gap under the bed where the alien mayflies lived, squeezing my eyes shut to try and block out what was going on all around me, it was still home.
Four
Three years after they moved in, on a remarkably similar day, a removal truck blocked the Wells’ cul-de-sac from morning until late afternoon. All the residents noticed it, but no one complained. Instead, they peered at it from behind the net curtains or had a good gawp while they tended to their bins or watered their tubs. Everyone tried to glean clues as to who the new occupants might be. Was there a kid’s bike to be seen? A teenager’s drum kit? Fancy sofas?
Romilly and David hadn’t regretted stretching themselves financially while they were so young, knowing that things would continue to get easier as they headed for middle age. But with both of them still under thirty, that still felt like a long way off. Romilly was highly regarded at work and her pay reflected this; apart from a sometimes irritating commute, her job was everything she’d hoped it would be. David’s career continued to go from strength to strength and he was on track to become one of the youngest partners in the firm. His mantra hadn’t changed: ‘Have you noticed, Rom, that the harder I work, the luckier I get?’
Such was the nature of the neighbourhood that everyone found a way to accommodate the inconvenience of the large truck that didn’t look to be going anywhere any time soon. They drove up onto pavements, waving good-naturedly at the new arrival and shouting out offers of tea and biscuits as they exchanged names.
Sara Weaver, they soon discovered, was a divorcee. She had bought the house from the Hensons, who had traded in their ‘highly sought-after four-bed, three-bathroom home with landscaped back and front gardens’ for a cool four hundred grand, with which they then purchased a snazzy apartment in a gated community in Naples, Florida, issuing invitations to all the neighbours to visit them whenever they wished. This struck Romilly and David as particularly funny, given that the Hensons only ever socialised at Christmas, when they threw their annual cocktail party, roping in the older kids in the area to serve canapés and stack the dishwasher for a tenner each. They were quite certain that if they did turn up in Naples with a suitcase in tow, the Hensons would duck behind the breakfast bar and hide out like a Victorian widow being chased for overdue rent. Still, it was nice to be asked and just for a minute or two picture themselves in that Florida sunshine while Mrs Henson whipped up a batch of her much admired eggnog.
Sara Weaver was a different kettle of fish entirely; she was about as social as they came. Even the removal men seemed to be having a great time, whisking tables, metal bedsteads and a washing machine up the path as though they were feather light, encouraged by Ms Weaver’s raucous laughter, gentle ribbing and generous helpings of tea and Mr Kiplings. It felt more like a street party than a hectic removal day.
She appeared at their front door the day after she moved in. Romilly had been polite, neighbourly, as ‘Call me Sara!’ leant against the kitchen worktop, telling her how her dentist husband had done a runner with his dental assistant, leaving her high and dry after six years of marriage. She had of course taken him for as much money as she could, threatening to make him wait the statutory five years for his divorce, which would have proved most upsetting for his very pushy new beau. She had given him his divorce, eventually, but it had cost him. Sara had been wronged and, as she explained, felt no qualms at the fact that the new Mrs Weaver and her ex were shacked up in a flat on the wrong side of Whiteladies Road; she was certain that his earning capacity would see him back on track in no time.
Romilly found everything about her fascinating: her tight jeans, heels and vest, which were more appropriate for a nightclub than a neighbourly pop-in,
Four
Three years after they moved in, on a remarkably similar day, a removal truck blocked the Wells’ cul-de-sac from morning until late afternoon. All the residents noticed it, but no one complained. Instead, they peered at it from behind the net curtains or had a good gawp while they tended to their bins or watered their tubs. Everyone tried to glean clues as to who the new occupants might be. Was there a kid’s bike to be seen? A teenager’s drum kit? Fancy sofas?
Romilly and David hadn’t regretted stretching themselves financially while they were so young, knowing that things would continue to get easier as they headed for middle age. But with both of them still under thirty, that still felt like a long way off. Romilly was highly regarded at work and her pay reflected this; apart from a sometimes irritating commute, her job was everything she’d hoped it would be. David’s career continued to go from strength to strength and he was on track to become one of the youngest partners in the firm. His mantra hadn’t changed: ‘Have you noticed, Rom, that the harder I work, the luckier I get?’
Such was the nature of the neighbourhood that everyone found a way to accommodate the inconvenience of the large truck that didn’t look to be going anywhere any time soon. They drove up onto pavements, waving good-naturedly at the new arrival and shouting out offers of tea and biscuits as they exchanged names.
Sara Weaver, they soon discovered, was a divorcee. She had bought the house from the Hensons, who had traded in their ‘highly sought-after four-bed, three-bathroom home with landscaped back and front gardens’ for a cool four hundred grand, with which they then purchased a snazzy apartment in a gated community in Naples, Florida, issuing invitations to all the neighbours to visit them whenever they wished. This struck Romilly and David as particularly funny, given that the Hensons only ever socialised at Christmas, when they threw their annual cocktail party, roping in the older kids in the area to serve canapés and stack the dishwasher for a tenner each. They were quite certain that if they did turn up in Naples with a suitcase in tow, the Hensons would duck behind the breakfast bar and hide out like a Victorian widow being chased for overdue rent. Still, it was nice to be asked and just for a minute or two picture themselves in that Florida sunshine while Mrs Henson whipped up a batch of her much admired eggnog.
Sara Weaver was a different kettle of fish entirely; she was about as social as they came. Even the removal men seemed to be having a great time, whisking tables, metal bedsteads and a washing machine up the path as though they were feather light, encouraged by Ms Weaver’s raucous laughter, gentle ribbing and generous helpings of tea and Mr Kiplings. It felt more like a street party than a hectic removal day.
She appeared at their front door the day after she moved in. Romilly had been polite, neighbourly, as ‘Call me Sara!’ leant against the kitchen worktop, telling her how her dentist husband had done a runner with his dental assistant, leaving her high and dry after six years of marriage. She had of course taken him for as much money as she could, threatening to make him wait the statutory five years for his divorce, which would have proved most upsetting for his very pushy new beau. She had given him his divorce, eventually, but it had cost him. Sara had been wronged and, as she explained, felt no qualms at the fact that the new Mrs Weaver and her ex were shacked up in a flat on the wrong side of Whiteladies Road; she was certain that his earning capacity would see him back on track in no time.
Romilly found everything about her fascinating: her tight jeans, heels and vest, which were more appropriate for a nightclub than a neighbourly pop-in,
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