Chapter 19
Nineteen
Monday
EMILY
‘I’m going for a couple of pints with Tim,’ he says, grabbing his phone. ‘He reckons he’s got some good contacts in the city.’
His eyes slide away as he says it. Only a fraction, barely even a flicker—but I see it. I always see it.
‘When was this arranged?’ I say, surprised. ‘I didn’t think you’d seen him since our moving-in day.’
‘He texted me when you were out with Lara yesterday. He said you two were getting on well and asked if I fancied going for a pint.’
‘I thought you’d have told me.’
‘Well, I’m telling you now!’ He rubs a hand over his mouth. ‘Sorry. Em, I’m just . . . tired.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t stay out too late then,’ I say lightly. ‘If you’re so tired.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Oliver checks his phone, then reaches for his keys. ‘I’ve just got to pop next door to see Vanessa for two minutes before I get off.’
About what?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘She needs a couple of heavy boxes moving.’
‘Wow, she’s certainly putting you to use.’
‘I know, right? But she’s harmless enough.’ A nice bright grin, and then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut, and quiet settles around me.
I stand there for a moment, listening to the sounds of the house—the hum of the fridge, the tick of the heating—and I wonder if I’ll ever stop bracing myself for disappointment.
At one time Oliver would have mentioned Tim’s text. Casually, perhaps, but he’d have mentioned it when I got back from my trip to the garden centre. I tell myself it’s nothing. He has a lot on his mind: the house, the new business, the effort of keeping everything straight. I understand that.
I make a cup of tea and scroll through my messages. I send a quick text to Lara about a dress I bought that doesn’t fit, then open up Facebook.
The Windsors are easy to find. Margaret’s profile is exactly what I expect: close-ups of roses and peonies, jars of home-made jam lined up on the kitchen counter, sponge cakes dusted with icing sugar.
Looks like most of her benign posts are set to public.
The comments are all variations on Lovely! and Ron is spoiled!
Ron’s page is something else entirely.
Post after combative post full of local grievances and plenty shared from the Orchard Lane Neighbourhood Watch group.
Grainy photos of unfamiliar vans. Stern reminders about putting away gardening equipment and locking sheds.
A warning about someone spotted walking along the lane late at night who ‘doesn’t look local’.
I scroll, a faint prickle running up my spine when I think about someone targeting our garden.
Back on Margaret’s page, I look more closely at the photos.
In one, taken through the kitchen window, I spot a woman sitting at the far end of the table.
She is half out of frame, hunched over a laptop, and I recognize her as Rachel.
Her face is turned away from the camera, absorbed in her device, as if she doesn’t realize she’s being photographed.
I scroll back and find her in a couple more. Always in the background, but never tagged. Never mentioned.
I think of the bench. The neat black X. The slightly awkward exchange we had at the gate.
On impulse, I search for Roman—the only teenager on the lane, as Lara mentioned. The regrettable confrontation with Oliver on our moving-in day . . .
Nothing comes up. No profile that looks right, anyhow. He doesn’t seem to have any digital footprint at all, which seems unusual for a teenager. Maybe it’s just Facebook. I read that young people have largely abandoned the platform because their parents are all on it.
If I’m honest, Roman—more than anyone else—unsettles me. Oliver was very hard on him, and so Roman probably has more reason than anyone to bear a grudge. Maybe I should go over there and introduce myself to his mum, try to strike up a bit of a rapport.
I lock my phone and set it down, suddenly aware of how quiet the house feels without Oliver in it. How much time has passed.
I didn’t expect him to be out this long.
You’re not his keeper, I tell myself. You’re married, not joined at the hip.
Even so, a small coil of something tightens beneath my ribs.
It’s not him going out with Tim that’s bothering me. Not at all.
It’s the gaps. The small omissions. The sense that the version of Oliver I want to believe in has started slipping out of view again.
When the key finally scrapes in the lock, I sit up a little too fast.
Oliver stumbles in with the night clinging to him. The damp air, the smell of booze that always makes him a touch louder, a touch braver. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes bright with the kind of excitement people get when they’re hiding something but think they’re pulling it off.
‘Em!’ he says, too loud. ‘You’re still up.’
‘It’s not even ten yet.’ I set aside my magazine. ‘Good night?’
