Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Wednesday
EMILY
The spreadsheet stares back at me from the laptop screen, all neat columns and colour-coded tabs: Guestlist, Food, To Do.
I duplicated an existing document, deleted all the previous life names and details, and that left me with just the bones of one of our early parties waiting for me to put flesh on them.
This is what we’ve always called the early-stage work, the kind of thing I’ve had so much practice at I could do it in my sleep. The thought makes me sick to my stomach, and I force myself to remember that that’s all behind us; I’m doing this for real now. No hidden agenda.
I’m glad I took the time to pop over to the Granary to introduce myself to Angela Thomson. She was so nice and welcoming, and talented, too. I glance across at the beautiful wreath I bought, ready for our front door in September.
Best of all, she’s texted to say that she and Russ, her husband, will be coming to the barbecue this weekend.
As I left the house, something caught my eye. A bag of rubbish sitting next to the bin, filled with garage-type things and ragged old cloths. On top, lying on its side, was a can of spray paint.
I can’t jump to conclusions—probably half the houses on the street have spray paint in their garages—but it rattled me slightly. Maybe I should mention it to Ron in passing next time I see him.
I scroll down the guestlist, adding a few more names, neighbours we’ve just met in passing and others living on the street that Lara has mentioned to me.
I can almost predict exactly how this event will pan out.
Oliver, handsome and perfectly smart casual in his Reiss shirt and tailored shorts, will circulate skilfully among the guests.
He’ll lean in just enough, assuming a fascinated expression as the neighbours tell him about themselves, always humble and playing down his abilities when they ask him anything about himself.
At some point during each conversation, he’ll unleash his pièce de résistance: the killer smile that says you can trust me.
I’ve witnessed him perfecting that smile in the mirror.
He used to expect me to have everyone’s background lined up beforehand, primed and ready.
Literal sheets of salient facts on our new neighbours; their background and what makes them tick.
What they brag about, what they’re desperate not to admit.
The sort of details that fed us a whole new line on how he could worm his way into their confidence.
Things have changed. Supposedly.
I type Lara and Tim Walker-Dent, and then stop, my fingers hovering over the keys.
I consider that I’ve made a friend in Lara, but I’ve been taken by surprise by Oliver and Tim pairing up.
It makes me wonder if Lara is behind it, encouraging Tim to befriend Oliver to try and get the lowdown on us.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m just paranoid, like Oliver often accuses me of being.
Speak of the devil, I think as Oliver walks into the kitchen, his car keys in hand. He looks like he’s already halfway to wherever he’s going—duster coat unbuttoned, a faint trace of citrussy aftershave drifting across the kitchen.
He bends down and kisses my cheek. Then his mouth finds mine and he gives me a proper kiss that sends a little spark through me and lights up all the places that believe in our fresh start and bright future.
‘That’s nice,’ I say when he straightens. ‘To what do I owe that honour?’
‘I don’t need an excuse to kiss my wife,’ he says. ‘If you must know, I think you’re doing a great job organizing the barbecue, Em. All part of our new start here.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ I say. ‘I popped over to the Granary and met Angela Thomson yesterday—that’s Roman’s mum. Squared everything about the table incident and invited them to the barbecue.’
He frowns. ‘I hope the little shit isn’t invited, too.’
‘Oh, give it a rest, Oliver. Of course I invited Roman, too. But Angela’s just let me know that it’ll just be her and Russ coming.’
I decide not to mention the spray paint at this point. I can’t be sure Oliver won’t stomp around there, full of unfounded accusations.
I flip to the To Do tab and type clean wine glasses.
I push the laptop aside and start unpacking a box of wine glasses.
They’re the good ones we were given as a wedding present; long, narrow crystal with stems so thin they feel like spun sugar between my fingertips.
We’ve carried them with us from house to house, Oliver always insisting they make an excellent first impression.
I hold one up, watching the light sparkle through the dust.
They’ve seen things, these glasses. Twenty people on a rented terrace in Bristol, Oliver leading a toast while a ruddy-faced banker in a linen blazer laughed too loudly at all his jokes; a woman in a silk wrap dress and diamond jewellery touching my arm and confessing she was thinking of having a deep plane facelift, how the decision had kept her awake at night and how relieved she was to have finally found a good friend to talk it through with now.
A handful of parties, a handful of wealthy marks .
. . the same script running beneath it all.
I place the glass on the counter and start to peel newspaper from the next. My mother’s face appears in my mind. When I picture her, she always appears half in shadow. I didn’t cry much when she died; that came later.
It’s true to say she hadn’t been the best mother.
But as I’ve got older, I’ve started to understand that maybe she did what she could.
That’s probably letting her off the hook.
A perfect little family, and then me, the leftover from her life before .
. . it’s a shame she saw it that way. But giving her the benefit of the doubt feels kinder than beating myself up for the rest of my life with the savage truth.
I pause and look out at our new front garden.
The lawn is a slick green that harnesses the sunlight.
I open the door and step out. Warm air brushes my cheeks, carrying a waft of someone else’s barbecue from further down the road.
I sit on the wooden bench. I just need a breather from spreadsheets and old ghosts.
The quiet seems to wrap itself around me, and for a few blissful moments it’s just warm air and sunlight and the faint smell of cut grass.
I sink on to the bench and let my lungs fill properly. A blackbird is hopping around the edge of our flowerbed like it owns the place.
