Was it even love I felt for Nate? Perhaps. Something like it anyway. He was patient, loving, caring. “But he’s not Liam, is he?” the little voice in my head whispered, and I pushed the words away. Patient, loving, caring, I repeated to myself. Patient, loving, caring. Nate never did anything wrong. He always wanted to make everything right.
“Abby,” Nate whispered, looking at me with his eyebrows raised. “Say something?”
He loved me enough for the both of us; he’d said it more than once. What I felt for him might not have been love, not exactly. But surely it was close enough? And I didn’t want to end up alone. I had no family left, I realized, trying not to shiver as the thought of loneliness sneaked its way down my spine. Nate was all I had.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” And then Nate was on his feet, cupping my face and kissing me softly, drowning out the whispers in my head that kept repeating I was a selfish bitch, and he deserved better.
NOW
SARAH
Dear Diary,
I think I’m going crazy. I mixed up my underwear drawer the other day and I never do that. Although I could be distracted because:
I put on a kilo over Easter. Argh!
Mrs. Cloisters emailed and said I got 98.5% on my math test. Double argh!
Zac likes someone. And it’s not me. Triple argh!
Okay, okay. Let’s take these in order. The weight—I’ll starve myself for the rest of the week. The math test, whatever. I’ll make sure I get 110% with the bonus question on the next one. So I can cope with the first two. But the third?
Zac came over for the interview. And what do you know? The boy speaketh in sentences! He was brilliant, really detailed, and I know my article’s going to be great now I have a proper story. He even said I could use his photo.
We played Chick Chick Boom again (5-0 to moi), then he suggested watching a movie.
Me (bringing up Netflix): Comedy, drama or action?
Him (groaning): Anything but a rom-com. Nothing with Anne Hathaway or Amy Adams.
I told him whatever, they were both brilliant but he rolled his eyes and called me a princess. By now I’ve pretty much caught on to his straight-faced sense of humor. I punched his arm and continued flicking through the films until we both agreed on one.
It was funny how we laughed at exactly the same things. And it was crazy how comfortable I felt with Zac, like we’d know each other for ages. I think his air of superiority is just that. I bet you he secretly likes kittens and puppies, and thinks rainbows are magical. Hang on, now he sounds like a wishy-washy kind of guy, which he isn’t. But there’s definitely more to him than he lets on.
I’m glad it was the two of us at home. Otherwise Mum would’ve come in every five minutes asking if we wanted some crisps. Her voice would be all singsongy, as if Zac and I were a couple of four-year-olds watching Teletubbies. And it would only be to check up on us, make sure we weren’t shoving our tongues down each other’s throats.
Anyway, she needn’t have worried because Zac started talking about Nicole Goyle. Bloody tall, slender, long and dark-haired Nicole Goyle, the new girl at school who jumped into the magic gene pool and got the looks and the brains. Zac wanted to know all about her. He didn’t exactly come out and ask if she’s seeing anyone, but that’s what he was getting at.
So I put him out of his misery. Told him the truth. She’s single. You should have seen the look on his face—triumphant, that’s what it was. I could have lied, but what’s the point?
So bollocks to it. I guess I’ll be the oddball gal-pal who lives next door. Great. Oh, well. I didn’t like him that much anyway.
Later,
Sarah x.
PS. Word of the day: gravitate, verb.
1: to move under the influence of gravitation.
2a: to move toward something.
b: to be drawn or attracted especially by natural inclination.
As in: Why do all boys have to gravitate toward bloody, sodding Nicole GARgoyle?
NOW
NATE
DESPITE THE PROSPECT of my brother and his family setting off into the sunset with an alphorn slung over their shoulders, the week had become an absoluhte corker. A couple of minutes ago I’d placed another two web designers on twelve-month contracts with my favorite client and posted the deals on our intranet.
I watched my boss saunter over with a grin on his round, fake-tan face. Even though Kevin was coming up to his sixty-fifth birthday, he still had a full head of hair so white we could have used it to light the way in a blackout.
