Chapter 2
Two
EMILY
Oliver assures me that his letting agency will mainly be run as a virtual business with clients paying for prospective tenants’ details.
‘As it’s part of a franchise, no limited company is required, so I’m virtually invisible on paper,’ he told me a couple of weeks ago.
Invisible. A word Oliver shouldn’t use as comfortably as he does.
He’s been getting lots of stuff through for his starting date in a week’s time, so when there’s a second buzz in his pocket, I’m not surprised. He pulls out his phone with a sigh and turns it slightly while he stares at the screen.
This time, he looks worried—his mouth tightening, shoulders dipping a fraction.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No, no. I’m just trying to set up some office viewings.’ A beat of silence before he adds, ‘Running through plans for when I start, you know how it is.’
I’d like to ask about the plans, but I don’t want to sound jumpy again—and I want Oliver to feel I trust him.
While he carries a couple of boxes upstairs, I look out of the front window.
Outside, a woman cycles past slowly—too slowly—balancing a baguette in her basket. She glances in, quick and sharp, as if she came this way just to have a look at the new people moving in.
A few minutes later, Oliver shouts down from upstairs, his voice gleeful.
‘Em? Come and have a look at this!’
He’s in the smallest bedroom, the one he’s already earmarked as his office.
He presses a fingertip to a plain white casing on the wall that is labelled ‘fuse box’. The panel springs open, revealing a much bigger, if narrow, cupboard recessed into the wall.
‘Found our safe.’
‘Ha! That’s brilliant,’ I say, leaning closer. The fuse box only takes up a small section. ‘You’d never know there was extra space in there from the outside.’
‘Exactly,’ he says, pleased. ‘The previous owner must’ve had something worth hiding. Or maybe just liked the odd, quirky detail. Either way, it’s pretty cool.’
I smile, distracted, already thinking about shelves and desk space in here. The fuse-box door clicks shut again, vanishing back into the wall.
‘Hey, you.’
Oliver has moved silently so he’s in front of me, his eyes pinned to mine.
‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ He pauses, and a strange look passes over his face.
‘The bedroom next to this one is perfect for a nursery . . . when we’re ready, that is.
It overlooks the garden and we can decorate it exactly as you’d like. As you’ve always dreamed about.’
I look at him. ‘Are you serious? Do you really mean that?’
‘You’ve always wanted to start a family, and now we’re settling here, we’ll have some stability.’ He looks away just for a moment before adding, ‘Now we’ve left all the uncertainty behind, it’s what I want, too.’
I could cry. I throw my arms around his neck. ‘You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear you say that.’
He kisses my forehead. ‘Let’s register with the local GP next week if we can, and start the process. No pressure—we’ll go at our own pace, yes?’
‘Yes!’ I laugh, surprised by how light and carefree it sounds. ‘Us, being parents at last. Can you imagine?’
He smiles, and his voice is soft as he grips my hand a shade too tightly. ‘No need to just imagine it soon, hopefully.’
We tried to get pregnant once before—around five years ago. At first, Oliver was attentive and enthusiastic in the way people are when they don’t yet realize something is not working out. We were tracking dates, reading articles, making jokes about names.
When nothing happened, the strain of our lives back then seemed to swallow that disappointment up. The secrecy. The constant edge of risk. I remember lying awake, thinking: how could I bring a child into this . . . into all the deceit and danger?
We went for tests with our then GP. Nothing invasive, nothing dramatic, just the routine checks they do before suggesting anything more. Afterwards, the doctor spoke carefully, choosing her words. She said there was something that might make things harder. Not impossible. Just harder.
‘Oliver, your sperm sample shows reduced motility. It can be temporary, and we do see it impacted by lifestyle; things like illness, sleep and stress—but if not addressed it may lower your chances month to month.’
Oliver nodded all the way through the appointment, said very little and didn’t ask a single question.
That was when I noticed the change. How quickly he threw himself into work instead of trying to lessen the stress. How the planning ramped up, the risks sharpened. As if the need to prove something—to himself, to me, to the world—mattered more than anything else.
We agreed to put things on hold for a year. Just until life was calmer. Safer. I’ve never forgotten the flicker of relief on his face when we said it out loud. I told myself it was the sensible thing to do.
How easily that year stretched on, how swiftly hope slipped out of reach. One year blurred into two and then four. Five. I stopped imagining nurseries and names.
So now, when he mentions trying again—here, in this house—and happily speaks about starting the process again with a new doctor, my heart sings. It might be a very long road, I know that. But the fact he is suggesting it at all makes a family feel possible and real.
We carry our glasses through to the airy, white kitchen. The room is beautifully bright—handmade wooden units, deep drawers with aged brass cup handles.
