Chapter 5
Five
EMILY
Back inside the house, I watch Oliver top up our champagne glasses yet again as if nothing just happened outside. His phone is face down on the counter, silent now.
‘You shouldn’t have lost your temper out there,’ I say. ‘He’s just a kid.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he mutters, his jaw tightening. ‘But that table cost a bloody fortune with the import tax.’
I don’t argue; there’s no point. But the truth is, the whole thing has left me rattled on a day that should feel positive.
Oliver raising his voice, the lad’s obvious panic, the sharp crack of wood and the tinkling glass have left me rattled, but saying so out loud feels like lighting a fuse.
So I button it and lean on the doorframe, folding my arms to pretend I’m relaxed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement out of the window from across the lane. The front door of the house opposite opens and closes again.
This street seems just the type of place where everybody knows what’s happening in their neighbours’ lives. All that money, all these pristine cars on cleanly swept drives. Maybe they haven’t got anything better to do.
I’d hazard a guess that people don’t move in quietly on Orchard Lane. Everyone wants to know who you are before you’ve even unpacked your toothbrush.
My pulse flickers. Do we look like we belong?
The doorbell rings, sudden and bright, making me jump.
‘I’ll get it,’ Oliver says smoothly, already smiling again.
I smooth down my dress and try to steady my breathing. Meeting neighbours should be easy. But it’s the normal things that always feel harder for me.
From the hallway I hear strangers’ voices that sound bright and breezy. Practised. A man and a woman.
‘Emily?’ Oliver calls. ‘We have our first visitors.’
I step back into the kitchen just as they appear in the doorway.
‘Hi! Tim and Lara Walker-Dent,’ the man says, beaming and offering his hand. ‘We’re directly across the road at Orchard Cottage.’
Lara steps forward, holding a bottle and a foil-covered plate. She looks groomed and expensive, with glossy hair, pillowy lips and a forehead smooth enough to ice-skate on.
‘It’s a vegan carrot cake,’ she says as I take the plate. ‘Home-made.’
Of course it is. The kind of thing Pinterest mums whip up between Pilates and school runs.
‘That’s so kind. It sounds delicious,’ I tell her. ‘Thank you.’
Her eyes expertly scan the room and suddenly, I’m aware of our unpacked boxes, the clutter, the slightly chaotic feel of newness. Then again, we have only just moved in. Lara’s eyes make a cool appraisal of the handmade cabinets while Tim seems impressed with the ceiling height.
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ Lara says.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, hoping my smile doesn’t look nervous. ‘We loved it the moment we saw it on Rightmove.’
Oliver slips easily into host mode. The perfect handshake; the compliments and small jokes that work so well trot out with alarming ease.
I watch as he answers their questions about why we moved here, what our first impressions are.
He sounds so confident, so together, as if nothing in the world could possibly touch him.
I stand there smiling and politely adding in little bits of conversation where I can, but mostly just trying to get a read on these people. Could Tim and Lara become our first genuine friends here?
Tim asks what Oliver does.
‘I’m in property, specifically high-end rentals,’ Oliver replies lightly.
I glance at the boxes. ‘The kettle’s around here somewhere.’
Lara waves a hand before I can offer tea. ‘We’re not staying. We just wanted to say hello and welcome you to the lane.’
‘Well, it’s lovely of you to pop over,’ I say. ‘You don’t have to rush off.’
‘Honestly, we must get off. We’re out celebrating tonight, so . . .’
‘Ooh, nice. Anything special?’
She gives a bashful smile. ‘I hit a new follower milestone last week.’
‘Wow, congratulations!’
Her face lights up. ‘Yes, on Instagram. My account’s @Laras_TradLife. You might have come across it?’
‘I can’t say as I have yet . . . but I’ll certainly take a look.’
Her smile widens, and I see Lara likes that. Likes being seen, being admired. Likes all eyes on her. There’s something so polished about her it almost sparkles. But I can’t say the same for Tim . . . there’s something stiff and stand-offish there. A tension I can’t quite place.
After a few more moments of cheerful niceties and Lara’s polite bragging about schools and facilities and local events, they leave with promises of an imminent invitation to dinner over at their house.
The front door clicks shut, and I sag against it.
‘Seems a long time since we’ve had to do that,’ I say. ‘But they seem nice.’
Oliver shrugs. ‘Nice enough, if a bit affected.’
It seems ironic he’d say that, and I let out a small laugh. But inside I feel unsettled. I don’t want to instantly evaluate people the way we used to have to do. We’re supposed to be moving away from all the games.
Yet it was hard not to notice the way Lara looked around the kitchen, Tim holding on to Oliver’s hand a fraction too long.
I’m suddenly aware of how many windows overlook the road. A curtain twitches. A face disappears.
I tell myself it’s only curiosity—new neighbours always want a sneaky look—but the thought lodges in my head that it might not be long before someone realizes we’re not what we pretend to be.
That, sooner or later, someone here will see right through us.