Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Saturday—Week Three
EMILY
I stand back and take a moment to appreciate the weather we’ve been blessed with for our barbecue. It’s one of those perfect golden evenings people remember for a long time after the event.
The air is warm without being heavy, the sky still washed pale blue and streaked with peach, and a breeze moves lazily through the trees at the bottom of the garden, stirring the fairy lights strung between the apple tree and the old stone wall at the bottom.
We might have held plenty of parties before, but nowhere as stunning as this. Not even close.
Lara arrived half an hour ago, insisting she help out.
I’m still curious what Tim wanted to chat to her about, but I can hardly ask.
After her display of jealousy and outrage, I still feel a little wary of her, but I’m willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.
My visit to Angela had clearly triggered her, and for good reason.
I wonder if there are still problems between them because of it.
Lara took one look around before clapping her hands together briskly, already in full-on host mode. I must admit, though . . . she’s good. Tweaking this, moving that, and somehow making ordinary things look expensive.
Within minutes she’d repositioned the rattan seating so it faced the lawn in an elegant arc, fluffed the cushions, nudged the lanterns so the candles inside caught the light just right.
‘You need more height over here,’ she said, dragging the tall bistro table closer to the seating clusters. ‘And you shouldn’t bunch the glasses together like that—makes it look like a bar at closing time.’
Now, there’s a drinks station table set up close to the wall, wooden crates packed with ice, some stuffed with beer and another couple with bottles of white wine, rosé and Prosecco nestled inside like jewels.
Oliver’s pride and joy—a glossy red Kamado Joe gas barbecue—stands in its own space, lid gleaming, tools laid out with precision.
It’s amazing, but it’s also a lot. Too much, maybe.
Still, my minor niggles are forgotten as the guests start to arrive. Lara erected a welcome sign on an easel to direct people down the side of the house into the garden and, within minutes, people are milling around.
Tim and Oliver are chatting at the far end of the lawn, beers in hand, laughing about something I can’t hear.
Tim has rolled his sleeves up, relaxed in the way men are when they think they’re in safe company.
Oliver looks even more at ease. He’s wearing his Scandinavian leather apron, already immersed into the role he wears best.
Host. Charmer. The man people trust.
I find myself wondering if he’s had any more text messages. Why someone is trying to find him. I hope it isn’t connected to one of our past scams . . .
I watch him for a moment too long.
Tim is mid-sentence when Oliver’s eyes dart to his pocket. He pulls out his phone, checks it, then slides it back in without answering.
‘Relax, you looked stressed out,’ Lara murmurs beside me. ‘People are going to love it.’
But I can’t shake the feeling that hums constantly under my skin—a low vibration of unease I can’t pin down or quantify, no matter how many times I tell myself I’m just imagining it.
It isn’t just about Oliver any more. It’s this street, too . . . the sense of being assessed and quietly measured, as though the friendliness masks a collective watchfulness I don’t yet understand.
Lara seems to forget her own advice to relax when Angela and Russ appear in the garden.
Russ Thomson is a surprise. He is tall and broad and rather striking.
Oliver is six feet tall, but this guy is probably six foot four.
He’s wearing a tight T-shirt, the short sleeves straining over bulging, tanned biceps.
I don’t know what I expected, but it isn’t this.
My brain offers a picture of Russ’s powerful grip around Tim’s scrawny neck, lifting him up off the floor.
‘The garden looks gorgeous,’ Angela raves, tottering over on spiked heels. ‘Thanks so much for asking us over. This is Russ. I know you two haven’t met yet.’
Russ follows with a confident, relaxed swagger, and we shake hands. He’s very tanned—no doubt from long days on the building sites—and his face is lined, but that only adds to his appeal. Rugged is the adjective that springs to mind.
When I turn to steal a glance at Lara I see she has already discreetly moved away.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I say, and notice Russ’s eyes slide over my shoulder to where Oliver and Tim are chatting. ‘There’s beer, wine and Prosecco over there if you’d like to grab yourself a drink.’
Vanessa arrives just after seven.
I spot her slip through that all-too-convenient side gate.
I see the way heads instinctively turn towards her.
She is dressed to be noticed in a silk dress that clings to her curves, high heels that sink slightly into the grass as she walks.
Her hair is glossy and freshly blow-dried and she’s dripping in gold jewellery.
She might be the wrong side of fifty, but she looks spectacular. Dangerous. And very, very wealthy.
She kisses the air close to my cheek. ‘Emily. You’ve outdone yourself—the garden looks super.’
‘You look fabulous,’ I murmur.
She laughs softly, already scanning the garden. ‘I’m guessing Oliver is on barbecue duty tonight?’
‘Of course he is.’ I smile.
She makes her excuses and drifts towards the drinks station, exchanging a few words with Lara on the way. Then she casually makes her way across the lawn towards Oliver and Tim.
Lara watches her go, eyebrow lifting. ‘Well. She’s a smooth operator, for sure.’
I huff out a breath that hopefully sounds like a laugh, but my gaze is already following Vanessa. She stops near Oliver, says something that makes him grin, reaches out briefly to touch his arm. It’s nothing. Barely anything at all. At the same time, it’s everything.
‘Cougar alert.’ Lara takes a sip of her fizz.
I pull my phone from my pocket to divert my eyes from Vanessa. My fingers move quickly across the screen.
Garden is open. Feel free to come over!
I add a smiley face for good measure before posting the message to the Orchard Lane WhatsApp group.
Within ten minutes, more guests arrive.
Ron Windsor comes through the gate with Margaret, both of them carrying bottles. Ron’s booming voice fills the space immediately, commenting on the weather, the set-up, how fancy the barbecue looks.