“Christ, you’re on a roll,” he said, standing in front of me with his arms crossed. He made a circular gesture with his hand. “Can you get these other useless pricks to do the same? HR is 10 percent behind target, and don’t even get me started on the finance group.”
I laughed. “Do you want me to tell them recruitment is all about relationships?”
“Hah—”
“That they have to know what people need before they know it themselves?”
“Oh, boy—”
“How about people buy people from people?”
“Okay.” Kevin pretended to hang himself with his Ralph Lauren tie. “Enough of my wonderful corporate bullshit.” He leaned in closer. “Your bonus will be outstanding this quarter. But you knew that already.”
Sure I did. I raised my eyebrows and said, “Is it?”
Kevin snorted. “And it’s looking like the trip is yours, too, my friend. It’s what? Ten weeks till year end? The other department heads will never catch up.”
I leaned back in my seat, pulled down my sleeves. “Kevin, if I have anything to do with it they’ll be choking on my dust.”
He gave me two thumbs-up. “Like it, mate. I bet Abby’s excited. Who wouldn’t be? Amsterdam, Berlin and Rome?”
“Actually—” I smiled, ready to put my master plan into action “—can we swap Rome for Zurich?”
“’Course.” Kevin rubbed his palms together. “You’re on. Abby’s idea?”
“I haven’t told her anything about it yet. I want it to be a surprise.”
Kevin’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s going to be one hell of a surprise. She’s a lucky woman.” He gave me a clap on the shoulder. “Now go and help the rest of ’em do some deals, will you? Please? The wife wants a fancy European trip, too.”
On the train back home I rehearsed how I’d tell Abby and Sarah about the trip. “Guess what, ladies...” Cue huge drumroll followed by gasps of glee and thunderous hand clapping.
Abby wasn’t a massive fan of traveling, and I’d never been to Berlin or Zurich. I’d visited Amsterdam once, on a stag-weekend before Abby and I had met. Me, Paul and six of our barely post-pubescent friends had gotten off the plane and headed directly for one of the multiple coffee shops in the red-light district. The three-day weekend had disappeared in a hazy daze of weed, beer and, in Paul’s case, a particularly persistent case of crabs.
Of course this time around would be far more civilized with trips to the Rijksmuseum, the Royal Palace and, if I could get away with it, a stint at the Heineken brewery.
Surely this trip would put a smile back on Abby’s face because having one surly teenager in the house at the moment was quite enough. At times like these I wished for an overtly manly hobby, like model trains or CB radio, not to mention a shed—anything that would give me a safe place to escape the moodiness that seemed to follow us around these days.
I sighed. I knew what my hobby was. Fixing stuff. Shelves, the neighbor’s heating and, of course, my wife.
When the woman diagonally across from me on the train coughed loudly I looked over and noticed the book in her hands. The title? One word. A scary word. Menopause.
My mind played the duh-duh-duuuuuh music and a lightbulb the size of a hot-air balloon went off in my head with a b
ang. I whipped out my phone, ran a search and wanted to stand up and shout, “Elementary, my dear Watson!”
Apparently, psychological symptoms of said men-o-pause included anxiety (seemed like it), poor memory (she’d forgotten to pay the phone bill, which never happened), depressive mood, irritability and mood swings (check, check, check—Jesus, had Abby written this?) and less interest in sex. The last one was only recent—she’d turned me down at least four times now—but everything else rang true.
I stuffed my phone back in my pocket and stretched out my legs again. Menopause, or at Abby’s age, probably pre-menopause. Of course! Why hadn’t I worked it out before? I shook my head, thinking I definitely should make more of an effort. And so, when I got off the train and into my car, I decided to stop at The Flower Girls.
