The realtor has insisted that I open the back room.
“We can’t sell the house unless we know every detail.”
He’s a fussy little man in a red blazer and too much gel in his hair. He fidgets with his pen when I start to explain that I would of course but it’s locked and I don’t know where the key is.
“Then we’ll have to arrange for a locksmith to come out.”
He pulls out a mobile phone, about the size of his palm and starts punching in numbers.
Oh shit! I colour, as though I’ve said it out loud. The idea of someone tramping through the house and tearing off doors – horrific! I locked that door. I should open it.
I flee to the parlour and retrieve the key from the drawer where it’s lain for the past five years. I parody a surprised and delighted discovery. There is no need for the locksmith after all.
The realtor smiles and nods as though that’s just the way things should be. I suddenly feel like a child who has been tricked into doing as they’re told.

*

I climbed the stairs, the letter in hand. I was napping and hadn’t heard the afternoon post arrive until early evening. It had been a hot day. The bright unforgiving sun beat down from a fluorescent blue sky and the whole house with it’s wide windows and heavy furnishings had acted as a sun trap. The heavens had now turned vibrant pink, flecked with gold and a deep, deep purple. The wood of the banister was cold under my hand as I ascended, skirts swishing and stairs creaking with every hurried step.
The envelope had the King’s College stamp on it, the address was handwritten. They had signed his name with such a nice little flourish. I took it as a good omen. Surely they wouldn’t care about the penmanship of rejection letters?
I don’t know why I didn’t call out his name. Maybe I wanted to surprise him. I don’t know. My breathing was shallow, the excitement and the climb up the numerous, narrow stairs were proving too much and for a moment a black claw gripped the centre of my chest as I realised that I would lose him.
My steps faltered and I looked down at the letter. There it was; his future in my hands. Of course, if he didn’t get in, there would be other colleges, other courses, other lives for him but this one was the one I wanted. I would lose him but I would lose him to something great. I reached forward and twisted the knob.

*

The door is stiff and swollen with damp. I have to put my shoulder against it to and the force of it propels me inside without warning. I was not ready.
The realtor strides past me into the centre of the room. I think he’s surprised.
“I expected there to be... something,” he says.
It’s bare. There is the bed, adorned only with a mattress and a pair of threadbare curtains. The chest of drawers is empty, except for the mortal remains of spiders and dust covers every available surface.
There is no sign of life. It is as though he were never here. I feel a certain satisfaction when the realtor asks what the room was used for and I can answer without hesitation.
“A guest room.”
He shrugs and starts to take measurements.

*

He found me in the kitchen, after everything had calmed down. I had gone to the trouble of making myself tea but hadn’t drank it. Instead I sat, staring out of the window, clasping the cold cup. He stood in the doorway and I knew that we were alone.
“Your things can be packed for tomorrow,” I said. I stared into his reflection. He stared into me.
“But term doesn’t start for another month.”
“You can go to your aunt Emma,” I replied. “In Norwich. She’ll keep you and then you can get the train with Uncle David.”
There was a pause. I sounded so callous. Like I’d been planning this since his birth but the truth of the matter was that I was making it up as I went along.
“Can’t I stay here?” He sounded so hopeful.
“Don’t say that. You know you can’t do that.”
“But why not?”
I lost my temper. The rage that had been sitting like a lead ball in the pit of my stomach was suddenly ready to explode outwards like a hail of bullets. I turned on him.
“Of course you can’t!” I snapped. “Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve probably been sneaking around here for months, everyone has probably seen you! You can be sure that crow next door, O’Reilly has! You know how she talks! Soon everyone will know! How could you stay here and carry on as before?”
“I don’t have to...”
He stepped forward and the light caught on his suddenly unfamiliar face. I was terrified he would try and take my hands but instead he gripped the back of the chair in front of him. I shook my head. He couldn’t stay here. He belonged somewhere else now, somewhere alien to me.
“You can’t come back here.”
He looked at me like I’d slapped him.
“You can’t,” I repeated. “We will work it out as we go along.”
The last light was fading. The cold was creeping in.
“You need to pack,” I said. “Turn the light on as you go.”
I don’t watch him leave. I know that, somehow, that would only make things worse.

*

Mrs O’Reilly from next door wanders in just as the realtor and I are descending the stairs.
He’s talking about the room.
“Really, it’s a wonderfully situated space. I’ll have to come back during the week to take some photos, of course. I think we should call it The Nook. So much cosier, yes?”

O’Reilly raises an eyebrow at us, her face alive with sordid thoughts. I suppose I should feel flattered that she still thinks I can get up to that kind of thing.
She shuffles into the kitchen as I say goodbye to the realtor and shut the door on him. By the time I get back she’s sat at the kitchen table and has helped herself to tea and a biscuit. This intrusion, once greatly resented, has now settled into a welcome monotony. I sit down opposite her.
“So it’s true then?”
I nod.
“Thought it was only a matter of time. I expect you’re moving down near yer sister and himself.”
“That’s the plan.”
She snorts, I can’t tell whether it’s approval or not.
“It’ll be nice for you, I expect. It’s very mild down south.”
“So I hear.”
“And it’ll be nice to be near the boy.”
“Yes.”
“I hear they’re very nice to their mothers, that type.”
I stiffen in my seat but try not to look too intently at the wizened old woman sitting across from me.
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” Her eyes are locked on mine, sharp and keen. “I never said anything but you’re going now, so I suppose there’s no harm done. I used to be great with a couple of them back when our Dennis was in the corps. Not that they could’ve said anything. Not in those days. But apparently they’re very good to their mothers.”

I run my fingertip over the lemon sitting in the fruit bowl in front of me, feeling it’s softly dimpled skin. The breeze floats through the open kitchen window and the oppressively blue sky is slowly turning an intense pink.

“Did you always-”
She sniffs. “Does it matter?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” My voice is soft, dreamy.
“I always felt,” she says, “that it’s none of my business what people are like behind closed doors.”
There is a pause.
In the hall, the phone begins to ring.

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