Chapter 8
Eight
Saturday
EMILY
I’m in the front garden, tugging at a stubborn clump of weeds along the edge of the path, when I sense someone there.
Not a sound exactly. Just a presence.
I straighten and see a woman standing the other side of the hedge by the gate. She’s empty-handed. No dog, no phone, nothing to justify the fact she’s just standing there, staring in.
She’s looking at the house.
I smile, because that’s what you do.
‘Morning,’ I call.
She startles but recovers quickly.
‘Hello.’ She gives a brief smile. ‘You’re the new people who moved in yesterday.’
‘That’s us,’ I say. ‘I’m Emily, and my husband’—I gesture behind me—‘Oliver, is inside.’
‘I’m Rachel,’ she replies, looking down and scuffing her shoe on the pavement.
‘Nice to meet you, Rachel. Are you on the lane, too?’
‘Yes, I live at Sunnyside. I’m Ron and Margaret Windsor’s lodger,’ she says. ‘Are you settling in all right? We saw the removals lorry.’
‘Early days, but we are, thanks. Still surrounded by piles of boxes, but getting there.’
She nods. ‘It’s a nice house.’
‘We think so.’
Another awkward pause follows, but Rachel shows no sign of moving on. She shifts her weight, glances back towards the Windsors’ place, then returns her gaze to me.
‘It’s usually pretty quiet round here,’ she says. ‘It’s all right, though. Once you get used to it.’
‘Oh well, quiet’s good,’ I say lightly.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘Yes. Everyone keeps an eye out here. In a good way, I mean.’
Before I can answer, the front door opens behind me.
‘Em?’ Oliver calls. ‘Did you find the stepladder?’
I turn. ‘In the shed. Oliver, this is Rachel.’
When I look back, Rachel’s smile has gone a bit thin at the edges.
Oliver raises a hand from the door. ‘Hi.’
‘Sorry,’ she says abruptly. ‘I should get back.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say.
She turns and walks away, her pace quickening as she reaches the Windsors’ driveway, a couple up from ours. She disappears inside without looking back.
Oliver comes to stand beside me.
‘Who was that?’
‘She’s the Windsors’ lodger, just up the road at Sunnyside.’
‘Seemed a bit stand-offish.’
‘Must be just you.’ I grin. ‘She was nice enough.’
Over at the Windsors’ house, the curtains in the front room twitch, then settle.
Everyone on the lane seems friendly enough, and yet I can’t quite shake the sense that there’s more going on around here than anyone is saying. We spend the rest of the day unpacking and trying to get at least the downstairs straight. Before I know it, it’s nearly ten o’clock.
I should go to bed, but my head is still buzzing with the move, Oliver’s temper over the broken coffee table and the impromptu visits from our new neighbours.
I hope we’ve made the right decision in coming here.
Oliver has already gone up to bed, as he sometimes does, but I know I won’t sleep if I go up now. So I lounge a bit longer on the sofa, phone glowing in my hand, and do what I always do when my thoughts are too loud: scroll.
The reliable distraction of mindless scrolling. Something to quiet the static.
Lara Walker-Dent. The name suits her slick, sophisticated image.
I can’t remember the handle she gave me, so I type her name into the Instagram search bar and feel a guilty twinge of nostalgia. Old habits die hard—checking someone out on social media before we make a move.
I’m logged into my brand-new account. Scrubbed clean, like everything else we brought with us—apart from our stash of fake memories.
No tagged photos, no old friends lingering in the margins, no trail leading back to the people we used to be.
Just a handful of carefully chosen images and a follower count boosted by the purchase of a few fake accounts so I don’t look like a sad loser with no past life at all.
It’s fine. Plenty of people start again and many don’t feel the need to document every moment of their lives online, so it’s OK if the grid is a bit sparse.
I find myself wondering if Lara will notice. If she’ll look me up, scroll back and realize there’s not really much before here at all. Still, everyone understands a fresh start, and that’s what I’ll be relying on.
In our old life, I checked everyone out thoroughly online because it was safer that way.
I had a different life then and lived by different rules.
When you scan for danger enough times, it becomes instinct.
A kind of survival skill: find out who you’re dealing with before they get the chance to surprise you.
There’s no need for all that now. I shove the unease aside and carry on.
Her Instagram pops up immediately: @Laras_TradLife
A glossy colour-coded grid in coordinated pastel colours unfolds before me like a lifestyle spread.
I press ‘follow’ and click into a few squares to get sunlit kitchens, home-made cakes, bouquets of hand-cut flowers.
It’s that full-on, soft-focus aesthetic that tries to convince you everything here can be effortless and perfect with the minimum of effort.
It’s an attractive account, I’ll give her that. Part of me wants to buy into it. The other part wants to gag.
A glowing circle sits at the top left indicating she’s posted a Story.
I tap it, and Lara’s beaming face lights up the screen.
It’s a selfie taken earlier, just after she left our house.
Lara is standing in her driveway, her house behind her.
Her face is set at the same flattering angle as most of the other photographs, her hair gleaming like she’s just stepped out of a shampoo advert.
She looks perfect. Maybe too perfect. I’m sure in real life her eyes weren’t quite as blue, nor her skin as glowing.
Across the bottom of the screen, the caption reads:
Love my new neighbours! xx
I actually huff out a laugh. Really?
Still, it’s warm and friendly and, pathetically, I realize I’m actually a bit flattered.
I tap the heart to like it. Not because I’m dazzled, but because . . . well, if I’m serious about building a life here, I can’t live behind my own walls for ever. And a friendly neighbour has got to be better than a hostile one. I should know.
Besides, this isn’t Before. I’m not trying to manage anyone’s expectations now or stay one step ahead of trouble. I’m just trying to make a normal friend in my new, normal life. A simple, human thing I’ve never been particularly good at.
A ping jolts me.
@Laras_TradLife has followed you.
That was quick.
Another ping.
Message from @Laras_TradLife
I only hesitate for a second because that’s who I am now, someone who thinks before jumping in. Then I open it.
Fancy popping over for coffee on Tuesday? I’m around all morning x
I type back:
Would love to! Thanks x
I set the phone down, a cautious warmth settling in. Who knows, it might actually be OK.
Maybe it’s time to at least pretend I expect the best. Fake it until it stops feeling like a lie.
When I go up to bed, Oliver is still awake. When I mention that Lara has invited me over for coffee, he looks up over his laptop, his expression sharpening.
‘That’s nice,’ he says, in the careful tone he uses when he’s calculating the usefulness of something. ‘Always good to get to know the neighbours early on.’
‘Is it?’
‘Useful in terms of us integrating with the street, I mean.’
I slip off my dressing gown. ‘It’s just coffee, Oliver. I won’t be doing any targeted fact-finding.’
‘Still.’ His eyes follow me across the room.
Over the years, Oliver has come to regard new people as a potential stepping stone to something else.
I hope this isn’t a sign he’s already up to his old tricks.