“Single women can live in Sandringham! Maybe she wanted to live by the beach.”
“But it’s an unusual choice, wouldn’t you say?” her mum said. “Especially Pleasant Court.”
Essie thought about that. Pleasant Court was a decidedly family area, she supposed. A cul-de-sac of 1930s-style redbrick bungalows—and even those in need of a paint job or new foundations sold for well over two million thanks to the beach at the end of the road. Ben and Essie had bought their place when it was worth less than half that amount, but property had skyrocketed since then. The new neighbor, whoever she was, was renting, but even rent wouldn’t have been cheap. And with three or four bedrooms and a garden to maintain, Essie had to admit it wasn’t the most obvious choice for a single person.
“Maybe she has a husband and kids joining her?” Essie said, opening the fridge. She snatched up a head of iceberg lettuce, a tomato, and a cucumber and dumped all three on the bench. “Salad?”
“Sure,” Ben said. “And I doubt she has a husband joining her.”
“Why?”
“Ange said she talked about her ‘ex-partner.’ Partner,” he repeated, when Essie looked blank. “As in she’s gay.”
“Because she used the word partner?”
Ben shrugged, but with a cocked head and a smile that said he was in the know.
Essie grabbed an avocado from the fruit bowl. Though she’d never admit it to Ben, she was a little intrigued. The sad fact was, Pleasant Court was very white bread. The appearance of anyone other than a straight married person with kids was interesting. Essie thought back to her days working as a copywriter for Architectural Digest, when she had numerous gay and mixed-nationality friends. It felt like another lifetime. “Well … so what? I didn’t realize we cared so much about people’s sexuality.”
“We don’t,” Ben said, holding up his hands. “Unless … hang on, did you say … sexuality?”
Ben slipped a brawny arm around her waist. After eight years of marriage Ben still wanted sex constantly. Essie would have blamed the excessive exercise if he didn’t insist he’d always been this way. “If I was a kid these days,” he was fond of saying, “I’d have been diagnosed with ADHD and put on Ritalin. Instead, my parents took me to the park every day to run me like a dog.” Some days that’s what Essie felt like she was doing with him in the bedroom.
“You need a shower,” Essie said.
“Great idea. Meet you in there?”
Essie’s mum put down her pencil. “For heaven’s sake! Come on, Mia. You can stay at Gran’s tonight.”
Ben’s eyes lit up. “Barbie! Have I ever told you how much I love you?”
“If you really loved me,” she said, without missing a beat, “you wouldn’t call me Barbie.”
Ben put his hand on his heart. “Scout’s honor.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Not Babs, either. Not Babby. Not Ba-Ba.”
“But those are all the good ones!” Ben cried as her mum let herself out with Mia on her hip. Then he turned to Essie. “Ready for that shower?”
* * *
One good thing about Ben, he rarely lasted more than ten minutes (Ten with Ben) and tonight Essie spent eight of them thinking about Polly. At first she’d simply been listening out for her in case she woke up, but then her thoughts had drifted to what she would do if she did wake up and then to why on earth she’d been waking so often these past few weeks.
It’s a phase, everyone said. The most irritating of all findings. A phase wasn’t a diagnosis, it wasn’t a treatment. It was, at best, something to say when you had no idea what the problem was. But Essie wasn’t going to take it lying down.
“I thought you could give Polly a dream-feed tonight,” she said to Ben when he was spread-eagled and panting beside her. She lifted her head and propped her chin in her palm. “A dream feed is when you give the baby a bottle of formula at ten P.M. to get her to sleep for a long stretch. Apparently it’s better for the dad to do it, because otherwise the baby can smell the mother’s milk.”
It was Fran, from number 10, who’d suggested the dream-feed. Fran had a daughter Mia’s age and another one a few months younger than Polly, but unlike Essie’s children, Fran’s children slept and generally did everything they were supposed to do. As such, she seemed like a good person to take advice from.
Ben stared at her. “Are you actually talking about our infant daughter? Now?”
Essie winced. “Faux pas?”
