Page 27 of The Other Twin
‘Don’t you have to get to work too?’
He shrugs, lips grazing my ear. ‘Yes, but there’s no rush.’
‘Lucky you,’ I reply, snagging a slice of his toast and taking a bite of its warm, buttery deliciousness.
I turn at the sound of the mail landing on the mat. The usual waste-of-paper circulars, along with an ominous brown envelope that looks suspiciously like it’s from HMRC. For a wild nanosecond, I allow myself to imagine that maybe they’re giving me a rebate.
Ha, as if.
I drop Reece’s toast back on to the plate and head into the hall, bending to retrieve the envelope. I rip the letter open rather than giving in to the urge to toss it in the bin.
Audit.
HMRC are doing anaudit. I feel the blood recede from my hands. The word hangs in my head, echoing with bureaucratic venom. I scan the letter again. It’s not a summons or a court date, but still... an audit. There’s no reason given, only instructions, and it feels personal, like a grudge. My saliva dries out. I fold the letter quickly before Reece can read it. I don’t want him to see me panic about money. It’s a weird pride thing, maybe. Or self-preservation. I’ll have to call Jenny, my accountant, see if she can shed any light.
‘Everything all right?’ Reece’s voice floats over my shoulder.
I fold the letter back into its envelope and shove it in my handbag. ‘What? Oh, yeah, fine. Just tax stuff.’
He nods, but I feel his gaze lingering. I wonder if I should say more. That I’m worried, that I always feel like I’m one mistake away from disaster. I want to tell him about the late-night spreadsheets, the little lies I tell my accountant so she doesn’t judge. But I don’t. It isn’t the kind of relationship where we talk real talk, even after all this time. I guess you could say it’s a little superficial. I’m not sure how or why we’ve ended up this way – maybe we’re both too worried about scaring the other off. Or maybe Reece’s life really is that perfect, and I’m too afraid of showing him that mine is not.
‘You sure?’ he asks, and there’s a softness to it that makes me uneasy.
I wonder if I should tell him. If I should unload my problems, or at least this one. But what if he isn’t sympathetic, or he brushes it off? Reece always tells me he was attracted to my boss-bitch energy. That he loves how independent I am. If I show him my vulnerable side, might it make us stronger? Or would it ruin what we have?
I think about my parents, how they communicate in code, never quite saying the thing directly. I was raised on subtext. My mother’s way of apologising is to cut up fruit and leave it on my desk. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed either of them cry – maybe Dad once when our dog, River, died. But Mum... never. Even when Dad had his heart attack, she was stressed and panicked, but I never saw actual tears. Maybe she shed them in private. Maybe not. I adopted all their defensive strategies, and now I barely know how to have a feeling in front of another person unless I disguise it as a joke.
I force a smile, zip my bag shut. ‘All good,’ I reply, kissing Reece goodbye. My breath feels stale, my teeth too big, and while I’m not a crier, I get the weird urge to sob.
By the time I’m at the car, the sky has collapsed into a classic winter drizzle, cold and grey and relentless. I fire up the engine and sit for a full minute with my hands on the wheel. I have to show a house in half an hour. I have to pretend none of this is happening.
Traffic is an insult – endless lorries and a yellow double-decker with the nerve to break down on the roundabout near my flat. I tap at my steering wheel like I know Morse code, but it doesn’t make the van in front of me move any faster. All the while, that HMRC letter pecks away at my brain, the word ‘audit’ hammering at my skull.
My phone buzzes with two new messages, both marked ‘urgent’. One from Jenny, and the other from Talia at the office. I don’t read either of them.
The showing I’m meant to attend is at a new ‘luxury eco-village’ development along the A337. The kind of place that has marketing copy about ‘elevated living’ and ‘village amenities’ but is actually just a bunch of identical boxes with a sculptural bike rack and a pond masquerading as a lake.
When I finally swing on to the road, I’m only five minutes late, but my clients – an engaged couple who want to buy before their wedding next spring – are already there, huddled under a green umbrella that’s too small for both of them. Usually, I like to get to a property early so I can turn off the alarm and check the place over first. No chance of that now.
The property itself is a two-storey eco-home with a biometric lock and dark solar panels that gleam from the roof even in this muted light, but...what the hell?The path to the front door is no longer a path. It’s a mudslide. Someone has dumped a literal mountain of wet, brown earth and rubble right in front of the house, so the walkway is blocked from kerb to door. There’s no way around it except to wade through the grass, which is a soup of rain and clay.
Is this some construction delivery gone wrong?
I leave the dry interior of my car and step out into the drizzle, having left my brolly at home. I plaster a smile on and power-walk towards Molly and Ted, boots immediately saturated, skirt catching splatter. I briefly fantasise about the ground opening up and swallowing me whole.
‘Molly and Ted?’ I say, breathless and smiling like this is all perfectly normal.
They nod, and I thrust out my hand. ‘Hi, I’m Bella Newbury. Charming weather, eh?’
Molly smiles half-heartedly.
‘Is this the property?’ Ted asks. ‘Only we can’t see the house number behind all this...’ He gestures at the mud.
I ignore the lump in my throat. ‘Yes, this is it!’ I reply brightly. ‘There’s a bit of construction happening, but it’s all part of the neighbourhood’s new landscaping plan.’
The couple exchange glances, their faces tight with British politeness and the raw, biting cold.
‘Should be done by next week!’ I add, trying my best to smooth things over.
