by Jenny Oliver
Charlie was sitting at the table.
‘Oh God, you gave me a shock!’ Julia said, hand on her heart, recovering her breath.
Charlie glanced up. ‘Me too,’ he said, flipping his phone over where all the messages were clear to see.
The room was boiling. Suffocating. Julia went over to the tap and poured herself a glass of water. ‘Charlie, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It was just stupid messages. They weren’t meant for the whole street.’ She looked at him with an expression that pleaded for camaraderie. For him to cringe at her humiliation rather than focus on the content of the WhatsApps.
But Charlie didn’t smile. His face was blank.
A big hairy bluebottle zigzagged around the kitchen.
Julia didn’t know what to say. She sipped her water.
Charlie was turning his phone over and over on its edges. Then he let it drop flat to the table. ‘So you want to have sex with Hamish Warrington down the playground alley?’
Julia rolled her eyes. ‘No I don’t. It was a dream!’
The fridge hummed in the background. The bluebottle thwacked against the window, the claustrophobic heat pulsed through the room.
Charlie scoffed. Then he shook his head, brown hair flopping over his forehead. He exhaled, deflated. ‘It’s so humiliating. Jesus.’
Julia came round to stand on his side of the counter. ‘I didn’t mean it, Charlie. The dream was just a metaphor.’
‘Oh right, yeah, for what?’ he asked, tipping his chair back from the table, leaning against the cracked plasterwork. ‘Your bored brain looking for excitement?’ he quoted Meryl. ‘Great metaphor, that makes it SO much better.’
Julia looked at the floor. At the dirt ingrained into the old linoleum.
Charlie scraped his hair back from his face, holding it there. They were both glistening with sweat. The bluebottle buzzed a circuit round the room.
Charlie flipped his chair upright so it landed on the floor with a whack. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m working in a job I hate. I have no money. I knew the house stuff was stressful. But I at least thought we were OK.’
‘We are OK,’ Julia said but it came out like her mouth was stuck with treacle. It wasn’t OK. She didn’t know what she wanted, but she wanted different to this: the seed catalogue that Charlie had finally unearthed from the clutter and was now going through with annoyed flicks, the bleakness of their house, the spreadsheet. She hated herself for wanting an extension like everyone else’s on the street, a jam-packed Instagram feed like Lexi’s, a job offer in Hong Kong. Anything. A taste of something new. Anything that would counter her low-level dissatisfaction with the normality of life.
Standing in the sweltering kitchen, she found herself almost begging, ‘Can you just put that seed catalogue away, Charlie, please!’
Charlie paused his flicking and frowned. He stared at her, incredulous that she had the audacity to be having a go at him right now. He slammed the catalogue shut and stood up. ‘I’m so sorry I’m not good enough for you,’ he said, pushing back his chair, then opening the back door added, ‘I need some air,’ and disappeared out into the garden where his tomatoes and man cave shed were waiting.
Julia stood where she was, feeling dreadful. She looked at her phone again, forced herself to face the WhatsApps. Across the street the party was still in full swing, music and BBQ smells infusing the hot air. How could Julia look anyone in the road in the eye ever again? Unsurprisingly the Cedar Lane group had no new messages. Disabling in its silence. There was nothing, not even a shocked face emoji from one of the other residents.
The fat bluebottle hit the bare overhead lightbulb and stunned itself, falling to the countertop.
Julia couldn’t stay in the house, the walls closing in on her, the thump of the party music shaking the floor, Charlie outside in his man cave. Grabbing her phone, keys and bag she pulled her trainers back on and jogged outside, out the front door into the oppressive, sweltering heat.
Chapter Five
Amber Beddington had a love-hate relationship with the Cedar Lane WhatsApp group. The endless emojis grated and the ‘Thanks hun’ replies drove her barmy but it amused her to watch them all getting their knickers in a twist about the new Sainsbury’s. Amber was quite looking forward to a Sainsbury’s. She was particularly keen on their boil-in-the-bag mussels. Four minutes on the hob and you could just as well be in the South of France.