“Fatal faux pas.”
Essie dropped her head back onto his chest. She lay there for a few seconds before Ben grabbed her chin and turned it so she was looking at him. Essie smiled. He did this every now and again. They’d be standing in the kitchen or out for a walk and suddenly his eyes would go all soft. He never said anything, he didn’t need to. The look said it all.
She let her fingertips flutter over Ben’s taut stomach, which was bare and smooth apart from the dark strip of hair heading south from his navel. His heartbeat was hard and loud under her ear. He’d been jogging down the street (of course) the first time she’d seen him. At six foot five he was hard to miss. She’d been about to drive past him in her car when the traffic lights changed. Essie had been so busy looking at Ben that she nearly didn’t stop in time. The car in front didn’t stop, continuing into the intersection at full speed. The smash was magnificent. Essie leapt from the car, as did a lot of drivers and pedestrians, but it was Ben who ran directly for the collision, peeling off his hoodie and pressing it to the head wound of one of the drivers to staunch the blood. Essie joined him after a few moments, offering her own cardigan while everyone else stood around the edges, gasping and whispering. There was so much blood, she remembered. And not enough clothes.
By the time the ambulance arrived, Ben was standing there in his underwear and trainers. Essie offered him a ride home, as a) he was in his undies, and b) he had just saved someone’s life, so she figured he was unlikely to be a serial killer. Also, because c) she’d seen him in his underwear and, frankly, his body was enough reason for anyone to give him a lift home.
She’d had a nice body then too, she recalled. Slim but curvy. She had auburn hair that she’d spend ages trying to make look casually tousled. Ten years later, her auburn hair was in a permanent ponytail and she had a spare tire around her middle that she couldn’t seem to shift. Ben was forever telling her to come down to The Shed and train, but whenever she did find a moment to herself, she wanted to curl up and sleep. And whenever she did take a moment to curl up and sleep … well, there was Polly.
Right on cue, Polly squawked.
“I’ll go,” Ben said. Clearly he’d just had sex. After sex, Ben always seemed to think he was a superhero—offering to do all sorts of things, from DIY projects to teaching Mia to ride a bike. Either he was very grateful or he had a burst of adrenaline he needed to work off. Essie was happy to let him go to Polly, even if she wasn’t optimistic. He’d read stories, make silly noises, pace the floor with her. (He’d probably not think to do the obvious things like give her a bottle or change her diaper.) Once he’d exhausted his box of tricks, she’d be called in. But at least it’d give her a chance to finish making dinner while he tried.
“Thanks, babe.”
She grabbed her robe and headed out to the kitchen, keeping an ear out for Polly. Every time she dared to think she might have gone off to sleep, she’d hear a coo or gurgle. She was about to go in there when there was a knock at the door.
Essie threw a tea towel over her shoulder and swung the door open. She looked up at the woman standing there. At five foot nine, it wasn’t often Essie looked up at someone, but this woman must have been close to six foot. She had blunt-cut dark-brown hair with thick bangs. Her lipstick was bloodred and she wore heavy black-rimmed glasses. She reminded Essie of an artist or an interior designer or something.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said. “I’m Isabelle Heatherington. I’ve just moved in next door
.”
“Oh.” Essie couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice. This was the single, possibly gay woman who’d moved in next door? Essie wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. People from Pleasant Court didn’t look like this. They wore jeans or maxi-dresses. Lipstick was nude and hair was in a ponytail. Essie’s own ponytail had started sprouting grays a few years back and she hadn’t found time to go to the hairdresser to cover them. Hadn’t found time in years. “Sorry, I’m Essie Walker.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Essie. I’m just making the rounds of the neighbors, introducing myself.” Her voice, Essie noticed, had a faint husk to it.
“Oh … that’s nice.” Essie smiled stupidly at her for a minute, before realizing she was dressed in her bathrobe. “Oh, look at me! I was just—”
“—relaxing in your own house at night?” Isabelle smiled. “How dare you!”
