Free Just What Kind of Mother Are You? by Paula Daly Page A

her, but he doesn’t really think so. Whoever owns this place doesn’t have any real taste. The stair carpet is cheap, and the stained glass fitted inside the porch is tacky .
    ‘Let me show you the kitchen,’ she says. ‘It’s amazing.’
    Her stilettos move fast across the parquet floor. He watches her walk and sees that the hem of her skirt is hanging low. A thread of black cotton has come loose and is snaking down her calf .
    ‘It’s a wonderful room, flooded with light,’ she says. ‘A perfect family room, wouldn’t you say?’
    He doesn’t even bother commenting on that. Feels like he’s in one of those aggravating relocation programmes where the women declare the kitchen to be the ‘heart of the home’. The kind of women who want a ‘usable space where we can all be together’, and their teenage kids look on as if they couldn’t imagine anything worse .
    The agent moves towards the wall of windows beyond the dining area and asks, ‘Where are you living at the moment?’
    ‘Grasmere,’ he answers .
    ‘Oh? It’s just I’m not familiar with your name, so I assumed you weren’t from the area.’
    She’s clumsy in her quest to figure out if he can really afford this place. She’s smiling at him, waiting for him to divulge more information. He doesn’t .
    He examines her: all that loose flesh squeezed into something that’s supposed to pass for professional attire. Look into this woman’s face and you’ll see her life. He pictures her running out of the house in the morning, stuffing a Mr Kipling’s French Fancy into her mouth, pretending she’s not wearing yesterday’s knickers, climbing into her car, which is littered with crisps and bits of crap .
    They move back to the kitchen and she runs her hand across the rose granite worktop .
    ‘What line of business are you in?’ she asks casually. Before he answers he notices the wedding band on her left hand is cutting into the flesh .
    ‘Commercial property, hotels,’ he says .
    ‘Oh,’ she answers brightly. ‘Which ones?’
    ‘I’d rather not say at this stage, because I’m thinking of selling, and I don’t want it to be common knowledge. Often guests don’t like the idea of staying somewhere that’s for sale.’
    ‘I assure you I would never discuss a client’s affairs outside of—’
    He smiles. ‘I’m not really a client though yet, am I?’ he says mildly .
    ‘Prospective client, then.’
    Suddenly she’s looking at him from beneath her lashes in a flirty, girlish way. ‘Is there another hotel you’re looking to invest in?’
    ‘I’m trying to get away from the hotel business, actually. Too tying. I can’t find decent managers, and then there’s the problem of the great British public … No, I’m thinking of trying my hand at an online business. Importing goods that are already selling well within the US.’
    She nods seriously and, not for the first time today, he marvels at how willing people are to believe whatever you tell them. They really want to believe, even if their insides are screaming doubt. He’s enjoying himself now and relaxes his guard a fraction .
    ‘Do you have a property to sell?’ she asks .
    He snatches his head around. ‘W–what?’ he stammers .
    ‘A house? Are you renting right now, or do you have something to sell before moving?’
    Why didn’t he prepare an answer to this? Why not look up some addresses before coming here?
    He shakes his head, looks away. His palms begin to itch .
    ‘Can I take a look at that?’ He motions to the literature she’s brought with her about the house .
    ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘you don’t have one of these? Sorry, I thought you’d already seen this.’
    She moves towards him and lays the brochure open on the worktop. As she gets in close he catches a whiff of her, and his stomach heaves .
    The room is warm and, as she leans forward, her jacket is pulled open a little, filling the air with a pungent smell of oniony sweat, fake tan and stale old