Chapter 4
Four
ROMAN
Downstairs, his mum’s voice cuts through the silence. ‘Roman?’
He doesn’t move.
‘I promised my customer I’d send their cake topper out today!’
He sighs and pushes himself off the windowsill.
‘Roman?’
He stuffs his socked feet into trainers and zips his fleece up to the chin despite the warm day.
He can’t be arsed to go, but there’s no point arguing with his mum.
She’s always asking him to nip to the post office to send out the hand-made wedding accessories she sells on Etsy.
He yanks open his bedroom door and clomps downstairs.
Angela is standing in the hallway, and she looks stressed as she scrolls on her phone.
‘Make sure you send it Special Delivery,’ she says, thrusting a small brown box and ten pounds at him without looking up. ‘And get me a receipt, please.’ She slides her phone back in her jeans pocket and smiles at him. ‘Thanks, love, you’re a star. Have you combed your hair today?’
Roman takes the package and pushes the money into his pocket. It feels light and, when he gives it a shake, something rattles inside.
‘The new people are moving in across the street,’ he says, but his mum has already walked off, rattling a lead and calling out for the dog.
Outside, the sun slides across the big front gardens this side of the lane. Roman pulls at the neck of his fleece and shifts the small box under one arm. He squints over at the Coach House. The removals men are still hard at it, trudging back and forth in the hot sun, loaded down with boxes.
As he approaches, he sees a large box labelled ‘glassware’ hovering in one man’s arms. Another guy stands at the back of the lorry, sweat patches breaking through the underarms of his navy T-shirt.
Roman decides not to head straight for the post office.
Instead, he saunters across the road, the package still tucked under one arm, his hands in his pockets as he nears the Coach House. He wants to take a closer look, and who knows . . . maybe he’ll bump into the MILF.
Her husband hovers in the hallway beyond the open front door.
He’s taller and broader than he looked from Roman’s bedroom window, probably in his mid-thirties.
He has changed out of his joggers into crisp navy shorts.
A chunky gold watch gleams on his wrist. There’s not a speck of sweat on him, and he’s not helping to lift anything—just pointing and instructing the removals men in an offhand manner.
Roman slows, drifting alongside the grass verge when suddenly the new guy glares right at him.
‘Looking for someone?’
Roman shakes his head and turns away. The man barks something at one of the guys, gesturing for him to take more care. Then he turns and heads back inside the house.
Tosser.
Roman’s phone pings, grabbing his attention.
He thumbs the notification to see his best mate, Sanj, has messaged.
Had another message from the new contact. Ring asap!
Then another message pings through as he keeps walking.
Looks like he might have a job for us.
Sanj wants to know, could Roman break into a council server?
Roman grins, already replying. He feels the package start to slip from under his arm when—
Crash.
He walks into the path of a removals man, who staggers and cries out as glass explodes across the gravel path.
He stands frozen, his empty arms raised in disbelief.
At his feet lies a pile of glittering wrecked glass and splintered wood.
A leg of a designer coffee table—or a sculpture, maybe—juts awkwardly at the wrong angle.
Underneath it, Roman spots the corner of his mum’s crushed package.
He blinks. The man turns very pale.
‘Sorry, mate, I didn’t see you. I didn’t . . . oh, shit—’ Roman stammers.
The guy bursts out of the house with his arms up in the air like he’s been shot. ‘What the hell just happened?’
The sudden fury in Oliver’s voice hits Roman like a slap.
‘Sorry, Mr Sharpe. I didn’t see him,’ the man blurts out. ‘He came out of nowhere.’
‘You!’ Sharpe points at Roman, who steps back, lifting both his palms.
‘It wasn’t my fault. I was just—’
‘You were just staring at your sodding phone, getting in the way. I saw you!’ Sharpe roars, jabbing his finger at Roman. ‘What were you thinking? How could you be so stupid?’
The removals guy frowns and opens his mouth as if he’s about to defend Roman, then closes it again when he takes in Sharpe’s furious expression.
‘I said I’m sorry,’ Roman mutters. ‘It was an accident.’
But Sharpe isn’t listening. ‘You’ve just cost me two grand, dickhead. Custom-made abroad, that table.’
Oliver’s voice cuts through him in that low, dangerous tone his dad uses before things start getting thrown.
Roman’s heart leaps when Emily steps out behind her husband. She has wide blue eyes and her pale hair shows soft, darker roots. It makes her seem more real than the other women on this street. His eyes flick to her chest before he can stop himself.
She puts a hand gently on Sharpe’s arm.
‘Oliver, calm down. It’s just—’
‘This idiot snowflake is too busy texting his mates to watch where he’s going!’
Emily’s eyes flick to Roman, soft with concern. No one ever looks at him like that.
Roman clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to cry. He bends down and pulls at the corner of his mum’s crushed package, but it won’t budge.
‘I live just over there at the Granary,’ he says, nodding towards his house as he straightens up. ‘My dad will pay for any damage.’
Oliver laughs, short and sharp. ‘Oh, will he? Good for him. What’s he do, then, your dad—let me guess. He’s one of those hedge-fund knobheads?’
Emily winces as Roman turns away.
‘Yeah, go on. You just walk off now you’ve caused mayhem!’ Oliver calls after him.
When he turns around, there are a couple of lads on bikes pointing and laughing. He recognizes them from school and one of them is filming on his phone. Heat climbs up his neck. He knows this will be on Snapchat by lunchtime.
Roman keeps walking. All the way to the end of the street and on to the path that runs behind the hedgerows, out of sight.
He stands there for a while, thinking about what just happened.
The package he’s supposed to be delivering for his mum is as flat as a pancake, wedged fast under a mountain of broken glass. A few tiny bits of it pierced his hand when he tried to pull it out and now his palms sting so badly.
He is an idiot. He should have kept his wits about him. His dad is always telling him that. He should have stuck to his own side of the street. Instead, he’s caused a lot of unnecessary damage and the cake-topper thing his mum spent all yesterday working on is totally wrecked.
He tries to slow down his breathing and cool down, but his armpits are damp with sweat. After a few minutes, he begins to pull himself together.
He can feel the shame curdling into something sharper.
Despite everything, he allows himself a little smile as he walks. Oliver Sharpe doesn’t realize who he just messed with. He thinks Roman is some stupid Gen-Z kid with no sense. He said as much. He thinks he’s just another clueless brat glued to his phone. A nobody.
But he’s wrong about that. Anger steadies him. And anger is a lot easier than shame.
Roman’s smile tightens. He’ll find out everything there is to know about Oliver Sharpe.
Roman might be young, but he knows about people who have things to hide. And there’s something about Oliver Sharpe. He may try to hide it, but he looks like someone who is under a great deal of pressure.
Roman is going to find out if his new neighbour has a secret.
By the time he’s finished, Oliver Sharpe won’t be threatening and humiliating him in the street any more.
Instead, he’ll be begging Roman for forgiveness.