‘Yes, please.’ I dry my hands and he leads me through double doors from the kitchen towards a large orangery, where sunshine streams in through big windows, onto the stylish Italian-tiled floor. I pause in the doorway. Two huge sofas fill the space, and bi-fold glass doors open out onto what must have been an immaculate garden at some point, although now the lawn needs mowing, and the shrubs are looking a little wild. Despite the cosy, comfortable vibe this space gives off, there is something slightly dead about it – a thin layer of dust sits atop the small glass table next to one of the sofas, and the air is thick and stale, as though the doors haven’t been opened for a long time.
‘Wow. This space is incredible.’ I venture closer to the window to peer out into the garden. What I’d do for a garden this size – you don’t get a lot of outside space with a flat over a takeaway in the centre of Swindon.
‘I, er… I don’t really use this room much,’ Rupert says stiffly, appearing beside me and taking my arm to walk me through the rest of the house. ‘Let me show you upstairs.’
We go upstairs via the living room, another huge space, occupied by a large open fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line one wall, and a piano is strategically placed, giving that whole part of the room a calm, quiet feel, like a library. ‘Do you play?’ I ask Rupert, but he shakes his head.
‘No, not me.’ He doesn’t elaborate and I wonder who does play – his wife, maybe? He hasn’t mentioned anyone else living here yet, and I have to squash down the question on the tip of my tongue. I follow him up to the first floor, where he quickly shows me the bathroom (huge, freestanding claw-footed tub, dusty Jo Malone bottles of bath oil on the window sill), first one small spare room, the master bedroom and en suite and then into another, larger spare room, where his phone starts ringing. Rupert sighs as he glances at the screen.
‘I’m so sorry, I need to take this… Will you excuse me for just a second?’
There is no time to answer before he steps out of the room, pulling the door gently closed behind him. I wait a moment, his voice a low mumble along the corridor, feeling the slight sink of the lush, thick-piled carpet under my feet. There are a couple of prints on the walls, arty-looking pictures that give me the feeling I should probably know who they are by, but I don’t. A heavy French oak wardrobe sits in the corner, a slip of peacock blue fabric peeping out from between a small gap in the doors. I step forward, the rumble of Rupert’s voice in the background, letting my fingers brush over the silky fabric, and before I know what I am doing, the wardrobe door is open, just enough for me to see it is filled with clothes – a woman’s clothes, dresses, jackets, trousers, all hanging neatly on wooden hangers – the expensive ones that I can never afford. Some are covered in plastic, as if just back from the dry cleaners, others – expensive-looking gowns, something sparkly with sequins – hang uncovered, so many of them that the hangers are rammed tightly together. The slip of fabric belongs to the sleeve of a silk jacket in a vibrant blue, and I stroke it gently, the feel of it like cold water under my fingers, wondering who the clothes belong to and more importantly why are they in here, instead of the master bedroom. Before I get a chance to let my imagination run riot, Rupert’s voice gets louder as he approaches the bedroom, saying his goodbyes to whoever was on the other end of the phone. The buzz of curiosity dies away, and I close the wardrobe door, moving to the middle of the room, as if I have done nothing but wait patiently for him to return.
‘Sorry about that.’ He stands by the door, waiting for me to slip past him. ‘I think that’s just about it for the grand tour.’
‘Very impressive,’ I say, before wincing on the inside, hoping I haven’t come across as a bit crass. ‘It’s a lovely house, Rupert. A lovely home.’
A look I can’t quite read crosses his face. ‘Yes, well. You can see that it needs a bit of sprucing up here and there. That’s why I’m on the lookout for a housekeeper. It’s a big house for me to take care of, especially with the hours that I work.’
I take that as an opportunity to learn a bit more about him. ‘What is it that you do?’
‘I’m the Contracts Director for a construction company. It’s quite intense – the hours are long, especially if I have to go out and visit sites, and it’s quite stressful. I’m mostly based at the Swindon office, but I commute into Paddington several times a month. That’s why I need a bit of help here.’
I follow him down the stairs, back into the vast sitting room. ‘Is it…’ I pause for a moment, not wanting to appear rude. ‘Is it just you living here? I mean… will I just be looking after you, or is there anyone else who might need me to do things?’
‘No, er… it’s just me.’ Rupert swallows, and rocks back on his heels a little. ‘I lost my wife just over a year ago.’ The words creak out, as though they are too big for his throat and he gives a tiny cough. ‘Hence the reason why things have gone to pot a bit.’
That explains why there aren’t any perfumes or fancy shampoo in the en suite. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, looking down. I hope I haven’t offended him – the more I’ve seen of this place, the more convinced I am that this could