She was usually a silent observer of the thread but as she packed her suitcase in the unrelenting heat of her bedroom, her phone pinging with the screenshots charting Julia Fletcher’s fantasies about that idiot Hamish Warrington posted by his more idiotic wife, Amber experienced a desperate itch to comment. To say something, anything that might bring Lexi down in return. Because Amber had a soft spot for Julia. She was clever. Amber always admired people who were cleverer than her. Or more talented – she had a huge girl crush on her Pilates teacher, Emma. She liked people who took the time to learn, took consideration with facts and figures, but also had time for others. Julia was like Amber’s son, Billy. They had similar neat little brains that worried about interest rates, if there was milk in the fridge, if the car was taxed. Like a tidy patio garden with pots of begonias and an awning. Whereas Amber’s was more like the ones they panned back from on Homes Under the Hammer, a confusing horror of brambles and bindweed.
Amber zipped up her suitcase and giving her bedroom one last glance – the tangle of sheets, she should really make the bed – to check she hadn’t forgotten anything – ooh, underwear, she grabbed a handful from the antique dresser, and Nicorette patches, no she had them in her bag – she left the room, itching to go back for her emergency pack of fags but forcing herself to carry on out the door.
The afternoon sun was too hot. Amber squinted. The dreadful music from Lexi’s party immediately got her back up, especially after the sticker she’d left on Amber’s windscreen. She crossed the street to the VW camper van which she’d had to borrow from a friend because her van was currently having its third new clutch in Ray’s Garage up the road. A kid in one of the windows stuck his tongue out at Amber as she walked past, she stuck her tongue out back, the little kid giggled. Behind him Peppa Pig was playing on a massive wall-mounted TV. All Amber saw down this road was Peppa Pig on giant TVs, or on a Saturday, the cricket. Every house on this side of the road was the same, all the Victorian terraces done up with plantation shutters and various shades of Farrow & Ball paint. On the walls were giant canvases of their children or themselves, making Amber wonder when art had become so narcissistic. Mind you, Picasso and Rembrandt were always painting themselves. Amber had never taken a selfie in her life; the idea was abhorrent. She didn’t need a million likes to tell her she was beautiful. She caught sight of herself in the VW window and did a mock pout, grinning, she knew damn well how good-looking she was.
Throwing her bag in the back of the van she lamented the limited space. This was meant to be a buying trip and a camper van wasn’t ideal for the job. Although it did have a kettle which was always a bonus.
Locking the van, Amber walked up to the high street to get some supplies for the journey, grimacing at the ridiculous oversized olive tree in Lexi’s front garden that had been craned into position to much hoo-ha, and all the posers currently vaping around it.
What everyone in Cedar Lane referred to as a high street was actually a small strip of shops at the end of the road with a dry cleaners’, chippy, double-glazing company and a Costcutter. Round the corner was a dreadful wedding dress shop and a veterinary practice. Amber pushed the door of the Costcutter and the little bell rang. Usually her son, Billy, was with her and this was his favourite part of the trip, chucking packets of mint Clubs and Mini Cheddars into the basket. Alone, she strolled round the fluorescent-lit aisles, not quite sure what to buy, grabbing a pint of full-fat milk and some slices of cheese.
Out the window she saw Julia Fletcher hurry past. Wearing the white dress she’d had on at the party, eyes downcast to the pavem
ent.
For a second Amber wondered if she should go out and check whether she was OK, but then realised if she were in Julia’s shoes she couldn’t imagine anything worse than a busybody neighbour offering comfort.
She went back to perusing the aisles. Subconsciously picking all of Billy’s favourites – Pickled Onion Monster Munch, full-fat Coke, Mr Kipling French Fancies. But her mind kept drifting back to Julia, wondering if she was alright.
