Burial

It took him more than a week to call the number again. But he thought about little else; the idea had annexed a corner of his brain, like adolescent obsessions sometimes had. Whatever else he was doing, the greater part of him was rehearsing imaginary conversations with Holly Fox.

When he called a second time, the voice on the line asked him to wait. There was a basso rumbling as the receiver was set down. He hadn't been left on hold and he could hear the background sounds of somebody busy approaching the phone: muffled snippets of conversation, other noises rendered indecipherable; the rumbling of the phone as it was lifted from the desk; a hand cupped over the receiver.

Softly, 'Okay, I will. Later.'

Then:

'Hello, Holly speaking.'

Nathan stood up, as if someone had entered the room, saying: 'Hello?'

'This is Holly. How can I help you?'

'I'm looking for a house.'

'O-ffay.'

He thought by the tone of her voice that she was searching her desk for a pen.

He told her his price range. She asked what he was looking for.

He said, 'Something nice.'

'Okay. That's a start. A flat? A house?'

'Can I afford a nice house on my budget?'

'You'd be surprised. If you pick the right area.'

'Okay. A house would be great. Obviously. Yes. A house.'

'Bedrooms?'

'Yes, please.'

'Got that. How many?'

'Oh. I see. Sorry. I don't know. Two?'

'Two bedrooms. And would you consider a three-bedroom if it fell within your price range?'

'Maybe. Should I?'

'Most Victorian properties have three bedrooms, you see.'

'Right. I see. Okay. Then yes.'

'One of them is usually quite small. A lot of people use them for home offices.'

'Okay.'

'They make good office space.'

'Right.'

'So. Let me have a look at what's available. Then it's probably a good idea if you come in and see me to have a chat. I don't want to show you something you're not interested in.'

'Okay.'

'Right. When is good for you?'

'Any day after five. Except usually Tuesdays and Thursdays.'

'Right. So that's Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.'

'Except the first Monday of every month.'

'Okay.'

She either consulted her diary or pretended to; he couldn't imagine that February was a very busy month when your business was selling houses.

'How about next Wednesday? Five o'clock?'

Today was Friday afternoon.

To hide a sudden rush of panic, Nathan pretended to consult his own diary.

In fact, he knew very well that he had a meeting on Wednesday afternoon at 5.15 p.m. It wasn't the kind of meeting he was able to cancel - the buyer of a small but potentially profitable chain of stationers wasn't happy with the service provided so far by Hermes. But he said, 'Wednesday would be great.'

'Great,' said Holly. 'I'll see you then, then.'

'Great.'

'Out of interest, how did you get my name?'

'I'm sorry?'

'You asked for me by name. Have we met?'

'No.'

'I didn't think so.'

'A friend recommended you. A client, actually.'

'I see. Well, that's always nice to know.'

Right,' said Nathan. 'See you Wednesday.'

'See you Wednesday,' said Holly Fox, and hung up.

Nathan sat, staring at the telephone as if it might at any moment leap into the air like a frog and attack him. But it just sat there until it rang again, fully fifteen minutes later, and almost scared the shit out of him.

14

He coped well enough until Tuesday. But on Wednesday he couldn't go to work. He lay in bed as the sun curved and dipped across the sky.

But when he eventually rose at 3 p.m. it still seemed too soon.

He couldn't even drive. He sat at the wheel of his BMW, holding the cold steering wheel. The last parents, ruddy-faced with cold, were collecting their children from the nursery: tottering bundles in big winter coats and hats and colourful Wellingtons.

He called a minicab and waited in the cold, propped against the BMW, until it arrived at the gate. If he sat in the car or went back inside, he knew he would not be able to go through with it.

The minicab was ten minutes late. By then all the children had gone. Through the bright-lit, curtain-less bay windows he watched the nursery workers talking and laughing and tidying up.

The cab driver seemed to pick up on Nathan's mood and didn't talk.

Nathan asked to be dropped at the top of Blackstock Road; he needed the walk. He paid the driver and lit a cigarette and buried his hands deep in the warm pockets of his overcoat. People huddled at bus stops.

It took him another ten minutes to get there.

The estate agent's interior was obscured by cards in the window advertising houses and flats for sale and rent.

He walked in to a blast of central-heating warmth. The office was subdued; young men and women in dark suits sat behind their computers.

There was a waiting area: a low coffee table with property magazines scattered on it, a couple of cheese plants, a water cooler.

Now and again the phones rang, trilling like distant birds.

Nathan opened a magazine and pretended to read.

Then a woman said his name and he looked up and there she was.

She smiled and held out a hand.

'You must be Nathan.'

He'd forgotten how to move. He put down the magazine and coughed and offered his hand and smiled.

'Sorry I was late.'

Up close, she was unmistakably Elise's sister. There was something about the angle at which she held her head, slightly tilted. She was probably in her late twenties. Shorter than Elise, softer. Hair much longer; it was corkscrew curly and red and fell over her shoulders.

She blew a strand of fringe from her brow. She wore a charcoal-grey suit and a crisp white shirt with a large collar, worn over the lapels of her jacket. She seemed harried, busy, happy, clever.

He followed her to her desk. Her screen saver read HOLLY FOX

and gave her mobile phone number.

She offered him a cup of tea. He thanked her.

She had an assistant to make the tea. Nathan had reached a point in his life when there always seemed to be an assistant to make the tea. This particular assistant was an Indian kid in a suit and tie. He couldn't be older than eighteen.

Holly Fox asked Nathan some questions. He coughed into his fist before answering. His throat was so dry.

He croaked, 'I'm sorry.' And she waved, as if his cough was both a trifle and a pleasure. Nathan knew she did this because she was keen to get his details on to her customer database, after which she could sell him a house at the highest possible price. If her earnings were commission-based, she probably needed it.

Nathan wasn't paid on commission, but a proportion of the reps'

salary was, and he knew well what kind of anxiety it could cause especially in the slow, dead months after Christmas. (That's why the reps loved Valentine's Day, and were beginning to like Easter, too.) The tea arrived. It came in a bone-china cup and saucer, which Nathan thought a nice touch, except the saucer was chipped.

Nathan felt it coming back - the ability to do this.

He smiled at her. The smile ignited something inside him, some kind of reserve.

Holly produced an A4 file. His name was clipped to it with a giant paper clip. It contained about thirty sheets of A4, which she flicked through. She removed one or two pages from the sheaf, frowning as if in profound concentration. Then she scrunched the pages into a ball and dumped them in the waste-paper basket.

By such demonstration of mental effort was created the sense of a 'fully bespoke service' as promised in the firm's advertisement.