‘The house looks amazing. Especially the kitchen wall.’ Sarah grins cheekily, as her eyes skate across the hillside and settle on the lake shimmering in the heat.
I smile. ‘You’ve done a great job,’ I say. ‘We both love it.’
Tilda and Simon arrive minutes later. Dev buzzes them in and they walk on to the terrace as if they’ve stepped out of a magazine shoot. Tilda, rubbing Dev’s back affectionately as they arrive at the terrace, is wearing a tailored ivory shift dress and tan-coloured Hermès sliders. Her hair is swept into a loose chignon that somehow manages to look casual and impossibly chic. She walks over, handing me an elaborate hand-tied bouquet of lilies and eucalyptus wrapped in brown paper.
‘Thank you, these are beautiful,’ I murmur, my fingers brushing against hers. She smiles, warm and polished as always. Her smile falters slightly when she sets eyes on Sarah, standing barefoot and diminutive, smiling as Simon walks across, his hand outstretched to introduce himself.
She comes over to admire Tilda’s bouquet. ‘Wow,’ she says softly. ‘That’s some arrangement.’
‘It’s from Stem, the new flower boutique in Storr,’ Tilda says airily. ‘Very nice, but be warned, they do charge by the stem.’ As she looks up, Sarah raises an eyebrow at Simon and Tilda visibly bristles.
Dev makes the introductions and proposes a toast with glasses of fizz.
‘To new friends!’ We raise our glasses, but Tilda’s eyes narrow when Simon moves to my side.
I watch as Jack slyly abandons his fizz after a sip and slips his beer bottle back into his hand. I think about him scrambling over our gates to gain access when we first moved in and then lying about it. He’s a dark horse.
It turns out that Simon and Jack know each other, which is hardly surprising given how small the area is. ‘Jack took down a tree for us when we first moved here,’ Tilda says, a little stiffly.
Simon talks a bit about how Jack helped to get the front garden into shape. I take in his casually rolled-up sleeves, the top buttons of his crisp white shirt undone just enough to hint at a tan. He’s all charm, leaning in as he tops up my glass, his breath warm against my ear.
Over his shoulder, I catch Tilda watching, her neutral expression carefully maintained.
We all drift into easy conversation – or, at least, it’s supposed to be easy. Dev’s pouring drinks, keeping the wine flowing, while I pretend to fuss over the food.
But I’m watching. Always watching.
That’s how I notice Simon inching progressively closer to Sarah as the evening wears on, his voice low and conspiratorial as they laugh over some comedy they’ve both seen on TV.
I see Jack glance their way, his jaw tightening before he looks away, taking a long pull from his beer. Tilda’s irked gaze settles on them too, a brief flash of irritation in her eyes before she redirects her attention to me, her smile a little too bright.
I can feel emotions, including my own, bubbling just beneath the surface. My mind is racing. Sarah’s laugh is just a touch too loud, and Jack’s relaxed façade slips when he thinks no one’s looking.
Simon’s hand brushes Sarah’s arm, lingering just a second too long. And Tilda can’t stop her eyes narrowing, even as her lips curl into another practised smile.
The air feels heavier now, thick with more than heat. The shadows from the trees on the hillside stretch longer, darker, and I can’t shake the feeling that we’re not alone. That someone – something – is watching from beyond the garden.
‘It must be so nice,’ Sarah says suddenly, her voice cutting through the hum of conversation, ‘having all this space, all this privacy.’
Her words hang there, clumsy and deliberate, and the world narrows to just her face. Is that a strange thing for someone to say?
Tilda’s laughter bubbles up, pulling the attention back to her, but I can’t unhear Sarah’s words. Dev’s still chatting, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling all around us.
But something’s not right between the six of us. I can feel it.
44
The heat is more oppressive, the laughter louder. Everyone seems relaxed and unguarded as the last of the wine disappears into their glasses.
I watch Dev out of the corner of my eye as he tops up Tilda’s drink, the bottle wobbling slightly in his hand. He’s drinking far more than I hoped he would tonight and I feel a flare of irritation. When we’d discussed our plan to find ways of letting our guests wander through the house without us, to catch them in the act of taking a photo, we’d agreed we’d alternate with non-alcoholic drinks to be on alert for the right moment, but Dev hasn’t even glanced at the stash of Lucky Saint in the fridge. I take a sip from my glass, the fizz of the Nozeco tickling my lips. It’s my third ‘top-up’ tonight, and no one has noticed that my buzz is entirely manufactured.
When there’s a natural lull, I steer the conversation, nudging it gently towards us winning the house.
‘You seem to be settling in now,’ Jack says lightly.
‘Yes, although I still can’t believe it,’ I say, letting out a soft, dreamy laugh. ‘It feels so surreal. Right, Dev?’
He looks up from his drink, his smile wide but a touch unfocused. ‘Surreal is the right word. A house like this … it’s something else.’
