Chapter 1
One
Week One—Saturday
EMILY
I get out of the car, smooth down my new summer dress and lift my face to the sun, enjoying its warmth on my skin. It’s ten thirty in the morning and the mid-July rays will be scorching by lunchtime.
The Coach House sits on the bend of a wide, leafy road lined with similarly picturesque houses. Like its neighbouring properties on this manicured strip, its white walls are threaded with ropes of ivy, and the glossy front door is painted the colour of clotted cream.
This place is so picture-perfect it almost doesn’t feel real. Probably a bit too Stepford, if I’m being honest. Still, it’s set in desirable West Bridgford, a leafy suburb that lies just south of Nottingham and far nicer than all the places we’ve had to run from.
Pastel-coloured roses tumble over white-painted trellises, and even the wheelie bins are hidden behind quaint white fences.
Orchard Lane is the kind of place I’ve spent years imagining we might settle one day. The perfect antidote to all the other places we’ve lived, worked and been forced to leave behind. But now we’ve landed the dream, I need it to be real.
Raised voices shatter the calm. ‘Hey, guys, careful with the vinyl . . . there’s a Sgt. Pepper original in there!’
Oliver, naturally. I glance through the porch and see him inside, directing the removals team with the same charm he uses on waiters, landlords and anyone else he needs onside. He’s good at this; the performance, the posture, the version of himself that is confident but not arrogant.
A removal man jogs past, red-faced and sweating.
‘Sorry about the hill,’ I tell him, smiling. ‘It didn’t look this steep when we viewed the place.’
‘They never do, love,’ he mutters, disappearing inside.
The house has clean lines and a soft light. The front garden is full of lush shrubs and silver birch trees that rustle in the warm breeze like they’re whispering secrets. I head through the gate.
‘Em?’ Oliver calls out. ‘Come and see what I’ve done with the sofas.’
The porch smells of paint. On a small shelf there is a vase of faux lilies left by the previous owners. Inside, the cool hallway is decorated in calming neutrals—greys and creams—and the faint scent of bergamot from an abandoned reed diffuser lingers.
Boxes line the walls and one has split open, revealing our stash of fabricated memories. Mismatched picture frames, postcards from holidays we never took, smiling children who don’t exist. I could once read a person from the photos in their hallway.
These are the props of our old life, of the people we used to pretend to be.
This box should not be here. None of that life should have followed us.
Oliver appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
There is a softness to his eyes this morning, the kind I used to see all the time.
For a fleeting moment he feels more like the Oliver I met all those years ago, the cautious, quiet man who admired how reckless and fearless I could be.
Back then, I was the one who pushed at the boundaries while he hovered cautiously at the edge.
He reaches for my hand.
‘You ready?’ he asks.
I let him lead me into the living room, my palm resting against his warm skin.
Light spills through the bay window and pools brightly across the bleached oak floorboards.
The sofas sit exactly where they should be, a rare interior design triumph for Oliver. For a second I’m thrown by how right it all looks. As if it’s been professionally staged.
‘What do you think, Mrs Sharpe?’ Oliver grins. ‘Have I ruined the look already?’
I raise my brows at the name, allowing a smile to tug at the corners of my mouth. ‘You’d have to try harder to ruin a room this lovely.’
Mischievously, I nudge the Persian rug with my toe. ‘Although this rug is still a crime.’
‘Nothing wrong with my Persian rug,’ he grumbles. ‘It’s vintage.’
‘It’s hideous.’
He laughs, warm and earnest, and I feel something in me relax a little.
For a moment, I let myself believe this is what he really wants, too.
A real home. A settled life.
A future that doesn’t shift under our feet.
‘Hang on,’ he says suddenly. ‘I’ve got something.’
He disappears into the kitchen and I hear the soft pop of a cork, the rush of bubbles, the gentle glug of champagne being poured. When he comes back, he’s carrying two of the Dartington crystal saucers—the ones we save for best—and a bottle of rosé Moet, already sweating slightly in his hands.
Something loosens in my chest. The sight of it—the bottle, the glasses, our familiar little ritual—pulls me back to those early years, to cheap flats and takeaway cartons, to the first time he decided we deserved champagne.
I smile and take the glass from him, the pink fizz catching the light. We were on our uppers and fed up, but in love. Best of all were the hours we spent planning a better life.
‘To ordinary days,’ Oliver says.
‘To ordinary days,’ I echo, clinking mine against his. The champagne is perfectly cold and the bubbles spark across my tongue. ‘Do we even know how to do ordinary?’
‘Easy,’ he says. ‘Weekly shops, neighbourly chats and, maybe, when we get into the swing of things, we’ll even put the correct bins out on the right day.’
‘That’s a bit ambitious.’ I laugh. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’
He kisses me, his hand warm against my cheek, and for a second it’s dangerously easy to forget the past. To believe this really is our moment. Our reset button.
His phone vibrates and he glances down, just quickly enough for me to notice the flicker of tension in his jaw. He ignores it, which is odd. Oliver never ignores messages.
‘Anyway,’ he says, reaching into a packing box. ‘I thought we might make a start on the cushions.’
I stare at him. Oliver plumping cushions is like a wolf suddenly showing interest in arranging flowers. Unnatural and slightly suspicious.
‘You don’t have to play house for my benefit,’ I say.
‘I’m not playing.’ He keeps a cushion in his hands. ‘I’m trying, and that’s different.’
Something inside me twists.
‘You’ve always liked to keep moving,’ I say lightly. ‘Keep starting over.’
There’s a tiny flinch at the corner of his eye. It’s almost nothing, but I see it.
‘I want to stay this time,’ he says quietly. ‘Here, with you. For good.’
This is the choreography of us: he promises, and I smile. Life shifts underneath my feet and we begin all over again.
But maybe he’s forgotten that I taught him half his tricks.
I cross to the window. There’s a prickle at the back of my neck, invisible but insistent. The street looks perfect. Too perfect.
A woman walks past with bags-for-life and glances up then away. Too fast.
A curtain twitches across the road as if someone is watching. Waiting.
A motorbike roars close by, and then . . . pure silence.
‘Em?’ Oliver says softly behind me. ‘Everything OK?’
The unease flickers low and steady in the pit of my stomach, but I’m not going to share that with him.
‘Fine,’ I say, taking another sip of champagne and feeling the instant warmth in my throat. ‘Everything is perfect.’
He nods, and I make myself a silent promise that, this time, if he lies to me again, I won’t fall for it.