“Mr. Morris.” Mrs. Cuthbert put the red roses and green fuzzy stuff I could never remember the name of down on the counter and held out a wrinkled, fleshy hand for me to shake. “Haven’t seen you for a while.” Her chin wobbled as she waggled a finger. “How are you, dear?”
“Great, thanks. And how are you, Mrs. Cuthbert?”
“Oh, hanging on for dear life, my love.” She laughed and tapped her lip with a stubby finger. “Let me guess. Yellow daffodils for Abby?”
I grinned. “Yes, please. They’re still her favorite.”
Mrs. Cuthbert headed over to one of the many metal buckets of flowers that were lined up in neat rows, like hopeful orphans waiting to be chosen. “Special occasion?” she wheezed as she deftly arranged an ornate bunch from the desirables.
“No. Just because.”
Mrs. Cuthbert smiled, creases forming like empty river beds across her cheeks. “She’s a lucky woman.”
“You’re the second person who’s said that today.”
“Ah, well—” Mrs. Cuthbert cocked her head to one side “—then it must be true.”
* * *
I’d only been home for a few minutes when the doorbell rang. I gave up trying to find a suitable vase for the flowers and propped them up in the sink instead, then headed for the front door.
It was cool outside, but Nancy stood on our doorstep in a white T-shirt, and as I greeted her, I tried not to notice how sheer it looked.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said, rubbing her left arm with her right hand. “But there’s something wrong with the dishwasher. It won’t drain. I’d ask Zac to help, but he’s out and Liam’s still at work, so I wondered...”
“I’ll come over.” I grabbed my keys and closed the door behind me. “Lead on.”
“Thanks, Nate,” Nancy said as we walked over to their house. “Liam’s not a great handyman at the best of times. But don’t tell him I said that.”
I laughed. “I think as far as he’s concerned it isn’t a state secret.”
She opened the front door, and I whistled. “You’ve been busy.”
“Oh. Yeah, I have.”
I looked around, taking in the bare floor and the walls now stripped of Barbara’s crazy wallpaper. “You took up the carpet, too.”
“It smelled of cat wee.” Nancy wrinkled her nose. “I’ll order a new one, but I think I want to knock down the wall between the dining room and the kitchen first.” She frowned as she wrapped a strand of hair around her finger. “That’s a lot of work, though, isn’t it?”
“It is. We did the same thing.”
“I know.” Nancy grinned. “That’s where I got the idea from. I’m trying to convince Liam to let me redo the kitchen as well, but he’s not keen.”
“Oh?”
“Nah. We’d only finished our old house a few months before we moved, and that renovation took forever.” She looked around. “But at least now I feel like I have some idea of what I’m doing. And I know you’re right next door. You know...if I have any questions.”
“I didn’t know you’re such an avid DIY’er.”
She laughed. “I read a lot of magazines, and I’ve taken a few online interior design classes. But those don’t teach you how to sort out petulant appliances, do they?”
We went through to the kitchen, where I kneeled in front of the dishwasher and tried to unscrew the filter. “So what else are you planning on doing?” I asked.
“Get rid of the wainscoting. I hate it.”
“Really?” I wriggled the filter around, cursing silently when it wouldn’t budge. “So did we, but ripping it off is a massive job. That’s why we painted it,” I said, looking up at Nancy who was now kneeling next to me. “But we got rid of the stucco ceilings.”
“That’s a great idea.” She bent over to watch what I was doing.
I turned my attention back to the dishwasher and away from her cleavage. “Let me know if you ever need anything. Our garage is full of tools.”
She put a hand on my arm and squeezed. “And you call me an avid DIY’er.”
I grinned. “Ah,” I said as I finally managed to open the rebellious filter. “I see what the problem is.”
“What? Is it bad?” She leaned in so far I thought her breasts might graze my shoulder. Then she looked at me. I hadn’t noticed how long her eyelashes were, or the heart-shaped beauty spot to the left of her nose.
“Something’s stuck.” I grabbed hold of the black material and gently twisted it free before holding it up. “It’s a...oh...uh...”