And then I hear it. Not the usual clink of crockery or music through an open window, not the murmur of neighbours talking over hedges. This is a different sound entirely—a woman’s voice, strained and thin, as if someone is squeezing it out of her.
‘Please leave . . . just go.’
My spine tingles. It’s Vanessa’s voice.
Her words carry from next door on the still, warm air. I angle my head, listening harder, and that’s when I hear the growl of a man’s voice. Low and aggressive. The voice of someone who doesn’t care who hears it.
‘You don’t just get to tell me to go,’ he snaps. ‘Not after what you’ve done to this family. My father’s money bought this house.’
Vanessa’s voice comes again, breathless and urgent.
‘Evan, please. Don’t do this.’
Evan. I recognize the name immediately from our recent conversation. Evan is Charles’s aggressive eldest son.
I stand up so fast the bench creaks under me. I walk through the gate and into Vanessa’s immaculate front garden.
The door to her house is slightly ajar.
‘Vanessa?’ I call, my voice emerging higher than I mean it to. ‘Is everything all right?’
There’s no answer. Only that male voice again, sharper and louder now.
‘Give me what I’m asking for, what I’m entitled to, and I’ll leave. It’s that simple.’
My heart is already thumping before I turn and rush back inside my house, through the hallway and into the kitchen. where Oliver is standing near the counter, studying his phone.
‘Em?’ he says, eyebrows lifted. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Vanessa,’ I say, breathless. ‘There’s a man there. It’s Evan, Charles’s son. She’s telling him to go, but he’s getting nasty with her.’
The warmth drains from his face. He rushes towards the front door.
I follow him outside. The afternoon light seems too bright now, making everything feel sharpened at the edges: the chirping of birds, the rustling of hedges and the distant rumble of a car.
We enter Vanessa’s front garden and the strains of Evan’s raised voice become audible.
Her front door is ajar. Oliver knocks once, hard, with the flat of his knuckles, and pushes it open wider to step inside.
‘Vanessa,’ he calls, voice calm. ‘It’s Oliver and Emily from next door. Are you OK?’
Vanessa appears at the end of the hallway. Her face is pale, her eyes shiny. For a second, relief floods her expression, and then she looks away as if she’s embarrassed we’re here to witness the confrontation.
Behind her, standing half in shadow, is a man. Early thirties maybe, broad shoulders, a sharp haircut. His jaw is clenched and his dark eyes flick over Oliver and then to me, taking us in like we’re a minor inconvenience.
Vanessa’s voice shakes. ‘I’m fine. I just . . .’
Oliver keeps his attention on the man in the hallway.
‘Can I ask what you are doing here?’ Oliver asks.
Evan’s gaze slides back to Oliver. He squares his stance like he’s bracing for a fight.
‘This is private family business.’
Something cold shifts in my stomach, but Oliver’s expression doesn’t change.
Vanessa swallows. She lifts her chin, trying to recover her dignity. ‘I’ve asked Evan to leave,’ she says quietly. ‘More than once.’
Evan’s eyes flash. ‘I’m just talking to you. Not illegal last time I checked.’
‘It is,’ Oliver says evenly, ‘if she’s asked you to leave and you refuse.’
Evan looks at him with open contempt. ‘You know nothing about it.’
‘You need to go,’ Oliver says.
Vanessa blinks, grateful and embarrassed at the same time.
Evan stares at him for a beat, his face hardening.
‘And if I don’t?’
Oliver’s smile is thin. ‘Then we call the police,’ he says. ‘And you can explain to them why you forced your way into a widow’s house to intimidate her.’
Evan’s mouth curves into a sneer.
‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with, mate.’
Oliver’s expression doesn’t change, but he takes a step forward.
‘Leave,’ Oliver says again.
Evan’s jaw muscle pulses. He gives Vanessa one last look, full of hatred.
‘This isn’t over,’ he says. ‘You’re going to regret this.’
And then he’s gone, stomping past us and out into the sunlight as if he’s the one who has been wronged.
Vanessa’s knees seem to soften the moment the door closes behind him. She grips the edge of the sideboard, breathing hard.
I rush to her side. ‘Are you OK?’
Vanessa lets out a sob.
‘No,’ she says simply. ‘No, I’m not. But thank you both.’
She drags a hand through her hair, and I lead her into the kitchen while Oliver gets her a glass of water.
‘He wrote me a letter last week, then rang a couple of times, leaving rambling voicemails,’ she says, taking a sip of water. ‘At first it was pleading, and then it changed to threats.’
‘Threats about the will and the money?’ Oliver asks.
Vanessa nods. ‘He wants his father’s gold pocket watch and his Patek Philippe.
Thinks, because he’s the son, he should have them despite the court ruling.
But Charles was very clear with me. He wanted those pieces saved for his first grandchild.
And I . . . I promised him.’ She swallows.
‘I told Evan that I’d instructed the solicitor to follow Charles’s wishes, but . . . he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
Her voice wobbles, and she presses her lips together, refusing to cry.
Oliver’s slides an arm around her shoulders, firm and reassuring.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says looking at us both. ‘I didn’t want to involve you. Either of you. It’s humiliating.’
‘You didn’t involve us,’ I say. ‘He did.’
‘If he comes back, you call me straight away,’ Oliver says. ‘Don’t open the door. And call the police to report this.’
Vanessa nods, swallowing hard.
‘I will,’ she whispers. ‘Thank you, Oliver.’