‘Great night!’ He pulls out his phone, shrugs off his coat and misses the hook by a mile. I pick it up quietly and hang it.
‘You know, Tim is a good guy, a really good guy. We talked about all sorts of things. Opportunities, the market, that kind of thing.’
He’s talking too fast. If I wanted to be cynical, I might say it’s his “fill the air with positivity before she asks anything awkward” mode.
‘Sounds like a productive night,’ I say, keeping my voice even.
He grins again.
‘We had a good time, yeah.’
I watch him cross the kitchen and pour himself a glass of water. He drinks half of it in one go, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, breathes deeply, like he’s trying to ground himself.
Oliver’s pacing has no destination—two steps, turn, two steps, turn—his thumb flicking over his phone screen as if he’s waiting for something to change.
He won’t look at me, and he’s started opening and closing cupboards. Looking for what, I don’t know.
‘You eaten?’ he asks.
‘Hours ago, just a sandwich. I can rustle you one up?’
He waves me off. ‘I’ve got the munchies, but I don’t want to eat this late.’
Oliver rarely turns down food, and I get another tiny flicker of unease. He leans against the counter, staring absently at the wall tiles.
His foot taps.
His hand fidgets with the edge of the tea towel.
Every part of him is restless.
‘What is it?’ I say softly.
He blinks. ‘What’s what?’
‘You’re buzzing.’ I tilt my head. ‘Like you’ve had some news you can’t share yet.’
He hesitates. ‘No big news. Just . . . I don’t know, possibilities. Things might work out quicker than I thought with the new business, that’s all.’
He says it with that false-calm tone he uses when he’s trying not to be caught out by his own optimism. Or a lie. I’ve seen this Oliver before, but rarely in a way that didn’t end with us packing boxes in a hurry and doing a moonlight flit.
‘Do you want to go up to bed?’ I ask when he starts pacing again.
‘Soon. I’m just . . . you know . . .’ He gestures vaguely, like the air is full of ideas he can’t quite catch. ‘Unwinding.’
That’s one word for it.
I perch on the stool at the breakfast bar, watching him in the way you watch someone you love but don’t quite trust. It’s so hard to strike a balance between fully investing in our future together and protecting myself from another disaster.
His screen lights up. He glances at the name, jaw tightening, then flips the phone face down and lets it buzz itself quiet.
A cold note runs down my spine.
‘Work?’ I ask innocently.
‘Yeah,’ he says immediately. Too immediately, like a door closing. ‘Just one of my new office contacts.’
Messaging at ten at night?
But I just smile.
He pockets the phone and finally meets my eyes. Something in his expression softens and the man I married surfaces for a heartbeat.
‘You okay?’ he asks.
‘I’m fine. Just thinking about our new life here, how I want everything to run smoothly, like we talked about.’
‘It will, Em. I meant every word I said.’
‘I invited the neighbours over for a barbecue this weekend, by the way.’
Oliver looks up from his laptop, wary. ‘A barbecue?’
‘In the garden,’ I say. ‘I know you’re busy with work. I don’t mind organizing it. They’re forecasting the good weather to continue.’
He leans back in his chair, frowning slightly. ‘I thought those days were behind us.’
I know exactly what he means. I cross the room and perch on the arm of the sofa.
‘I’m not talking about that kind of barbecue,’ I say. ‘The days of us trying to get dirt on people and playing our conning game are over.’ I hesitate. ‘I just mean genuinely getting to know our neighbours and letting people see who we are.’
He studies me for a moment. ‘And who are we, exactly?’
I think of the way we’re still greeted by most people with polite smiles but not much conversation.
‘We’re people who’ve been here just over a week and still don’t really know anyone,’ I say. ‘It’s a chance to show people we’re nice and normal. That we belong here.’
He’s quiet for a few moments, considering it.
‘What happened to the bench made me realize something,’ I go on. ‘When people don’t know you, they can develop a certain negative impression, and—’
‘Most people don’t deface property because they don’t know someone.’ Oliver frowns. ‘And if it’s that little shit Roman, I’ll—’
‘Oliver, please.’
He exhales slowly.
‘All right then,’ he says. ‘If that’s what you want.’
I smile. ‘It is.’