Tamsin Reeves

‘You must be Ismail. Come in.’

He took his shoes off at the door, which I liked. But he wouldn’t sit down in the living room. He kept looking round as if he expected someone more interesting to walk in. I smiled but he didn’t. I wasn’t sure if he was nervous or arrogant. He seemed pretty surly. We discussed rent, terms and conditions. He kept nodding and I searched for a polite way of saying I didn’t want him. I’d have to show him the room first. Then I’d tell him there was someone else to interview and promise to let him know. He followed me up to the attic and smiled at Jessica. So he could smile.

‘I am Ismail.’ He shook her hand. She liked that. He was taking her seriously, treating her as a grown-up.

‘My daughter, Jessica. She’s been helping me clean the room.’

‘Thank you. Is very lovely,’ he said and drew out a tape measure. I began to warm to him. It would be difficult to say no anyway, after he’d gone to the trouble of measuring it up. And no one else would ever call the attic lovely.