Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
EMILY
We walk back to our house, Oliver walks in first, and I’m just about to close the front door behind us when over at the Granary I spot movement at an upstairs window. A teenage boy, half hidden by a slant of curtain presses his phone to the glass. It’s Roman. I stare back up at him.
Roman seems to clock that I’ve spotted him and promptly disappears from view, the bedroom curtain falling back into place.
I’d better not tell Oliver he was peering out with his phone as though he might be filming.
He doesn’t need any encouragement when it comes to ranting about the shortcomings of teenagers.
I turn just in time to see Lara coming out of her front door, her phone in one hand, the other adjusting the sash of a stylish dress I’m sure I’ve seen on the new arrivals page of the Rixos website. Her hair is scraped into a high ponytail and, from what I can see, she looks fully made-up.
Behind her, I catch a glimpse of those immaculate blooms in her front garden, bright and plastic-perfect against the vivid blue sky.
Lara glances over, and I’m sure she must have seen me, but oddly she doesn’t wave, just heads for her car.
I walk to the front gate, keen to show I’m not ignoring her.
‘Hey, how are you?’ I call, lifting a hand. ‘I’m just sorting out arrangements for the barbecue.’
I realize with a rush of discomfort I don’t want to tell her about Vanessa’s unwelcome visitor. I’m not sure why.
Lara pauses mid-step. For a second I think she hasn’t heard me. Then she turns, slowly, car keys dangling from her fingers.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Hello there.’
She sounds a fraction too formal and it takes a moment before the smile arrives.
I laugh lightly. ‘You busy?’
‘Not especially,’ she says, but her tone is clipped, distracted.
I step closer to the gate. ‘I was thinking fairy lights along the fence. Or is that too try-hard, do you think?’
‘Fairy lights sound nice,’ she says, none of her usual humour or playfulness. She looks over at the Granary, and there’s an awkward beat.
‘I popped round to Angela’s,’ I say, because silence feels worse. ‘To clear the air about that silly coffee-table thing. Just to say no hard feelings, and all that.’
‘Yes, I thought I saw you going in.’ She hesitates, jangling her keys. ‘You were there a while,’ she says lightly.
‘I stayed for coffee, and Angela showed me some of her handmade wreaths. They’re lovely. I wondered if you fancied coming with me a workshop she’s running?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh!’ I’m taken aback. ‘Fair enough.’
‘I just think,’ she says, smoothing invisible creases from her sleeve, ‘it’s important to be careful who you trust. People talk on this lane, you see. Some more than others.’
‘I’m not trying to take sides,’ I say, trying to keep our exchange breezy instead of saying mind your damn business, which is what I ought to do. ‘I just wanted to say hello in the interests of getting to know everyone.’
‘Of course.’ That poor excuse for a smile again. ‘It’s just I’d hate for you to get sucked in by the wrong people, Emily. Angela Thomson can be quite . . . intense.’
‘Oh? I didn’t find her intense at all.’
Lara tilts her head. ‘No?’
The air thickens slightly between us.
‘No. In fact she seemed quite easy-going,’ I say carefully.
A small hum in her throat. ‘Well. I suppose everyone’s a bit like that at first.’
‘Well, anyway, I’ve invited them to the barbecue,’ I add. ‘It will be nice to get everyone there if we can.’
Lara steps closer now, lowering her voice.
‘Emily, please understand I only say this because I care,’ she says gently. ‘You don’t need to scatter yourself across the whole street. It’s better to have just a few people you trust.’
Something in the way she says trust makes my stomach dip.
‘I’m not scattering myself, I’m just being friendly,’ I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. ‘I just don’t want to look like we’re stuck up, or hiding ourselves away.’
Her eyes sharpen at that. ‘Hiding away from what?’
‘Nothing . . . I meant keeping ourselves to ourselves.’
She studies me for a long moment.
‘I just thought,’ she says finally, her tone softening again, ‘you and I were getting on really well. Getting to know each other. Properly.’
‘We are,’ I say. I’m really getting fed up with this conversation. It’s like being at school again.
‘I apologize, but I don’t share easily,’ she says quietly. ‘I’ve learned the hard way not to divide my loyalties.’
‘Look, I’m not going to start choosing sides,’ I say, my irritation rising now. ‘I don’t see it like that.’
‘Maybe you don’t,’ she says. The smile returns, perfect and polished.
‘Anyway. Fairy lights sound lovely. I’m sure everyone will be delighted.
’ She checks her phone. ‘I’ve got to pick some bits up and then film another reel before Tim gets home.
Shout if you need anything from me, OK? Extra chairs, a large glass of gin . . .’
She turns before I can answer, getting into her car with measured calm.
I stand there for a few moments, replaying the exchange in my head. Why does she dislike Angela Thomson so much?
The sounds of the street and my new suburban life are all around me. The whine of a lawnmower, the murmur of a radio through an open window, someone laughing. I wonder when I’ll truly feel part of it.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I can see it already: the garden decked out with lights and cushioned furniture, soft music, good wine. The French doors flung open, and our new acquaintances relaxed and talking freely.
I go back inside, back to the spreadsheet. Order the canapés and light bites—tick.
My eyes stray back to the window. The clouds are gathering now, still scattered enough to let the sun through but spoiling the summery feel of the day.
I unpack a box of serving platters, the weight of them feeling familiar and reliable.
These are also part of the old party kit, just like the wine glasses—props for a scene we’ve played out many times in other places.
Under different names. Living in different houses.
Once upon a time, I was good at this. Better than good.
I thrived on the excitement and the lucrative spoils that came from what we were doing.
While Oliver dazzled people with his killer smile, I was the one clocking the details: my eyes would linger on a new, expensive diamond necklace, I would flinch at the mention of school fees and, most important of all, notice who lit up when we mentioned a great investment opportunity we’d just taken advantage of.
I told myself back then that they weren’t really victims. Shallow-minded rich people with more money than sense. I’d chuckle when Oliver joked, ‘We’re like Robin Hood with better glassware.’
It was funny. Until it stopped being harmless.
For a moment I’m back there on the night of the last party. I can see Oliver trying to catch my eye from across the room, the silent signal to notice something or someone. I can hear the screams and then the sirens and Oliver promising this was it. We were done.
Has he really changed from the person he was then? Why is he so tetchy about his phone?
I close the laptop and put the wine glasses away in a cupboard, their stems catching the light, and an idea occurs to me. I run upstairs and find his iPad in its usual place, propped up against his bedside table.
I tap in his access code—his date of birth—and open up the photos folder. If I’m lucky, his photographs will have uploaded here from the Cloud. If he has got anything to hide, he might not have got around to deleting anything yet. Unless he’s been super-vigilant.
I scroll down to the latest pics. There are a few interior shots of obviously empty office spaces. I come out of there and click on his text messages app.
My stomach turns when I see the string of texts received in the last hour, all opened and read but not yet deleted.
A string of escalating threats demanding money. My eyes hover on the final one.
You know it’s only a matter of time before I find you. And when I do, you’re a dead man.