Chapter 15
Fifteen
Week Two—Saturday
EMILY
With Oliver neck deep in property spreadsheets, Lara picks me up, and we go to the garden centre, because I mentioned the bare patch by the fence and she’d had ideas within seconds.
We wander between neat rows of herbs and perennials, inhaling air that smells of damp compost and honeysuckle. Marvin sniffs everything like he’s the self-appointed chief inspector of plants and Lara films mini clips for her reels.
‘Smile!’ She swings the gimbal towards me.
‘Oh no . . . don’t!’ It comes out a bit sharp.
‘Hey!’ She touches my arm, softening. ‘Sorry. I didn’t film you.’
Heat crawls up my face. ‘Sorry. I just . . . I hate myself on camera.’
‘Wow, you’ve really got a thing about it.’ She grins. ‘You’re gorgeous, so I don’t know why. Genuine tragedy, hiding that face from the world.’
I manage a smile. ‘It goes back to school. Buck teeth, stick-thin, you get the picture.’
‘Absolute bitches at school, aren’t they? But still.’ She loops her arm through mine. ‘Bet they’re not laughing now. Stunner.’
We wander further. Marvin lies down in shady spots and refuses to move until Lara bribes him with kibble. She’s chatting on about her content plan for the week, and I’m listening. Mostly.
I pick up a pot of French lavender, rub the leaves and inhale.
‘Lovely stuff,’ Lara says, nodding at the plant. ‘Just don’t blanket the front borders or you’ll end up like Vanessa’s—gorgeous, but completely out of control.’ She grins. ‘Not that I’d dare tell her.’
I glance at her. ‘She seems really nice,’ I say.
‘Oh yes, she is. Just a bit forthright at times.’ Lara grins. ‘And very good at inserting herself into street drama.’ She snaps a dead stem off a plant before placing it into the trolley. ‘She’ll be over to welcome you properly soon, I’m sure. She loves new arrivals, and we don’t get many of them.’
‘She did pop round,’ I say mildly. ‘She seemed very friendly.’
‘Oh, she is,’ Lara says quickly. A beat. ‘Very friendly, very glamorous, and absolutely allergic to being left out of anything.’
There’s something in her tone—not unkind exactly, but pointed.
I put the lavender plant back on the rack. ‘She mentioned she’d lived on the lane a while.’
‘Nearly seven years.’ Lara gives a dry laugh. ‘Long enough to reinvent herself. You’ll hear bits and pieces—everyone has their own version of her story.’
I follow her to a display of climbing plants. She runs a short, varnished nail along the label of a jasmine pot.
A small prickle runs along the base of my spine. ‘Is there a story I should know?’ I say.
‘Only the one she didn’t tell you.’ Lara’s grin widens. ‘And trust me, it’s an interesting one.’
I give a light laugh. ‘Well, spill the beans . . . you can’t just leave me hanging!’
She lowers her voice. ‘Vanessa was married. To someone much older. She essentially became his carer.’
‘What? No way.’
She nods, pleased with my reaction. ‘Seriously, it’s a proper Cinderella story. The old guy she cared for—Charles Carson CBE—he married her from his death bed. Popped his clogs a few months later. Left her everything.’
My mouth falls open. ‘No.’
‘Yep. His family were, predictably, furious. There were court cases, appeals, the whole shebang. But he’d been estranged from his adult kids for years and he made sure he’d arranged everything properly with top lawyers. So the will was watertight.’
‘So Vanessa got to keep it all?’
‘All of it. Houses, cash, shares. She moved here and completely reinvented herself.’
‘Good for her,’ I say, thinking about Vanessa’s confidence and poise, after everything she’s been through.
Lara bites her lip. ‘Except it wasn’t quite that straightforward. Charles had Parkinson’s. But he died choking. The coroner ruled that he died of dysphasia—basically choking on his own vomit.’
‘So . . . the Parkinson’s isn’t what killed him, as such?’
She nods and says slowly, ‘Vanessa was apparently downstairs when it happened.’
A cold ripple moves through me as I receive her implication loud and clear.
‘Did the police get involved?’ I ask.
‘Oh yes, there was a full inquiry. The coroner stuck with accidental death, but . . .’ She glances around the plant aisle. ‘Well, you never quite know, do you?’
We move aside for a man pushing his wife in a wheelchair. When they’ve passed, I exhale slowly.
Lara looks satisfied with my reaction.
‘You should google it,’ she says. ‘Some stuff is still online, though rumour has it she’s had most of it scrubbed after being declared innocent and all that.’
Her lips twitch. She’s absolutely not convinced Vanessa is innocent.
We continue wandering and Lara insists on buying me a clematis. ‘Your garden will look so much better on my reel,’ she jokes.
‘I can buy my own plants,’ I protest.
She grins. ‘I’ll tag you when it blooms.’
Back in the car with the air-con on and Marvin panting in the back, she turns to me.
‘I’m so glad you moved to the lane, Emily. This place is full of people with money but absolutely no imagination.’
By the end of the day, she’s messaging me with nursery paint colours, crib options, baby names.
I send her a photo of the planted clematis and she replies with fire emojis and Emily, Orchard Lane’s New Gardening Queen.
It feels like we’re actual friends now. Not just neighbours with the odd polite, distant wave.
I’m building a life here. Brick by brick.
And for the first time in a long time, it feels like it might last.
Which is exactly what scares me.