‘Y’all right?’ he smiled awkwardly at them all. ‘Sorry—I stayed out; thought you’d be done by now.’
‘Don’t worry, we’re just leaving, Mr Jackson,’ Jessica said as brightly as she could.
Mr Jackson carried on staring at them all, confused by the whole process. ‘That’s my wife,’ he said after a while, following the young man’s gaze and pointing to the picture of Jesus.
The young man nodded and smiled and tried not to look scared.
‘She was the one what had the religion.’ Mr Jackson paused. ‘She died,’ he added, looking hopefully at them all, as if one of them might have heard otherwise.
The young man mumbled, ‘Sorry to hear it,’ and started to propel his partner towards the hall.
Jessica followed them out.
Mr Jackson stayed where he was. ‘Y’all goin?’ he said to the empty room.
On the pavement outside No. 8, she shook hands with the young couple as a fleet of motorised scooters raced up the road behind them.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she called out enthusiastically, watching the couple get into their car and start to argue.
No. 8 Beulah Hill was a bargain—if she had the money, she would have bought it herself. All it needed was thirty to fifty thousand pounds of work done on it and it would be worth over six hundred and fifty, but nobody seemed to have the imagination to see beyond Mr Jackson and the Jackson décor. People these days wanted to walk into readymade lives. Her phone started ringing again.
It was Kate.
‘Still there?’
‘Still here.’
‘Great—I’m just round the corner. Oh, and Jessica, I meant to say—you’re the only person I’ve told about the whole downscaling/second property in France thing, so…’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.’
‘To anyone.’
‘To anyone.’
‘Great.’ A pause. Then again, ‘Great.’
By the time she came off the phone, the silver BMW containing the young couple had slid away. She turned and knocked on the door of No. 8 again—to see if it was okay to do the viewing with Kate now.
After a while, she rang a second time, and Mr Jackson appeared in the door, the blue carrier bag still in his hand, staring blankly at her. He looked as though he’d been crying.
‘Mr Jackson? It’s Jessica, Mr Jackson—Jessica from Lennox Thompson Estate Agents?’
He nodded patiently at her—without any apparent recollection.
She turned and pointed to the Lennox Thompson For Sale sign attached to his gatepost.
‘It’s Jessica, Mr Jackson,’ she said again, glancing at him standing in his doorway staring at the Lennox Thompson For Sale sign as though he’d never seen it in his life before. ‘I’ve got someone who wants to see the property.’
‘The property,’ he repeated, grinning to himself.
‘Yes, the property—your house—now. If that’s okay with you?’
‘They want to see it now?’
‘They want to see it now—is that okay?’
Mr Jackson sighed, shaking his head and disappeared back inside without shutting the front door.
‘Mr Jackson?’ Jessica called out.
Then the Hunters’ Audi estate pulled up and Kate got out panting, as though she’d been running, not driving.
‘Jessica—thanks so much.’
‘Are you serious about this?’
‘I just want to take a look,’ Kate said, her eyes once more skimming the peach-coloured window frames and impenetrable layers of net hanging at the windows.
‘It needs work doing to it—about thirty grand’s worth. Nothing structural—mostly cosmetic. Sorry, we’re going to have to be quick, I’m meant to be somewhere else.’
Jessica gave Kate the tour.
Mr Jackson remained motionless on the sofa watching a Gospel channel.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Jessica called out to him as they left the house.
There was no reply from Mr Jackson.
‘Well, I’m definitely interested,’ Kate said on the pavement outside No. 8.
‘Have a think about it.’
‘I’m definitely interested,’ she said again.
‘Well, talk to Robert -.’
‘I’m going to.’ She nodded to herself then swung back to Jessica. ‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘Tonight? Nothing.’
‘Why don’t you come to the PRC meeting?’
‘I didn’t know there was a PRC meeting.’
‘Didn’t Harriet phone you?’
Harriet hadn’t phoned for some time. In fact, Jessica hadn’t been to the last three PRC meetings. ‘No.’
An awkward silence. Jessica was one of those people it was almost impossible to lie to. ‘Harriet’s probably just lost your number or something. You know what she’s like.’
Jessica didn’t respond immediately. ‘Look, I’ll let you know—I’ll see how Ellie’s day’s been, and if she minds me leaving Arthur with her.’ She paused, looking suddenly pleased. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Course I’m sure. It’s an important one tonight—about the street party.’
‘What street party?’
‘The street party we’re having in June.’
‘Oh. Okay—well, I’ll call you.’
Even though she was late, Jessica stayed on the pavement waving stupidly at the disappearing Audi before getting into her own car.
Watching her in the rear-view mirror, Kate felt a stab of regret.
What had incited her to invite Jessica to the PRC?
Harriet had an almost pathological hatred of Jessica Palmer, whose misshapen life filled Harriet with horror. She treated her as though tragedy was contagious, because even dullwitted Harriet realised that the grief that comes with tragedy has the ability to shape lives in a way happiness never does.
Sighing, Kate turned the corner onto Lordship Lane.
Jessica sat for a while, listening to a dog barking somewhere close by, then turned the keys in the ignition.
Twenty minutes later, she walked into the newly openplanned offices of Lennox Thompson.
Most of the staff were out on viewings or valuations—apart from Elaine and the manager, Jake, who was almost ten years Jessica’s junior, on the Oxford Alumni, and seriously addicted to coke, which gave his skin a grey pallor that was only heightened by being perpetually offset against the white shirts he insisted on wearing.
Jake thought Jessica and him had things in common—primarily their education—which led him to keep up a repartee with her that was at once fraternal and elegiac.
Jessica knew it wasn’t Oxford they had in common—it was tragedy.
In Jake’s case, the fatal error of perpetually trying to impress parents who had never learnt how to love their children—he once told her his father used to make him weed the borders naked, as a punishment.
In