Chapter 9
Nine
Monday
EMILY
Oliver and I are in the front garden, deciding where we might place a wooden bench to take advantage of the early sun, when a woman in her mid-fifties emerges from the Stables, the long, single-level property next door.
She is tall and slim and dressed in the sort of expensive, thrown-together way people like her always seem to nail. Well-cut jeans and suede loafers with a white linen shirt tucked just so. She looks well off.
‘Hello, new neighbours,’ she calls over the beech hedge. ‘I was going to bring cake, but I spotted the Walker-Dents beat me to it. Hang on a moment, I’ll pop round.’
She heads to the end of her front garden and, seconds later, appears on our path. I watch Oliver out of the corner of my eye. He perks up, and his old charm offensive surfaces automatically.
As she approaches, I glimpse a diamond the size people only ever see in upmarket magazines glinting on a fine gold chain at her collarbone. ‘Hi,’ she says, smiling at Oliver. ‘I’m Vanessa Lambert.’
‘Oliver Sharpe,’ he says, gesturing to me. ‘And this is my wife, Emily.’
I focus on her appearance. On her neat, layered auburn hair that is glossy and perfect. The sort of hair that behaves even in a heatwave.
Oversized designer sunglasses are propped on her head like a tiara, and her flattering lipstick is the exact pink of some peonies I bought recently. She carries a watering can in one hand and a pair of secateurs in the other as if she’s wandered out of a Cotswolds lifestyle spread.
‘Nice to meet you, Vanessa,’ I say. ‘We’re just trying to decide where to put our bench to catch the morning rays.’
‘Lovely,’ she murmurs, her eyes flicking back to my husband.
‘You’ve chosen the best spot on the lane.
Morning sun out here, sun all day at the back, and there’s no wind tunnel, like they’re forced to put up with over the road.
’ She steps closer and looks past me to the front wall before turning to Oliver again.
‘I’d place your bench over by the tree. You’ll not be overlooked, sitting there. ’
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a shade bashful in the company of our glamorous neighbour. ‘Thank you, Vanessa. We’ll bow to your advice.’
I decide not to point out the obvious: that the tree will also bring shade. It’s kind of the whole point that we wanted to catch the early sun.
‘You’re welcome,’ she says huskily. ‘And if you need a window cleaner, just say the word. I have a nice little man who comes here once a month and his rate is very reasonable.’ She rests her fingertips on Oliver’s forearm—not for long, but long enough.
‘Anything I can help with at all . . . you only have to say the word.’
Vanessa’s certainly providing me with a little entertainment. It’s not very often I get to see Oliver on the back foot.
‘We’re still trying to work out the important things,’ he says. ‘Like where the bins go and who lives where. Right, Em?’
I nod. ‘We’ve got a lot to learn!’
‘You’ll be fine, I’m sure. You look as if you know what you’re doing.’ She tilts her head, taking Oliver in as though he’s an interesting piece of furniture.
‘My wife is in charge. I just do as I’m told,’ Oliver jokes, pulling me into the awkward exchange again.
‘Ahh, if only that were true,’ I quip, and Vanessa turns to me with a smile.
‘Well, Emily. If you ever need anything—paint colour, or fashion advice, a chat over a bottle of wine, just knock.’ She says it lightly, but there’s a flicker of amusement in her expression. ‘I’m usually around, and there’s just me and Ralph, so . . .’
‘Ralph?’ I say.
‘My miniature dachshund.’
‘Oh, I see!’ I’d thought Ralph might be her partner. A long-suffering one who has to put up with her flirting with younger men. ‘That’s kind of you, thanks. I might just take you up on the wine.’
‘Excellent.’ She lifts the secateurs by way of a wave, then adds, to Oliver, ‘And if you think of anything else, just let me know.’ She treats him to her dazzling smile again before gliding back to her own garden.
We watch her go, and Oliver clears his throat, still faintly pink around the ears.
‘Bench to go under the tree then,’ he says, grunting a little as he picks it up.
‘Of course,’ I say cheekily. ‘You wouldn’t want to disappoint your new fan.’
