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tonight.  And after a glass or
two, it seems that Marcus might not be so bad after all.  He certainly has
a glowing recommendation from his last practice. Actually, he’s quite a glowing
sort of person altogether, which rather begs the question.  If they loved
him so much, why the devil has he left them?
    After Miles’ phone bleeps and he rushes
off to tend to a horse that’s tangled in a barbed wire fence, the rest of us
order some food.  By the time Elmer and I get home, it’s late. There’s
time only to put a machine load of washing on, before I have a bath and climb
into bed, so it’s not until next morning that I notice the message light
flashing on the answerphone.  Bloody Arian, no less.   Wanting to discuss the house.   My poor, battered
heart sinks through the floor.
               
Of course, I knew it would happen, but losing our home seems unbearable.  My home.   I’ve come to love quaintly named Plum Tree
Cottage, with its crooked doors and ancient timbers.  The three large
bedrooms, in that imagination of mine, were for the baby Mulhollands I’d always
envisaged would turn up at some point and all around, there is space I imagined
we’d grow into.  It was for ever – like my marriage.
    But sadly, there’s no way in the world I
can afford the mortgage.  Arian arranged for a smarmy estate agent to
value it last week, without even telling me - the bastard still has his door
keys - and so smug Martin, with his designer suits and quiffed hair, has been
poking around my home and taking measurements without me even knowing.
 Martin drives a big, expensive car and is always unnaturally tanned, even
in December.  He clearly makes a lot of money… His surname ought to
be Slime, not Syme and yes, he really is that bad.  Worse even.  I
should know.  He was in the year above me in sixth form.
    I wonder how many of his customers know
about his little property-developing habit?   About his little way of snapping up bargains before they’re even on
the market, no doubt at a knockdown price as he sweet-talks the old dears into
almost giving their homes away to him, only for him to re-advertise them a week
later at eye-watering prices… Definitely a secret millionaire
for all the wrong reasons, our Mr Slime.
    I can just imagine him sucking up to
Arian, man to man, having a secret, smug laugh about how the little woman
doesn’t know what he’s up to . 
    ‘Oh, don’t worry about a thing,
sir.  This kind of thing happens all the time, ho, ho… We’ll sell this in
no time. Marvellous little family home like this will be snapped up...’
    To say I’m furious is an understatement.
 I’m so seething I’m almost incandescent.  Worse, someone is coming
to view it this morning.   More strangers sniffing around
my home.   I ought to be tidying everything, according to
Martin. 
    ‘Mrs Mulholland, you really do need to
de-clutter,’ he told me most pompously.  De-clutter? Isn’t that what those
TV makeover shows tell you to do?  To make the home I don’t want to sell
more appealing.  Actually, I really don’t care that there’s a pile of my
knickers on the kitchen table, and that last night’s dishes are lying unwashed
in the sink. My empty wine bottle collection is quite impressive too. After
all, I am that woman spurned.  Hopefully no-one will like my cluttered
home and I can stay here forever.
    I get a call from Smug Martin during my
lunch break.
    ‘Mrs Mulholland?’ he says in that smarmy
voice of his, sounding far too horribly pleased with himself. My blood runs
cold.
    ‘Good afternoon Mr Slime,’ I say, on
purpose, my heart sinking as I listen.
    Bloody bloody wankers, him and Arian.  
I hate them more than ever.  The first people he showed round have offered
the asking price.  I didn’t think that kind of thing ever happened. 
So to add insult to injury, now I’m homeless.
    I can’t help feeling oh so sorry
for myself as yet again, I’m consumed by emotion.