Essie laughed. “Well, I’m sorry I haven’t popped by to see you yet. I’ve been meaning to but I have two little kids and things can get a bit frantic.”
“Yes, I saw your little ones today as you loaded them into the car. They’re very cute.”
“Oh God. I hope I wasn’t yelling at them or anything.”
“No. Actually, you looked like the perfect mother.”
Essie nodded. The perfect mother. How deceiving appearances could be.
She leaned against the doorframe. “So I hear you’ve moved from Sydney? For work?”
“Yes.”
Isabelle didn’t elaborate. If Ben were here he’d have pushed her to disclose more—Ben was a dreadful gossip—but Essie figured if Isabelle was going to be living next door, they’d find out eventually.
“My mum’s from Sydney,” Essie said. “Well, originally. We moved here while I was quite young. I’ve never been there, unfortunately. I’d like to go.”
You’re babbling, thought Essie. Just stop it. Stop babbling. Essie had never been great at meeting new people or managing the small talk that was invariably required. It was frustrating, as, like most people, she wanted to have friends. But she didn’t have Ben’s friendliness or her mother’s nurturing—or any particular charm, at least not one that was immediately evident. Essie suspected new people found her “perfectly nice” (aka dull), but for as long as she could remember she’d harbored an implausible, narcissistic believe that there was more to her personality than people saw. That there was a gregarious person inside her trying to get out.
“Well, I’ll keep making the rounds,” Isabelle said finally, pushing a folded piece of paper into Essie’s hand. “My number, in case you need it. Though you won’t need to worry about late-night parties since I don’t know a soul in Melbourne.” Isabelle talked over her shoulder as she turned back to the street. “And even if I did, I’m an early-to-bed type.”
“You’re in fine company then, on Pleasant Court!”” Essie called after her, more confident now Isabelle was leaving. “The lights are all off here by ten P.M. around here. And that’s on New Year’s Eve!”
Isabelle had a sway to her walk, Essie noticed. If she turned out not to be gay, Ange would be nervous when she showed up on their doorsteps. (Ange’s husband was movie-star handsome and she was convinced most women were after him.) But Essie wasn’t nervous. If anything, she was oddly excited at the prospect of a potential new friend, not to mention a little life in Pleasant Court.
She closed the door and returned to the kitchen. She was just finishing up the salad when Ben appeared. “Am I the best husband in the world or what?”
Essie frowned at him. “What?”
“Polly,” he announced proudly, “is fast asleep. Go on, call me the baby whisperer…”
That’s when Essie realized a miracle had occurred. For the past few minutes, She hadn’t been obsessing about Polly and whether she’d gone back to sleep. She wasn’t wondering if she was going to have to go in there, or if Polly was going to wake another fifteen times during the night. She wasn’t thinking about Polly at all.
She was too busy thinking about Isabelle Heatherington, the new neighbor.
3
“Essie!”
Essie was hunting for the new Aldi catalogue in her letter box when she heard Ange call out from across the street. “Morning, Ange,” she said, without looking up. The catalogue was stuck and Essie was determined to get it out without tearing it. With two little children at home, flipping through catalogues was one of the few pleasures in her day.
“What are you up to this afternoon?” Ange said, standing behind her now. “I thought we could get together.”
It was barely eight A.M. but the day’s heat hung around Essie like a cloak. She wore the same linen sundress she’d worn for days, with bare feet—in this heat even flip-flops made her feet sweaty. Polly, on her hip, wore only a diaper.
“What are you up to there? Can I help?” Ange reached down and gave the catalogue a sharp tug. There was an audible rip of paper and then it came free in her hand. Essie stood, cursing silently.
As usual, Ange looked crisp and put-together. Her white-blond hair was blow-dried to hairdresser standards and she wore white capri pants with a navy shell-top. How did she manage it in this heat? Essie wondered. Ange’s makeup was done and her expression, as usual, was gently startled thanks to the perfect amount of Botox.
“There you go,” Ange said, handing her the torn catalogue. “So, what do you say? This afternoon?’
