a sister. I've got a brother, Simon, lives in South London. Is it just the two of you?'

‘Yes,' I admit. ‘We're very close. Love her to bits. Zelda's only just set up her own bakery business, actually. Zee Bakes.' I add, not allowing the shameless namedrop opportunity to go amiss. ‘She does free local deliveries if the order is over twenty-five pounds.'

‘I'll know where to go if I need a cake. Shame you haven't got family to help out, though. I know how tough it can be.'

‘It's not that bad,' I explain. ‘I've got an assistant. Maggie. More of a goddess, really.' Mrs Anderson laughs knowingly, tells me she had a Maggie once when she ran her own cleaning business after she gave up nursing, and this time it's my turn to be impressed. ‘So, you didn't use your English degree?'

‘I wanted to be an actor,' she says wistfully, ‘but my parents wouldn't have it, said it wasn't a proper job. So, nursing it was,' she declares. ‘Which I loved but had to give up when I had my son. At Ben's insistence. But I couldn't just sit at home with a baby all day, so I set up my own cleaning business from home. I've always liked a clean house. To my surprise, it took off and I had to hire staff, including an assistant.'

‘Maggie goes above and beyond the call of duty. She's a saint. But she's on maternity leave at the moment. So, it's pretty full on for me.'

‘Oh, that's a shame. For you, I mean, not her, obviously.' Mrs Anderson pulls out a tissue from the pocket of her shorts and dabs her petite nose. ‘Have you considered getting a temp in to cover for her?'

‘Yes, but life has been a bit hectic. I'm actually going to post an ad online tomorrow,' I say, and she nods, wishes me luck. ‘Right. All done. I'll email you the images once I've done an edit and completed the floorplan. If you need any help uploading them onto the agent's website, give me a shout, and as I said, I know someone who can do the EPC check for you – very reliable and reasonable rates, too.'

‘Oh, that'll be brilliant, Bella. I'll be in touch, and I hope Maggie comes back soon, or you find a short-term replacement.'

‘Thank you,' I say, crossing my fingers.

‘Actually, can you hang on a moment? I've just had an idea.' I throw a glance at my watch as she disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later with a notepad and pen. ‘My niece has just moved here from Dublin and is desperate for work, even something temporary. Is your office local?' I tell her I work from my garden office on Valley Gardens, Whetstone.

‘Very nice,' Mrs Anderson says. ‘I knew someone who lived there. Number 24, moved to Northampton to be near her son. Husband got dementia. Poor love. They were a lovely couple. You might know them – Charles and Dorothy.'

I shake my head, tell her we only recently moved to the area, but number 24 is a few doors away from me. ‘Aww, never mind. Anyway, pop all the details on here, hours etcetera. I'll have a word with my niece and, if she's up for it, I'll tell her to get in touch. She's very good at admin, very organised, and will accept minimum wage. Good with children, too. And pets, if you've got any.'

‘No pets – yet,' I say, scribbling down the duties, the hourly rate and my number, even though Mrs Anderson already has my mobile and email address. ‘Although my daughter is badgering me for a cockapoo,' I smile, handing her the pen and notebook.'

‘How old is she?'

‘Fifteen.'

Mrs Anderson nods knowingly. ‘A difficult age. I'm glad I only had the one. Thanks for coming over and doing this at such short notice, love. You're a lifesaver. Mind how you go.'

And as the front door closes behind me, it occurs to me that Mrs Anderson didn't give me her niece's name. My finger hovers over the doorbell, and just then my mobile buzzes with a message.

Linda: Can you grab a couple of reds? (two red wine glasses emojis). Zelda texted saying Keiko doesn't drink white x

Keiko's my sister's latest squeeze and her plus one for tonight. Tom won't be happy. He's already bought the wine for tonight. I'm going to be ludicrously late now, thanks to Frank's impromptu visit and Keiko's aversion to white wine. He's already annoying me. I'll grab two bottles of Merlot from the offy when I stop off for Mr Stanhope's bribe gin. Another text pings through from Linda:

And a dessert please. My sponge collapsed!(crying emoji).

I look at my watch 19.03. And now I've got a supermarket stop-off to do. Bloody brilliant. There's no time to waste. I'll put an ad on Elite Jobs tonight. Mrs Anderson was probably just trying to be helpful. I'll never hear from her niece.