Chapter 1 Margot
Chapter 1
Margot
It’s the sound of a beep-beep-beeping and a heavy engine that stirs me from my sleep.
I peek between the window shutter slats in my bedroom and spot a large removals truck parking outside number twenty-three, the house opposite. A second vehicle further up the street is blocking the junction, much to the irritation of parents on the school run. It hasn’t affected me though, as my two make their own way there. Tommy and Frankie are self-sufficient, thanks largely to me ensuring they have limited expectations of what I’m willing to do for them. At the ages of eleven and twelve, they wash their own clothes, iron their uniforms, make their own breakfasts and lunches, and pack their schoolbags. That leaves me time to remain snuggled under my Bavarian goose-down duvet for longer than your average parent.
The front door is to the right of the new neighbours’ property and under a wooden pitched roof porch, but I’ve yet to see so much as an elbow belonging to anyone aside from the removals men. However, there’s a lot you can learn about a person you’ve never met by what they surround themselves with. Firstly, they definitely have children. At least two, as I’ve caught a glimpse of two bikes being carried into the rear garden along with two scooters.
I’ve googled the Land Rover Defender that’s been parked on the driveway since I awoke and learned that model’s worth at least ￡85,000. It could however be leased. I don’t see any mud on the tyres so I assume that, like most Land Rover owners, it’s more a demonstration of status than for practical use.
It’s hard to get a good look at their furniture as so much of it is covered in thick bubble wrap. But there are a couple of pieces I’m sure I recognise – a dark wooden sideboard from Rockett St George that I’ve had on my online wish list forever, and a mahogany chest of drawers from Made. Neither come cheap. I side-eye the Ikea Billy bookcase in the corner of my lounge that Nicu insists doesn’t need replacing. I have a feeling its shelves might ‘accidentally’ break very, very soon.
Another thirty minutes pass and, to my frustration, I still haven’t caught a glimpse of who’s moving in. The house once belonged to Sue and Pete Cooper, and what she knew about interior design you could fit on the back of a Dunelm’s receipt. I don’t mean to humblebrag – but I will: I have a knack for knowing what goes where and why. My instinct is so on point, I could give Philippe Starck a run for his money. So when Sue asked me to help her, of course I said yes. I considered it charity work. Then, just as we’d finished, she announced she’d been offered a job at Microsoft in Texas, and within a month, they were on a flight and out of sight. Some people only think of themselves.
The house has been a rental property for the last couple of years. Three families have come and gone but there’s no point in befriending renters because they’re transitory. Apart from Anna, who seems to be hanging around for longer than most in the house next door to the one I’m watching. And when the last lot of occupants went on their merry way, Nicu scared the hell out of me by suggesting their replacements could be asylum seekers. I mean, I’m not entirely unsympathetic to their cause – war, poverty, displacement, yada yada yada – and I know they must live somewhere. But why here, of all places? I emailed the chairman of the parish council with my concerns and he all but suggested I was being racist, which is ridiculous. I’d swap a kidney for a date with Idris Elba.
To my relief, an estate agent’s ‘Sold’ sign appeared in the front garden soon after. Months of noise, rubbish skips and tradesmen’s vans followed as the place was gutted. The new owners replaced everything, installing a new Shaker kitchen and four bathrooms and en-suites. I took a photo of the empty boxes in the skip and looked up brands I hadn’t even heard of. They aren’t scrimping on the finishes. I hate show-offs.
Curiosity finally gets the better of me and I decide to head over there and introduce myself. On my way to the bathroom, I pass the Christmas tree I arranged in front of the picture window on the landing for the neighbours to admire. It is simply gorgeous. The kids have their own, covered in tacky, gaudy baubles with no uniform design or colour scheme, which remains hidden in the dining room. I shower, slip into a pencil skirt and casual T-shirt, apply a little make-up then run a wet wipe over my Pandora bracelet and the diamonds in my Tiffany wedding ring. It gives them an extra sparkle. After carefully selecting an expensive bottle from the wine cupboard complete with presentation box, I’m ready to impress.
I’m halfway across the road when Anna’s front door opens.
‘Hi,’ she says cheerily and raises a hand. ‘You’re up and about early. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before midday.’
Had it come from anyone else, I might have rubbed a little Savlon on that burn. But everything about Anna is harmless, unthreatening and enthusiastic. She’s the kind of woman who’d lead a round of applause when the pilot lands her plane. However, we all know that too much sweetness can make you diabetic.
‘I thought I’d pop in and meet our new neighbours.’
‘Ditto,’ I reply, although I’m a little rankled. As an original resident of the cul-de-sac, I think it’s only fair I lead the welcoming committee.
‘Moving house two weeks before Christmas wouldn’t leave me feeling festive,’ I say.
‘That’s why I’ve brought these,’ she replies, and holds up a Tupperware box, gently shaking the mince pies inside.
I hold back my scowl. ‘Did you bake them yourself?’
‘Of course,’ she says, as if it would never cross her mind to drive to an artisan patisserie in town, choose a handful of theirs and pass them off as her own.
‘That’s very Bree Van de Kamp of you.’
Her blank response suggests the Desperate Housewives analogy is lost on her. Sometimes she makes me feel much older than my almost forty years. I hold up my own welcome gift.
‘Great minds think alike.’ Anna smiles.
No, they don’t. Because if they did, she wouldn’t be punishing her body in that supermarket own-brand outfit.
We make our way up the brick cobbled driveway and towards the house. It’s the largest one in this cul-de-sac, although not in the village. With six bedrooms – that’s two more than Nicu and I have – plus a swimming pool, I’ve quietly envied anyone who’s lived here.
The two oak front doors are open so I peer into the porch and hallway. The removals team are milling about unpacking furniture. Anna knocks with the impact of a squirrel tapping a walnut on a lawn, so I clasp hold of the black knocker and bang four times.
No one pays us any attention, and I’m about to do it again when a voice from behind us sends me leaping out of my skin.