We slip into an easy rhythm. Music on, windows open, him passing me screws and asking, ‘Is this the short one or the definitely-not-the-short-one?’ I brush sawdust from his sleeve and he catches my wrist, smiling.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘we’re quite good at this when we work together.’
‘At building furniture?’
‘At being us.’
I laugh and lean into him, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like we’ve finally learned how to exist side by side without an agenda.
I hadn’t realized just how much I’d missed that version of us—or how dangerous it feels to start believing in it again.
We walk down to the local doctors’ surgery first thing with the warmth of the sun on our faces and our IDs and proof of address tucked into a plastic wallet.
We kept our first names like last time, but even after six months the new surnames still feel strange to see.
My documents are legal, just my surname changed by deed oll.
Oliver’s driving licence and passport look equally flawless, with holograms, barcodes, the right weight .
. . but I’m still terrified someone might spot the lie beneath the laminate.
‘Relax,’ Oliver murmurs in the short queue at reception. ‘I paid a lot of money for them last year. They’ll pass any checks this place has.’
I nod, but my palms are damp as we fill in our individual forms and wait in line again to hand them in.
‘It’s currently taking up to two weeks to process new patient applications, unless you need an emergency appointment,’ the receptionist says efficiently.
Oliver rolls his eyes, but I nudge him and say that’s fine. We’ve waited this long and it’s important we do everything right.
Later we go for a quick bite to eat, starting with a drink on the main run around here, Central Avenue—a buzzy stretch of bars, restaurants and shops where the tables spill out on to the pavement and everyone seems to know each other.
We talk and laugh, and for a while it feels like the early days again, the ones I thought we’d lost for good.
It’s such a relief that there’s no hidden agenda humming beneath our conversations. No calculations, no scanning the room, no unspoken what next? Just us, in the here and now.
There are prams and pushchairs everywhere. Babies asleep under muslin cloths, toddlers wobbling along and getting under the servers’ feet.
I feel a small, stubborn flame of hope flicker into life.
‘Is it really going to happen for us, do you think?’ I say. ‘Is it safe to really believe it?’
Oliver doesn’t answer straight away. He watches a couple manoeuvring a buggy past a table leg, the man laughing as the wheel catches.
‘I admit I used to think some things were just for other people,’ he says finally.
I turn to him. ‘Like having kids, you mean?’
‘Yes. And other stuff too.’
‘Like what?’
He exhales, a short huff of a laugh. ‘The good stuff in life, I suppose. I told you about my friend Raith, at school? He ended up working at Canary Wharf in London before he moved to the IFC in Hong Kong.’
I nod.
‘Well, we were the same age, of course, but worlds apart outside of school in terms of what our families thought of us. Raith was always top of the class, always knew what he wanted and his parents adored him. I mean, they really believed in him. As we grew into adults, Raith never disappointed, whether it was his grades, his salary or his promotions. His penthouse flat.’
I hadn’t known these details. The surprise settles between us.
‘I just never quite measured up to him, never really had a start with what was happening at home. But I learned early on that if you weren’t going to win in the obvious way, you had to find another way to feel like you mattered.’
There’s no bitterness in his voice. Just something he’d obviously carefully contained.
‘When I met you, Em,’ he says, glancing at me now, ‘you didn’t look at me like I was second-best. You didn’t even seem to care about that stuff. But you saw my potential, and you still do.’
Something unpleasant twists inside me. Guilt, for sometimes thinking the worst of him? Yes, but I’ve had my reasons.
‘I’d never thought of myself as capable before meeting you,’ he adds quietly. ‘Not really.’
Oliver reaches across the table and takes my hand. His thumb brushes my knuckle, tentative, grounding.
‘This is a very roundabout way of answering your question of whether I believe we can find happiness here. The answer is most definitely, yes. Yes, I do,’ he says. ‘This’—he gestures vaguely between us and the ordinary life going on around us—‘feels like something we can both finally do right.’
I squeeze his fingers, warmth spreading through me, even as a faint unease stirs beneath it. I showed him how to achieve more in life, and now I’m blaming him for how that turned out.
Oliver and I are halfway through a second drink when an older couple walk past, then slow.
The man stops completely.