‘This is smashing. Emily.’ He declares. ‘Really smashing.’
Margaret says hesitantly, ‘I wasn’t sure whether our lodger was invited, too. I didn’t want to assume.’
‘Of course she is,’ I say at once. I thought I’d made it clear Rachel was invited. ‘Everyone is welcome. Would you like to fetch her?’
Margaret opens her mouth to reply, but Ron cuts in with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘She’s fine where she is. I’ll pop back in a little while, ask if she wants to join us. She keeps herself to herself, quiet as you like.’ He shrugs. ‘Best not to disturb her, Margaret.’
‘If you say so, Ron,’ Margaret remarks.
‘Don’t get me wrong, she’s a lovely young woman. Just not the type to mingle, if you get my drift.’ He nudges Emily’s arm and winks. ‘Always nice to have a bit of a mingle at this type of event, eh?’
‘Ron, honestly!’ Margaret gives me a small, apologetic smile. ‘He’s such a joker.’
I force a grin. Maybe it’s only generational, but something about pervy old Ron makes my skin prickle.
Thankfully, the Windsors drift off towards the drinks station. Oliver sidles up to join me just as Roman’s parents walk across. Angela’s smile is tight and anxious, and Russ’s eyes are pinned on Oliver in a challenging way.
‘We’re so sorry about Roman, the breakage on your moving-in day,’ Angela says quickly. ‘We’ve had words with him about it. Proper words.’
Oliver waves it away, already oozing charm. ‘It was nothing. Boys will be boys, eh?’
I watch him—the reassurance and generosity he instantly bestows. The way he puts people at ease without seeming to try. Angela visibly relaxes, gratitude flooding her face. But Russ is not as easily convinced.
‘Mistakes happen. Our lad reckons you laid into him good and proper out on the street, that right?’
For a second, all the background noise fades out and I’m too aware of Oliver and Russ straightening to their full height and eyeballing each other.
My insides turn to liquid. After all, this is a man who assaulted Tim Walker-Dent.
If Oliver tries to square up to him, I don’t rate his chances.
I dread to think what our welcome barbecue will turn into.
‘I might have been a bit hard on him, mate.’ To my relief, Oliver chooses to acquiesce, holding up a hand. ‘If so, I apologize. Moving stress and all that, you know? Got to me a bit.’
‘Of course, we understand,’ Angela fawns. ‘You were bound to feel angry when your table got broken.’
Russ is not so easily won over. ‘He said you were asking questions about what I did for a living. Not sure what bearing that has on anything.’
‘Sorry?’ Oliver frowns. ‘Oh wait, I might’ve been just trying to make conversation. Probably realized I’d lost my rag a bit and was trying to make amends.’
He takes a swig from his beer bottle.
Russ nods. ‘Well, just in case you’re still interested, I’m not in hedge funds or trust fund management. No. I’ve got a building company and I spend twelve hour days on site with my men. Proper hands-on grafting.’
‘Cool,’ Oliver mutters. Then, up on to his tiptoes, he looks behind us. ‘Oh, excuse me. Time to fire up the barbecue.’
Angela mumbles something about a drink and pulls Russ in the opposite direction. Finally, I breathe out.
Vanessa glances over from across the garden, her eyes lifting from her phone and catching mine for just a second. There’s something calculating in her expression, something that makes my stomach tighten. I manage a little smile before I turn away.
More neighbours arrive. Laughter rises, and classic upbeat tunes thread through the conversations from the speaker Lara insisted on positioning just so. The garden fills with bodies, with warmth, with the clink of glasses and the smell of meat charring on the grill.
But still I sense an undercurrent of unease.
I smile and laugh at the right moments, move around and introduce myself, making the odd witty comment. But inside, I feel stretched thin.
Oliver, his stylish apron smeared with sauce, is completely in his element now, and the way Vanessa watches him, her hungry gaze lingering, isn’t lost on me. He’s telling a story about a disastrous camping trip I’ve heard many times that has people howling with laughter.
He’s magnetic when he comes alive like this, but halfway through I realize I can’t remember whether the trip actually happened or whether it’s one of those stories that grew in the telling—reshaped, improved and polished until the truth hardly matters any more.
I catch his eye and he smiles, untroubled, as if it’s all the same to him. Despite what he’s dealing with privately and has chosen not to share with me yet.
I slip inside the house, supposedly to get more wine. The noise of the garden quickly muffles as the door swings shut behind me and I press my back to the wall and breathe out.
The kitchen feels deliciously quiet and cool, the fairy lights outside the window twinkling prettily against the peachy blue sky.
My phone pings and I glance at the screen, expecting a reaction emoji to the bbq WhatsApp or a neighbour sending apologies.
I see instantly it is indeed a new message in the Orchard Lane group. From a number with no name and no identifying photo.
I open the message and read the five devastating words.
I know what you did.
For a second, I don’t understand what I’m reading. The words swim in front of my eyes, rearrange themselves, refuse to make sense.
I know what you did.
Then my brain clicks into gear and I realize this message is meant for us and can mean only one thing. Someone knows who we really are.
The glass slips from my hand and shatters on the floor, Prosecco fizzing across the tiles.
Outside, laughter swells. Inside, something cold and sharp lodges in my chest.
I stare at the message, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. My mind races, scrabbling for explanations, for excuses. Racking my brains to think of anyone who could possibly know about the things we’ve done. The lives we’ve left behind.
Through the window, I watch Oliver throw his head back, laughing, Vanessa’s hand resting lightly on his arm.
The fairy lights flicker and suddenly the garden doesn’t look so beautiful any more.
Suddenly, there is danger everywhere I look.