class or a tennis match – and all shrunken to 30 per cent thinner than the average population.
She stopped at another set of lights and hurriedly reread the directions. Hump had said to take the next right turn after the cinema, which she could see out of her passenger side window. Then
it was next right onto Egypt Lane and his house was a quarter of a mile on the left, just by the green.
The trees grew in girth and height as she moved a block away from the town centre, their canopies interlacing like fingers above her, tunnelling the road, and she could tell from the dazzling
glare at the end that the ocean lay directly ahead of her. Ro pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, her chin almost resting on the wheel as the car idled slowly past houses that were
rapidly swelling in size and stature.
She’d never seen anything like it – set back from the wide streets, with no pavement but a wide cycle lane, every single house sat amid a large, manicured plot. Some had barn-style
hipped roofs, others multiple pretty dormers; some had covered verandas that ran round the perimeter of the house, others stepped porches, loggias and balconies. They all had pools. They all had
Mexican gardeners riding on sit-on mowers or adjusting sprinkler systems. And every, but every estate was pristine and immaculate. There were no wild brambles winding round the picket fences, no
flaking paint at the windows or missing shingle tiles, no cars that hadn’t been hand-polished – heck, no cars, it seemed, that were more than two years old. How was it possible for an
entire community to share the same sense of aesthetic perfection? Did they have neighbourhood meetings where they chose their house colours from a coordinating palette so that none clashed? Maybe
it was somebody’s job to make sure that newcomers to the area kept to the scheme. This wasn’t a simple case of ‘keeping up with the Joneses’. Out here, even the Joneses were
keeping up – with the Spielbergs and Martins and Parkers, if Hump was to be believed.
She saw the triangular green Hump had told her to watch out for, passed it and indicated left as she spotted the red water hydrant. Ten metres on, she pulled into the drive signposted,
‘Sea Spray,’ and switched off the ignition with a muffled shriek. She had done it! She was alive!
She peered through the windscreen at Sea Spray Cottage – her home for the summer. The house was far smaller than those she’d passed further up the street – it was indeed only a
cottage with three dormers upstairs, a small porch with steps – and there was almost no garden at the front, just a short patch of lawn behind a low, undulating hedge. Why had there been such
a clamour for a room in this house? There had been at least a hundred people at the party that night, but this cottage was nothing compared to its neighbours (even though she personally preferred
old-world charm to grandeur). Clad in cedar shingle that had weathered to a dove grey, plain shutters flanked the downstairs windows, and it had a wisteria growing along the porch roof that was in
full flower.
Ro stepped out of the hire car and leaned against the door. She could hear the sound of the Atlantic pounding the beach in the distance.
‘Hey! I didn’t expect you so soon,’ Hump said, coming round the porch. He was wearing board shorts and carrying a box in his arms. He dropped it on the Adirondack chair beside
him and vaulted over the wooden railings, landing lightly in front of her, his arms out wide.
Ro wasn’t sure whether to hug him or shake his hand. She knew him better online than in the flesh, and right now, shirtless, there was a lot of flesh to deal with. She decided to err on
the side of caution, opting for the handshake – only she caught her own foot as she stepped towards him, and ended up in the next instant with her cheek pressed flat against his warm
(seemingly waxed) chest.
Hump grinned as she jumped back in horror and
She stopped at another set of lights and hurriedly reread the directions. Hump had said to take the next right turn after the cinema, which she could see out of her passenger side window. Then
it was next right onto Egypt Lane and his house was a quarter of a mile on the left, just by the green.
The trees grew in girth and height as she moved a block away from the town centre, their canopies interlacing like fingers above her, tunnelling the road, and she could tell from the dazzling
glare at the end that the ocean lay directly ahead of her. Ro pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, her chin almost resting on the wheel as the car idled slowly past houses that were
rapidly swelling in size and stature.
She’d never seen anything like it – set back from the wide streets, with no pavement but a wide cycle lane, every single house sat amid a large, manicured plot. Some had barn-style
hipped roofs, others multiple pretty dormers; some had covered verandas that ran round the perimeter of the house, others stepped porches, loggias and balconies. They all had pools. They all had
Mexican gardeners riding on sit-on mowers or adjusting sprinkler systems. And every, but every estate was pristine and immaculate. There were no wild brambles winding round the picket fences, no
flaking paint at the windows or missing shingle tiles, no cars that hadn’t been hand-polished – heck, no cars, it seemed, that were more than two years old. How was it possible for an
entire community to share the same sense of aesthetic perfection? Did they have neighbourhood meetings where they chose their house colours from a coordinating palette so that none clashed? Maybe
it was somebody’s job to make sure that newcomers to the area kept to the scheme. This wasn’t a simple case of ‘keeping up with the Joneses’. Out here, even the Joneses were
keeping up – with the Spielbergs and Martins and Parkers, if Hump was to be believed.
She saw the triangular green Hump had told her to watch out for, passed it and indicated left as she spotted the red water hydrant. Ten metres on, she pulled into the drive signposted,
‘Sea Spray,’ and switched off the ignition with a muffled shriek. She had done it! She was alive!
She peered through the windscreen at Sea Spray Cottage – her home for the summer. The house was far smaller than those she’d passed further up the street – it was indeed only a
cottage with three dormers upstairs, a small porch with steps – and there was almost no garden at the front, just a short patch of lawn behind a low, undulating hedge. Why had there been such
a clamour for a room in this house? There had been at least a hundred people at the party that night, but this cottage was nothing compared to its neighbours (even though she personally preferred
old-world charm to grandeur). Clad in cedar shingle that had weathered to a dove grey, plain shutters flanked the downstairs windows, and it had a wisteria growing along the porch roof that was in
full flower.
Ro stepped out of the hire car and leaned against the door. She could hear the sound of the Atlantic pounding the beach in the distance.
‘Hey! I didn’t expect you so soon,’ Hump said, coming round the porch. He was wearing board shorts and carrying a box in his arms. He dropped it on the Adirondack chair beside
him and vaulted over the wooden railings, landing lightly in front of her, his arms out wide.
Ro wasn’t sure whether to hug him or shake his hand. She knew him better online than in the flesh, and right now, shirtless, there was a lot of flesh to deal with. She decided to err on
the side of caution, opting for the handshake – only she caught her own foot as she stepped towards him, and ended up in the next instant with her cheek pressed flat against his warm
(seemingly waxed) chest.
Hump grinned as she jumped back in horror and
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