He’s tall and broad through the shoulders and the kind of stout that suggests former fitness, now padded with a little too much comfort. A thick, greying moustache sits beneath a nose that looks like it might have been broken once or twice.
His checked shirt is tucked neatly into belted chinos and beside him stands a woman in a long skirt, floral blouse and flat shoes, her smile tentative.
The man looks directly at us.
‘Are you the new people on Orchard Lane?’ he asks briskly, without any preamble.
Oliver glances at me, amused. ‘We might be.’
‘Thought so.’ He nods once. ‘I’ve glimpsed you from up the road at Sunnyside. You’re at the Coach House, yes?’
‘That’s right,’ I say, realizing it’s the house Rachel went back to, with the garden where I spotted a man lurking behind the weeping willow on our moving-in day.
‘Ron Windsor.’ He sticks out a firm, dry hand. ‘And this is my wife, Margaret.’
‘Lovely to meet you!’ Margaret says.
Ron continues before she can add anything else. ‘We’ve been on the lane nearly twenty years. Well before the property prices rocketed.’ He gestures vaguely up and down the street. ‘The purchase prices keep the riff-raff out, thankfully.’
‘Ron,’ Margaret says lightly.
‘Ex-army,’ he adds, as if that explains something about him, which it does. ‘So I like to keep an eye on things on the lane.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Oliver says smoothly.
Ron studies him for a second longer than necessary, gaze flicking over the shirt, the watch, the easy confidence.
‘And what line of work are you in?’ he asks.
‘Property,’ Oliver replies, without missing a beat.
‘Right, right.’ Ron’s tone suggests he’s filing that away for later inspection. ‘Plenty of interest in that these days.’
I turn to Margaret, who is still smiling politely.
‘It must have changed a lot round here in twenty years,’ I say.
‘Oh, it has,’ Margaret begins. ‘We often say—’
‘It’s for the best in some ways,’ Ron cuts in. ‘Though you do get people who don’t understand how things are done. Parking, boundaries, noise.’ He looks at Oliver again. ‘We run a tight ship on Orchard Lane.’
‘Well, we’re very keen to fit in,’ I say. ‘Right, Oliver?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Oliver smiles widely. ‘Very much so.’
‘Good, good.’ Ron nods, satisfied. ‘Community matters. We have a Neighbourhood Watch group.’
‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘I know Neighbourhood Watch can be very effective.’
‘Very effective indeed. I coordinate it, and I make it my business to notice patterns,’ he adds. ‘When something doesn’t fit, I tend to find out why.’
‘Well, count us in.’
Ron juts out his chin. ‘I’ll pop round for your contact details. We like to know who we’re living next to,’ he says. ‘It avoids surprises.’
‘Excellent.’ Oliver is starting to sound slightly disinterested.
Margaret gives me a sympathetic glance, as if she’s aware of Ron’s brisk manner and is silently apologizing for it without saying so.
‘It’s very nice to meet you both,’ I say after a beat of silence.
‘We’ll let you get on with your drinks,’ Ron replies, and something in the way he says it tells me he disapproves of the alcohol. ‘Bit early for us, so we’ll be going now. Right, Margaret?’
‘Right, Ron,’ she says wearily.
Ron marches off, Margaret half a pace behind him.
Oliver watches them go. ‘How charming,’ he murmurs, making me laugh.
When his phone hums against the table, he flips it face down.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, but it can wait.’
Back at home, Oliver rigs up his power washer and blasts the dust and moss off the patio while I sit in the doorway with a coffee, scrolling through nursery ideas for the upstairs room.
I show him a cot that’s the colour of a cloud.
A padded nursing chair comfy enough you could fall asleep in it, and a cot mobile with tiny, colourful paper swallows.
That evening, his phone vibrates where he’s left it on the table.
He doesn’t move at first, and then he reaches for it.
Something crosses his face quickly, like a shadow, and then it’s gone.
When he places the phone back down, the screen still lit, I see a name I don’t know. Something cold slides under my ribs.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Everything is fine,’ he says quickly, drying his hands on the tea towel. But then he looks at me and, when our eyes meet, I just know that everything is far from fine.