Amber had first met Julia when they had moved in at the end of last summer. Julia’s dad had leant over the garden fence, and advised Amber, who had been reclining in her deckchair at the time, that the monkey puzzle in her garden needed chopping down because the roots would damage her foundations soon. Julia had been rolling her eyes, trying to shush him, to not get involved. Amber had got up, wandered over to the fence, bottle of beer in one hand, cigarette between her fingers. She’d turned her head so she could see what Julia’s dad saw and replied with a blasé drawl, ‘I’d rather the house fell down than the tree.’ Julia’s dad had been momentarily flummoxed, like his brain was rearranging to account for such logic. Then he’d laughed, deep and loud, and stretched his hand over the fence to introduce himself. After the initial confrontation they’d got on strangely well. He couldn’t fathom her, especially after she’d revealed good knowledge of share prices, which she suspected he quite enjoyed. Almost as an afterthought he had introduced Julia. And the moment had fast-forwarded Amber and Julia’s friendship. Julia’s clear embarrassment at her dad’s involvement regards the monkey puzzle had made Amber laugh. Every time she saw her after that she made some comment about the tree. Then Julia had joined the Monday-night Pilates class at the Scout hut behind the high street where Amber was a regular and they often walked home together. On the walks Amber told her how her son Billy wanted to be a chef but Amber was a terrible cook and no help at all. It transpired that Julia had aced her way through Le Cordon Bleu cookery school – she’d been sent immediately to Paris one summer by her parents when she’d shown aptitude and delight in baking. So every Wednesday, Julia had gone round to teach Billy how to hold a knife properly, temper chocolate, spin sugar, truss a chicken, julienne, reduce and even, to Amber’s arm-length fascination, how to kill a crab. And so, via the bonding power of their inability to do the double-leg stretch in Pilates and Amber’s wine-sipping inquisitiveness in what Billy and Julia were concocting in her kitchen, they had formed the kind of acquaintanceship that came not so much from shared interest and opinion but from being comfortable in each other’s presence.
Amber decided that once she’d paid she’d just go and see if she could see Julia and check if she was OK.
When she got to the checkout she said, ‘Gary, don’t let me buy any cigarettes.’
‘Why? You given up?’ asked the large white-haired man behind the counter.
‘Yes. Well I’m trying. The reason’s so pathetic though,’ she laughed.
Gary started adding up her purchases. ‘Oh yeah?’ he asked, tapping numbers into his till.
‘You remember my ex – Ned? Billy’s dad? Yeah. Well he’s got this annoying new girlfriend—’
‘Marcia?’ Gary said without looking up.
And Amber realised she must have slagged off Marcia in here before. She could imagine she had. Marcia was so annoying. Marcia worked at Google. ‘Well between her and Billy they’ve got Ned from twenty-a-day to vaping. He’s so smug. But I’m not a vaper. I’m iron will and about a million Nicorette patches. And maybe twenty Marlboro Reds, Gary, just in case.’
Gary shook his head and laughed. ‘You said no, Amber.’
Amber made a face. ‘Oh! That’s so unfair.’ She paid for her stuff, waved the offer of a carrier bag and piled everything up against her snakeskin print vest.
Outside the Costcutter, Amber was about to look for Julia when her phone rang.
‘Hello,’ she said, fumbling to answer the phone with all the food she was carrying, the shattered screen making it nigh-on impossible to ever see who was calling.
‘Amber, it’s Henri,’ his voice boomed out.
Amber stood up a bit straighter. Henri Lupé owned the private members’ club, Emerald House, which was the main source of Amber’s income. An old, white-suit-wearing eccentric, they’d worked together for years, Amber supplying the vintage furniture for his hotel chain.
‘Just checking you’re all on target.’
‘Oh yeah, absolutely, you know me, Henri.’ She glanced at her watch, made awkward by all the junk food she was carrying, and then made a face to herself, aware she was now cutting things fine. Julia would have to look after herself, Amber figured, walking a bit quicker in the direction of the camper van. ‘I’m actually on my way to France now. I’ll get you all the best stuff,’ she laughed, it sounded a little fake.
Henri paused for a second. ‘I’m so sorry about what’s happened, darling. You’re not annoyed, are you? It’s just Olga, darling, she likes to think she’s in control now, but—’
‘Well, with all due respect, Henri,’ Amber said, trying not to sound bitter, as she climbed into the van, ‘she does seem to be in control now.’
