There are other cars here, but none parked on either side. There’s no mistaking what this is. Someone keyed it.
I clutch the deli bag tighter, the coarse paper handles digging into my fingers as I glance around. I can see a few people, all busying themselves, but I’m sure someone’s still watching.
I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the steering wheel hard, my hands shaking. The leather is hot against my back,but I barely notice. Whoever did this must have known I was in that shop. They watched me. Maybe they even followed me here from home.
The drive back to Lakeview House is a blur. When I step into the kitchen, Dev is back and leaning against the counter, stirring a drink. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asks, but when I don’t answer, he turns. His smile drops the second he sees my face. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’
I tell him about the shop, the scratch on the car, the feeling that someone’s been watching me, marking me. His expression shifts, but his voice stays calm.
‘That must have been a shock, especially with everything else that’s been happening. But I suppose it could’ve been a pushchair or a bike. Maybe someone just squeezed past.’
I shake my head. I can still see the gouge in my mind’s eye, deep enough to strip the paint down to the metal. ‘No. It was deliberate. It was too clean, Dev, and too long. Go and have a look for yourself.’
Dev raises a hand, his tone soft but firm. ‘I will. But let’s just take a few minutes. Let me make you a coffee.’
I sit down but can’t stop thinking about the underlying hostility in that shop, the malice that must have been behind the scratch. My gut twists with the certainty that this wasn’t some random accident.
And the last thing I want to do is throw a bloody drinks party later. I almost don’t care which of our so-called new friends took those photos and posted them online. At this precise moment, the only thing I’m interested in is getting out of the Lake District and going back to where we came from. Back to a life where I felt reassuringly anonymous.
43
The early-evening air is thick with the kind of sticky warmth that clings to my skin, making even the lightest fabric feel heavy. I fan myself with a paper napkin, watching golden light spill across the terrace. It’s so peaceful out here, the calm before the storm when everyone arrives. But it doesn’t feel peaceful to me. It’s tainted with thoughts. Dev is upstairs just finishing off getting ready while I’m out here listening to the low drone of insects, and a wood pigeon cooing lazily somewhere nearby.
After taking a shower and styling my hair, I stand in front of the mirror, holding the dress I’ve chosen. It’s simple, navy blue with a soft drape that flatters without looking like I’m trying too hard. But, still, I hesitate. I don’t want to look too formal for what’s supposed to be a relaxed evening. Tilda will look classier than all of us put together, but that’s her signature look. I want to look as if I’ve tried but not feel uncomfortable during what’s bound to be a stressful evening. Maybe I’m just over-analysing. I pull the dress over my head and smooth it down. It feels cool and fluid against my skin.
Next I turn my attention to my hair. I decide against trying anything new, or elaborate curls that would take ages to do. In the end, I twist it back into a low chignon and secure it with discreet pins. A few tendrils escape around my face, but I leave them – better a little softness than too severe.
I’m not skilled at applying make-up to the best effect, but I dab on a light foundation then sweep a soft pink blush overmy cheeks for a hint of colour. I give my eyes a bit more attention: a smudge of charcoal liner, carefully blended, and a sweep of mascara that lengthens my lashes without clumping. A touch of lipstick – subtle, barely there – completes the look.
I step back, catching my reflection in the mirror, and take a steadying breath. The woman staring back at me seems calm and composed. Even though my heart rate tells a completely different story.
I’m wearing a dress that probably cost more than half my entire wardrobe before we moved here. My hair is styled in a new way that takes quite a bit of effort compared to the bobble and grips I used to employ.
But my eyes give me away. There’s hollowness in them now, something sharp and restless that wasn’t there before the money, before the house. Before all ofthis.
I want to belong here. I want to believe I deserve this life. But my own eyes tell me I have a long, long way to go before that feels like the truth.
The nibbles from M&S are already in the oven – tiny cheese tartlets, stuffed peppers, all the overpriced, over-packaged stuff they’d labelled ‘effortless entertaining’ had gone into my basket. Do I feel organized and ready for the evening ahead? No. I’m not sure if I’m prepared at all.
I’m glad Dev suggested an informal setting of low tables and mismatched chairs pulled out onto the terrace. I’ve set out a few tea-light lanterns that I’ll light at dusk, and we have blankets and a patio heater in the unlikely event it turns chilly later. We’ll go inside if the forecast storm arrives.
In the kitchen, I’ve laid out platters and bowls of the finger food I bought at the deli to keep it out of the glare of the sun: olives, platters of charred halloumi with orange and mint,the Italian meats, bread, and a big dish of roasted peppers glistening with olive oil.
The gate bell chimes just as I’m adjusting a plate of bruschetta, and my heart lurches against my ribs.This is it.Time to put our plan into action.
Too soon. I don’t feel ready.
But Dev is at the door, buzzing them through the gate, his laugh trailing behind him as if he hasn’t a care in the world.
Sarah and Jack are first, stepping out onto the terrace with hesitant smiles. Sarah’s in a simple Boden-style dress that skims her slim figure. She looks fresh and cool with her shiny short hair and minimal make-up.
‘Merri! Thanks so much for asking us over.’ She greets me with a small bunch of wild flowers and a kiss. She looks so happy to be here.
But I could swear there’s something in the way she looks out across the terrace, almost as if she’s mentally taking stock of everything. Or maybe it’s just me imagining stuff that’s not there.
Jack looks freshly scrubbed and modern in beige combat shorts, boat shoes and an olive-green polo shirt. Seems funny to see him dressed in something other than his navy overalls. But he, too, greets me with a kiss, and a compliment about how I look.
His easy grin stays firmly in place as he grabs a beer from the ice bucket without waiting to be offered. It’s nice he feels at home enough to do that, but as I’m viewing everything through a different filter tonight, I wonder if he’s actingtoorelaxed.