Under the window sits a wide Belfast sink with a polished nickel tap. It’s the perfect place to take in the large back garden when I’m pottering around.
The island unit is painted the softest dove grey and open shelves run the length of one wall. I picture them stacked with the hand-thrown ceramic bowls and mismatched mugs I’ve collected from craft fairs and artisan shops over the years.
On the table sits a folder Oliver brought in with the keys. It contains the letting agent’s paperwork, insurance, all the boring but sensible things. I spot the corner of a separate sheet poking out underneath and pull it gently. It’s covered in handwritten notes and calculations in Oliver’s hand.
‘What’s this?’
‘Just the utilities,’ he says, taking it from me a tad too fast. He flips the folder closed with a friendly firmness. ‘Meter readings—all the sexy stuff you don’t need to bother yourself with.’
‘I love sexy stuff,’ I say, trying to keep it light. A sharper part of me wants to slide the paperwork back out and check. But I’ll drive myself crazy if I try to control every aspect of what he does. I must learn to trust him . . . or at least pretend to until I know for sure.
Besides, I can hardly point the finger now, with what I’ve done. The string of emails cataloguing the risk I’ve taken. A risk that would blow our life apart if he ever found them.
He kisses the edge of my hairline and reaches for the champagne again, topping me up. It’s only eleven in the morning, but it is the weekend and we can do as we please.
Oliver turns the label of the champagne bottle so it faces out. One of the tiny, unnecessary tweaks he often does without thinking. A leftover from the days when details were paramount.
I take a sip and let the bubbles soften the sharp edges within. It’s going to take time to relax and trust in what we have—whatever that is now.
He leans against the counter, palms spread either side. ‘No more thinking outside the box, Em. No more urgent fixes, no more running. We’re not the interesting people here, we are normal people.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
He laughs, and I feel something in me give a little.
‘Let’s go and sit in the garden for ten minutes before dealing with the next wave of boxes,’ I say. ‘I really want us to find time to enjoy what we have here together, so why not start now?’
‘Your wish is my command, Mrs Sharpe.’ He picks up his glass, trying the name on for size again. ‘Lead the way.’
We step out through the back door into the warmth. The garden is long and wide with a tempting patch of shade puddled beneath a big beech tree. It’s the perfect place for our new outdoor Italian chairs. I slip off my sandals and relish the feel of the cool grass under my toes.
Oliver drags two weathered wooden chairs that have been left behind into a strip of dappled light, and we sit. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with plans and instructions for what we need to do first, the lies we must tell, or who we need to deceive this time in order to achieve our goals.
I watch as bees fuss around the lavender, and the perfect peace resumes. Until a tiny movement catches my eye to the left.
I make a small sound of surprise and sit up sharply, spilling a little of my drink. ‘Oh, there’s . . . there’s someone watching us.’
An older man stands behind a weeping willow in the garden a couple of doors down. He was almost invisible until the drooping branches moved in the breeze
‘Hello there!’ Oliver raises a hand, and the man does the same, before walking away. ‘Nosy old bugger. He could’ve said hello.’ Oliver mutters and laughs, but it sends my heart skittering.
I look across at him. He looks lost in thought.
‘You’re very quiet,’ I remark.
‘Quiet but happy,’ he replies, and he grins as if he can’t quite believe his luck. ‘I was just thinking how we might turn into the sort of people who throw impromptu barbecues and invite the neighbours round on a whim.’
‘Ha! You never know.’ I turn my face to the sun and close my eyes. ‘Did you know they have a street party here every spring? I’ll have to learn to bake.’
‘Now that, I’m looking forward to seeing,’ he says, face deadpan.
I snort. ‘A couple of dozen fairy cakes can’t be that difficult, surely.’
‘Do I have to remind you how you once managed to burn pre-made custard?’
‘Will you ever forget?’ I huff in mock protest, and he reaches over, taking my fingers gently in his.
‘You’ll be brilliant at whatever you decide to make.’
We sit there, hand in hand, and I let myself daydream.
Carefully, like I’m handling something precious and fragile.
I imagine us doing all the ordinary stuff we’ve talked about.
Painting that small room at the back of the house apple green with a wall of alphabet wallpaper and quality furnishings.
An iCandy pram parked up in the porch after our walks in the local park . . .
‘Need you here for a sec, guv,’ one of the removals men calls out, shattering my vision.
Oliver gets up and goes back inside the house with the man.
I close my eyes again, letting the sun caress my face.
This is it. Day one of our new life on Orchard Lane.
It seems idyllic, and I want to believe in it but, somewhere deep in my chest, something whispers.
Don’t look away. Not for a second.