Olga Lupé was Henri’s niece and the new Emerald House Creative Director. Tipped to take over from Henri when he retired, tall, willowy and white-blonde, she had taken a dislike to Amber on sight. They were of different eras. Amber worked on instinct and Henri trusted her to deliver. She’d rock up with a van full of furnishings – some of which had been requested, some of which hadn’t – and never failed to transform a room. She had won awards. Olga, on the other hand, liked planning, Pinterest and mood boards. She liked goals and teamwork and annoyingly wide-hemmed trousers that swooshed along the floor as she walked. She hated being caught off guard and, in Amber’s opinion, had kiboshed two of the bedrooms Amber had worked on for the new flagship hotel in Russell Square purely to show Amber who was boss. It hadn’t gone down well. Amber hated being told what to do.
Henri laughed, a rich, horsey guffaw. ‘I knew you were annoyed.’
‘Wouldn’t you be? Henri, she literally banned two of my rooms and half of the furnishings for the bar.’
‘Olga just has her own way of doing things, Amber, darling. She only wants the best.’ Henri paused again. ‘I don’t want my two best girls arguing. You and Olga, you need to be friends.’
There was a fat chance of that happening, Amber thought. But she exhaled slowly through her nose and said, ‘Yes, Henri.’
She could hear him do a little clap. ‘Good girl.’
Amber bristled.
‘Now, don’t let me down, no?’
‘No, Henri.’
Henri laughed, ‘No Henri, Yes Henri. I love it. Have a divine time in France, Amber darling, we’ll look forward to seeing the treasures you unearth next week, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Au revoir, ma petite.’
Amber ended the call. Quietly fuming inside.
She put the key in the ignition and as she looked up saw that the little witches’ coven of Lexi Warrington, Alicia What-ever-her-surname-was, and the other blonde one, were stumbling down the street, arm-in-arm, in their white-hot garb.
Amber narrowed her eyes, watching them as they headed towards the high street, giggling. She turned the key in the VW and the engine rumbled to life. This van would not be a treat to drive.
Amber reversed and accidentally nudged Hamish Warrington’s Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet. ‘Oops,’ she laughed to herself.
Then pulling out of the space, she drove up the road and saw the three blonde women totter out of the Costcutter unwrapping a packet of Marlboro Menthol, sneaking off round the corner to have a crafty mid-party fag. Amber was annoyingly jealous.
The van rolled on up the road, she watched them as they wobbled, drunkenly trying to light the cigarettes, all caramel-tanned and pinch-faced like the mean girls at school. Amber was half tempted to turn the wheel sharp and wipe them out in one go but they weren’t worth going to prison for. It was an enjo
yable fantasy though.
Speaking of fantasies. As Amber rounded the corner, there on a lone bench outside the dreadful wedding dress shop – that was so incongruous on the high street, Amber was certain it was a money-laundering business – sat a rather forlorn, dazed-looking Julia Fletcher. Her hair fell limply half over her face, tangled with a ribbon that looked like it had once been part of a plait. Her eyes were red, her hands flopped in her lap, and her dress was still damp in patches on her boobs where the stripes of her bikini showed through. She looked a mess.
The three mean girls were just coming up to the bend.
‘Oh shit,’ Amber muttered to herself.
Lexi was opening a bag of strawberry laces. Amber saw the moment she clocked Julia. She saw her pause mid hair flick, her eyes narrow, a pause, a tug on Alicia’s arm. Alicia’s eyes zoned in in an instant, locking onto their target like a missile. Lexi tied up her hair and handed Alicia the packet of sweets, seemingly getting ready for a scene. Alicia took a long drag on her fag while the other blonde sucked on a strawberry lace. They stalked forward together, all pouty and catwalk curves. At that point, Julia glanced up and saw them, she looked momentarily startled, frozen to the spot, helpless.
Alicia flicked her cigarette just shy of the bench. ‘Well, look who it is.’
Julia flinched. She brushed her hair out of her eyes, straightened her shoulders, tried but failed to get herself together in time for their attack.
‘I’d like a word with you!’ Lexi drunkenly sneered, getting closer to where Julia sat, such a vulnerable, easy target.
‘Do something! Don’t just sit there, Julia,’ Amber muttered in the van.
A car behind flashed her for going so slowly. She waved him past.
‘Living out your fantasy, Julia?’ Alicia drawled, glancing towards the wedding dress shop.
Lexi did a mean little smirk, and in a tone of mock bemusement added, ‘What I can’t believe is why she would think my husband would ever want someone like her?’ Asking as if Julia wasn’t there.
