Dev has promised to get security cameras, but his easy dismissal sticks in my throat. When I reminded him about the brick through the window before our visit, he has an answer: ‘Jack says the brick was probably local kids, not campaigners.’
But Jack doesn’t know that for certain and now we’ve had the more serious vandalism.
Tilda and Simon’s barn comes into view, all clean lines and soft-coloured masonry, like a magazine photo brought to life. Set well back off the road, their front garden is very different from ours – wild and cottagy, beautifully sculpted in a waythat feels unintentional. Lavender spills over the path with pink and yellow roses climbing in lazy arcs along a rickety trellis. It feels lived in and loved while everything around us is landscaped and pristine. Like a film set.
Tilda is outside, lounging in a wicker chair with a book in her lap. She looks up as I approach, and her face brightens in a way that feels genuine. I wave and hold up the yoga mat.
‘Merri! It’s nice to see you, but you could’ve kept that until next week’s class.’
I give her a small smile. ‘It missed you terribly, though.’
She grins and her eyes scan me, the way they always do. Not unkind but assessing. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my scuffed trainers, the old T-shirt and cut-off jeans I threw on without thinking. She, of course, looks cool and put together in loose shorts and a dazzling white T-shirt.
‘Simon’s out on errands, so we have a bit of peace. Let’s sit for a while,’ she says, gesturing to the chair opposite. ‘I’ll get us something to drink.’
I wonder if that’s what he told her when he called in to see me.
I sink into the chair, the striped cushions soft against my back. The garden hums with life – the lazy buzz of bees, the distant ripple of the lake. But underneath it all, tension threads through me, like barbed wire.
Tilda returns with a jug of something that rattles with ice cubes and gleams pale in the sunlight, condensation beading on the glass. ‘Homemade lemonade. It’s the perfect antidote to this heat.’
I take the glass she offers, its cool surface welcome against my skin.
‘Are you OK, Merri?’ Tilda says, pouring the lemonade. ‘It must have been such a shock to get home and see your windows in that state.’
I’m staring at the dark slate roof of the house against the backdrop of blue sky beyond. ‘It’s a horrible feeling, knowing people out there resent us being here.’
‘I totally get that,’ Tilda says. ‘It’s bound to rattle you. There are people here who campaign against Airbnb rentals and suchlike, but you guys aren’t guilty of that. And whatever people think, there’s absolutely no excuse for damaging property.’
For a moment, we sit, sipping quietly in companionable silence. The lemonade is sharp with citrus and a faint bitterness that clings to my tongue.
I clear my throat, keen to change the subject. ‘This place is so peaceful and you’ve got the garden looking beautiful. I much prefer it to ours at Lakeview House. It’s too sterile.’
‘The garden is a work in progress, like everything else.’ Her smile dims slightly. ‘Life. Marriage. It’s so bloody hard to get it right.’
The words hang between us, and before I can stop myself, I steer us towards the very thing I should avoid talking about.
‘Do you ever …’ I trail off, then try again. ‘Do you ever feel trust is harder than it should be? In a marriage, I mean.’
Her eyes sharpen and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. But then she sighs, setting her glass down with a soft clink. ‘It can be hard, in some marriages. Mine, for instance,’ she says quietly. ‘Simon’s had his moments.’
‘Moments?’
‘Affairs. More than one.’
The admission lands heavily between us. I didn’t expect the conversation to take that turn, not after Simon’s parting comment had seemed to imply Tilda’s jealousy was unwarranted.
I blink, forcing my face into something neutral but my mind spins. Simon’s lingering gaze … Is that the look he gaveother women before Tilda found out what he was up to? That flush rises in me again, not quite guilt, but something dark I don’t want to examine. ‘I’m so sorry, Tilda. That must have been really tough for you.’ Now I feel implicated. Tangled up in something I didn’t ask for.
Tilda waves away my apology, but her eyes are distant. ‘The last one was bad and we almost split up for good. But then Simon begged me for one last chance. He found this house and suggested we sell the business, and I thought a fresh start could be just what we needed. A new place, new people. A chance to leave the past behind.’
I put down my glass, the lemonade suddenly tasting sour. ‘You two seem really good together,’ I say, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind and I believed it was true until I heard about Simon’s affairs. ‘You seem such a good match.’
Tilda pulls a face. ‘That doesn’t mean much when you’re trying to stitch something badly torn back together. But marriage isn’t about perfection, is it? Sometimes it’s about what you’re willing to do, or willing to ignore, to keep it in one piece. And that’s the decision I had to make more than once.’
I look down at my glass, watching the ice cubes melt, and think of Dev. The things I haven’t told him, the weight of the secrets that are pressed into the spaces between us. I know I shouldn’t say anything, but in seeking relief, the words slip out before I can stop them.
‘I get that,’ I murmur. ‘I’ve got stuff that lies heavy on my mind, too. Things I’ve never told Dev and I should have. Then time moves on and it seems harder and harder.’