“Oh, god, how embarrassing!” Nancy grabbed the tiny thong and stifled a giggle. “I wondered where the devil it had gone. Thanks, Nate,” she said and squeezed my arm again.
I got up quickly—too quickly—because I whacked my head on the kitchen table with a thud. “Ouch!”
“Oh, shit,” she said, a hand flying up to cover her mouth. “You okay?”
I waved a hand. “Other than my pride, yeah.”
Nancy didn’t hide her giggle this time. “Well, that makes us even then.” She looked at me. “Are you in a hurry? Do you have time for tea or something? I could show you my plans for the house. I’d love to have your opinion.”
Images of her in that teeny-weeny thong came out of nowhere, and I cleared my throat in a sort-of effort to get rid of them. “Sure.” I shrugged. “Why not?”
“Great.” Nancy went to fill the kettle while I tried to focus on the middle of her back, not lower down. Christ, I seriously needed to get a grip.
“I’ve put a folder together,” she said as she shut off the tap. “Done some sketches and stuff.” She switched the kettle on and slid a massive binder across the kitchen table. “Milk and sugar?”
“Milk, thanks.” I flicked through the plans, grateful to have something to take my mind off her behind. I pointed to the drawing of her open-plan kitchen-diner. “This looks great, Nancy. But I’m pretty sure the wall’s load-bearing.”
“You think?”
“Uh-huh. At least ours was. We got an engineer in to be sure and had a beam put in.”
“But look at your place now. I’m so envious. You did such a great job.” She put a cup of steaming tea in front of me and smiled. Was it me or was she fluttering those lashes?
We spent the next few minutes going over the plans, then debated the merits of scraping a ceiling versus covering it with sheets of plaster board.
“I don’t mind the scraping,” Nancy said, “but I don’t think I can keep my arms in the air for that long. I don’t have biceps like yours.” There was definite fluttering that time.
“If it hasn’t been painted, then it’ll come off easily.” I turned a page so I didn’t have to keep eye contact. “But a stucco remover’s your best bet. I’m pretty sure one of my mates has one you could borrow.”
“Oh, Nate, that would be fantastic.” Nancy beamed. “When we bought the place I was happy to have a project to work on, but now I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew...”
I took another sip of tea and, before I could change my min
d, said, “I’ll help you with the ceiling.”
“Oh, no, no. I can’t possibly expect you to do that.”
“Why not?” I used my pretend-offended voice. “We finished our renovations ages ago. There’s nothing left to do, and I kind of miss it.”
“Well...if you’re sure. I certainly won’t say no.” She looked directly at me, then wiped her lip slowly and, I was certain, quite deliberately with her thumb.
I swallowed. I had the beginnings of a hard-on. What the heck was I doing? “Nancy, look, I—”
“Oh, goodness, look at the time.” She turned away. “I still have to get to the post office.”
I was happy for the excuse to head out before things got even more awkward, and stood up quickly. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Goodbye, Nate.” Her green eyes twinkled when she glanced at me again, and I suddenly wished Abby would look at me that way, too. “Looking forward to working with you. It’ll be fun.”
As I walked back to the house, I wondered how many people had dirty fantasies about their neighbors. Then I wondered how many acted on them.
And how many of those got caught.
NOW
SARAH
Dear Diary,
I haven’t written for ages, have I? Sorry, but things have been happening. Good things.
I’ve met someone. Someone I really, really like. A lot.
I’d seen him around at school—he’s a year older than me—but we’d only kind of acknowledged each other in the hallways. But today I was a total klutz because, bang in the middle of the hallway, I dropped my bag. Which I hadn’t closed properly, of course, so my books and stuff went everywhere and I think I bent my laptop.
Anyway, the important thing is that, as I was on my hands and knees scrambling to pick everything up, Brian Walker knelt down next to me. Brian Walker!
The Neighbors Page 18
