This Could Change Everything(11)

‘Oh, but—’ Malcolm looked startled, then realised she was teasing him. ‘Ah, you got me there, Mrs Walsh. Now, tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee would be lovely,’ said Zillah, even though this was a big lie; their coffee was pretty diabolical.

Malcolm signalled for his son Jonathan to bring out a cup of coffee and a biscuit.

‘Could I have two biscuits?’ Zillah beamed at him. ‘Actually, three?’

‘Why not? It’s almost Christmas! So, how did yesterday’s interviews go, Mrs Walsh? Well, I hope? My fingers are crossed!’

They were. He was crossing them now. He had soft white hands that reminded her off-puttingly of bratwurst sausages. It occurred to Zillah that if anyone with fingers like that applied to become one of her tenants, she would have to turn them down.

She wouldn’t tell Malcolm that, obviously. But she could think it.

‘Thank you so much.’ She nodded as Jonathan placed the coffee and biscuits in front of her before attending to a new customer. ‘I’m afraid none of them were suitable, Malcolm.’

Malcolm’s face fell. ‘Oh dear. Really?’

‘Sorry.’ Not sorry.

‘But we did check them out very thoroughly before sending them over to see you, Mrs Walsh. I can assure you their credentials are impeccable.’

‘Do you have any owners fussier than me?’ said Zillah.

Malcolm sighed. ‘No, Mrs Walsh. Since you ask. No, we don’t, but I do understand your situation . . .’

‘Exactly. I’m not an absentee landlord. It’s my house, my home, and I care about who’s going to be sharing it with me.’

‘Of course you do, but are you sure you aren’t being a bit hasty? I did meet all three applicants and they seemed perfectly decent to me.’

Decent. What a deadly dull way to describe someone. It was on a par with a girl meeting a potential boyfriend and telling her friends afterwards that he’d been sweet.

Talk about the kiss of death.

‘OK, the first one had a twitchy eyebrow. I couldn’t stop looking at it.’

‘Twitchy eyebrow.’ Malcolm wrote it down on his notepad.

‘The second one, Amelia, was wearing horrible shoes. And horrible tights. Well, horrible everything.’ Zillah shuddered at the memory.

‘Horrible everything.’ This was accompanied by a hint of eye-roll.

‘And the third one, the chap who works as a geologist, gave me a very disapproving look when I swore.’

‘You swore at him?’

‘Of course not,’ Zillah exclaimed. ‘I’m not an animal. The smoke alarm went off because I’d left my lunch in the oven, so I said, “Oh fuck.” I mean, who wouldn’t?’

‘Right,’ Malcolm murmured, noting it down on his pad.

‘The way you flinched just then? That’s exactly what he did.’

‘Well, it was a bit loud.’ He inclined his head discreetly in the direction of the other potential client, who was sitting across the office with Jonathan.

‘He also smelled of mustard,’ said Zillah. ‘I mean, mustard. I couldn’t put up with that.’

‘So you’re rejecting all three candidates.’

‘I want to share my home with someone I like. Is that too much to ask?’

‘They also have to like you,’ Malcolm replied pointedly. ‘We can keep trying, but you have to understand that at this time of year there’s going to be a lull.’

‘Rather a lull than someone who smells of mustard.’

He reached for his ringing phone. ‘Excuse me while I just get this . . .’

It was a boring conversation about a leaking roof. Zillah’s attention wandered to the exchange taking place on the other side of the office, where Jonathan was sucking air in through his teeth, studying a list on his computer screen and shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, but we just don’t have anything in that price range.’

‘Nothing at all?’ The girl had been offered neither coffee nor biscuits. She was leaning forward on her chair, looking faintly desperate.

Jonathan shrugged. ‘This is Bath.’

‘I know.’ The girl’s shoulders drooped in defeat. ‘Can I leave you my details? If anything does come in, could you let me know?’

Zillah took a sip of the disgusting coffee, her practised eye taking in the girl’s shoulder-length wavy blonde hair, the purple and gold scarf around her neck, the dark blue sweater and jeans worn with purple ankle boots.

‘Of course.’ Jonathan brought up a fresh page on the computer screen. ‘Fire away. Name?’

‘Essie Phillips.’

He paused and looked at her. ‘You’re kidding. Really?’

The girl flushed and nodded.

‘Ha, I knew I recognised your face! I saw that thing about you in the paper the other day. I can’t believe it’s you,’ he exclaimed. ‘So that’s why you’re so desperate for somewhere to live.’

She kept her voice steady. ‘Shall I give you the rest of my details?’

‘Oh. Sorry. Yes, go ahead.’

When he’d finished, the girl rose to her feet and swung her tan leather bag over her shoulder.

Since Malcolm was still busy on the phone, Zillah said to her, ‘Now I’m intrigued. What happened to make you famous?’