Essie readjusted Polly on her hip and frowned at Ange. Get together? That was unusual. Everyone in Pleasant Court was friendly, certainly. They popped around to each other’s houses for Christmas or New Year’s Eve drinks, they watered each other’s plants while they were away. They waved brightly when they saw one another in the street … but they stopped just shy of being friends. For a while, Essie had hoped the relationships would develop—particularly her relationship with Fran, who had children similar ages to her own—but in nearly five years, that had never eventuated. Essie wondered, suddenly, why it hadn’t.
Ange leaned in conspiratorially. “Have you met the new neighbor yet?’
Ah, Essie thought. So that’s what this is about.
“She’s moved in, you know.”
“Yes,” Essie said. “I know.”
Essie never ceased to be amazed by Ange’s capacity for interest in stuff that didn’t involve her. Most days Essie could barely take in the goings-on of her own family, let alone information about others, but here was Ange, somewhere between thirty-eight and forty-two, with two sons, a husband, and her own real estate agency, and still she had room for the minutiae of other people’s lives. Generally it just seemed exhausting to Essie, but today, Essie found herself mimicking Ange’s conspiratorial tone and saying: “Why doesn’t everyone come to my place?”
Fran, as it turned out, had been roped in as well and that afternoon, the three of them were holed up in Essie’s hot living room when Ange leapt from her chair.
“There she is!”
“Who?” Fran said.
“The neighbor. Looks like she’s getting her mail.”
Essie edged forward in her chair but Ange was blocking the window. Polly, in her lap, also sat up, interested.
“Oh, Isabelle. She dropped in last night,” Fran said from the armchair. She was stretched out on the ottoman and her six-week-old daugher, Ava, was wedged in the crook of her arm.
Ange snapped her head around. “Really?” she whispered. “She came to my place too!”
“Why are we whispering?” Essie asked, but Ange was already looking back at the window.
“Attractive, isn’t she?” Ange tipped her head back and squinted as if to see better. “Her bangs are a little thick though. Quite severe looking.”
“They’re probably to hide her forehead wrinkles,” Fran said, folding a fan out of a piece of newspaper. “Which, I might add, is quite a practical idea.”
Fran thrived on practical ideas. Her clothes were fashionable but low-key, her shoes were flat. She wore t
he same nude lipstick and mascara every day, and her hair was always in the same glossy dark-brown ponytail. At the street party last year she’d revealed that she only bought a single style of beige bra and knickers so she never had to worry about hunting around for a matching set. Thankfully she stopped short of being one of those insufferable types who shoved practical ideas down your throat (‘You know what really works a treat on carpet stains? Let me tell you.”). The best thing about Fran was that she never seemed to care a fig what anyone thought of her, which was, in Essie’s opinion, a tremendously underrated quality.
“Probably,” Ange agreed. “She looks like she’s approaching forty. Did she stop by your place too, Essie?’
“She did,” Essie said. “To introduce herself. It was neighborly.”
Ange made a face that suggested she wasn’t so sure. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Who moves to Pleasant Court without kids?”
“You rented her the place,” Essie pointed out. “Besides, the Larritts don’t have young kids.” The Larritts, admittedly, were in their early seventies. “Neither does my mum.”
“The Larritts had young kids when they moved here. All three of their children went to school in the area. And your mum moved to the street to be close to you!”
Ange gave her a look to say So there, then patted down her white pants that somehow—despite her “beastly boys”—were pristine. It wasn’t hard to understand why people bought houses from Ange. She had everything together. She was married to a sickeningly handsome man; she seemed to be making a heap of money in her business. Essie had held out hope that she was hiding some great flaw on the domestic front, but when she’d popped around recently to borrow a Pack ’n Play, Essie had followed her into the garage and it was impossibly orderly in there. The garage! Essie would have been happy just to have some order to her pantry. Despite having children, Ange didn’t have LEGOs in her purse or McDonald’s wrappers on the floor of her car. That was the thing about Ange. She didn’t just sell houses. She sold the life you wanted to lead.
The Family Next Door Page 2
