C. J. Cooper grew up in a small village in South Wales before moving to London as a student. She graduated with a degree in Ancient History and Egyptology and spent seven months as a development worker in Nepal. On her return to Britain she joined the civil service, where she worked for seventeen years on topics ranging from housing support to flooding. She hung up her bowler hat when she discovered that she much preferred writing about psychotic killers to ministerial speeches. She lives in London with her husband and two cats.

Copyright

Published by Constable

ISBN: 978-1-47212-966-6

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 C. J. Cooper

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Extract on p.324 from An Inspector Calls play copyright © J B Priestley 1945.

First published by William Heinemann Ltd 1947.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Constable

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For Mark, for everything

Now

There’s that noise again. It’s a shrill, beeping sort of sound. Sometimes it’s so quiet I forget about it. Sometimes I can’t hear it at all. And then all of a sudden it’s back, and I know it was there all the time, hiding just beneath the other sounds: the voices and the footsteps, the scrape of a chair against the floor.

It’s strange, it’s familiar somehow. I think I should know what it is, but when I try to reach for it, the memory slips away. I tried asking them, the voices. I asked if they could hear it too, but they didn’t reply. That should have annoyed me – I could feel the edges of the anger against my brain – but when I tried to focus on the feeling it dissolved like smoke. I forgot my question, too.

What was it? Oh yes, that noise.

It’s high pitched; like I said, shrill. Like a whistle, almost. But no, not like that. Not continuous, more a series of sounds. Like a tap dripping, or a heart beating. Only not like that either. It’s almost musical, like a piano. No, a synthesiser. That’s right, electric. Just the one note, again and again.

It’s getting louder now.

It’s so bright in here. It must be those big windows at the front. They’re concentrating the glare of the sun. I try to turn my head away, but the light is still there, so I screw up my eyes instead.

That noise, that note: can’t someone make it stop?

I want to move but I feel so tired, like I’ve been here too long and melted into place. Everything is heavy. Maybe I’m ill. Maybe I’m having a heart attack, or a stroke or something. Perhaps this is what it feels like.

The noise is still there, not growing in volume now, but persistent, clear. And there’s something else – something low and uneven and jagged-sounding. It rises and falls. There’s a pressure on my eyelid, but that can’t be right, because my eyes are open.

That can’t be right.

The low sound is still there. It has a pattern, I can hear it now. Hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm.

The light is too strong, but I can’t shut my eyes, not with this thing on my eyelid.

And now the sound is getting clearer, almost like words.

It’s a voice, a woman’s voice. I try to look around, but my head is so heavy and something’s still pressing against my eye. The noises have gone: no more hum of conversation, no clatter of chair legs. Just that high electric beat and the sounds that are almost words.

Hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm.

And then I know what they are.

‘Lucy.’

I’m not afraid any more. I open my eyes.

Before

Chapter 1

It was so hot the grass had turned to straw right there in the ground the day I opened my door to the woman who’d try to kill me.

Of course I didn’t know that was what she was there for then. I just wished I’d cleaned my teeth after I’d got back from Tom’s, because when I opened my mouth to say hello and welcome her to the village, I could tell from her half-raised eyebrow and the way her lips turned down at the corners that she could smell the alcohol on my breath. I wondered later if that was when she got the idea about the wine bottle, but I suppose there’s no way of telling.

I’d returned from The Gables an hour or so before. The visit hadn’t been a success, though I had only myself to blame for that. I’d gone to ask Tom’s advice, but I hadn’t managed to get to the point. That’s what happens when you don’t want to tell people the truth: you spend so much time testing possible reactions in your head, filtering out anything that might take the conversation in a direction you don’t want it to go, that all of a sudden you find you’ve been there for twenty minutes and the other person is halfway into a story about Cynthia in the post office and her attitude to undelivered mail, and it’s too late to do anything but nod along and pretend you were just dropping by for a chat. Time’s up, ding ding!

So I’d sat there, hmm-ing in the right places, and every so often passing a surreptitious dog treat under the table to Ferdy, Tom’s cairn terrier; and just as I was thinking I should leave and let him get back to work (Tom, that is, not Ferdy), there was a scrunch of gravel and a ripple of laughter at the open door, and Maggie and Rebecca were bustling in.

I took in their Lycra leggings and rolled-up mats and told myself I didn’t mind that they hadn’t invited me to yoga or Pilates, or however they’d been spending their morning. They’d both lived in the village for years, after all. I couldn’t expect to be included in all their routines right away.

As if she’d read my mind, Maggie installed herself on the bench next to me and gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘Wonderful that you’re here, Lucy! Saves us another visit. You’ll definitely want to hear this too.’

On the other side of the table Rebecca sat upright, eyes sparkling. ‘We’ve got news. We have a new arrival.’

For a moment I was confused, my eyes flicking down automatically to where the table would hide any sign of a pregnancy bump; but Tom caught my eye and laughed. ‘You mean someone’s moved into number 1?’

‘Got it in one!’ Maggie thumped the table, the large rings she wore cracking against the wood.

‘Well, not quite,’ Rebecca corrected her. ‘According to Cynthia, the postman said he’s been delivering mail there.’

Maggie was nodding vigorously, her glossy black bob swinging perfectly back into place. I’d considered asking for the number of her hairdresser before now, but suspected he or she was out of my price range.

‘So whoever’s taken it must be moving in soon,’ she said, swivelling to face me. ‘I bet you’ll be pleased to have someone next door, Lucy.’

I started to reply, but Rebecca cut across me. ‘Cynthia didn’t have any details, apparently.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I just hope whoever it is will make the effort to fit in.’

I half listened as they speculated. Truth be told, I wasn’t much interested in a new neighbour; years of living in London had bred what I considered a healthy lack of interest in the people the other side of a party wall. But clearly Tom, Maggie and Rebecca felt differently. Had it been the same, I wondered, when I’d moved into number 2? Had they sat around discussing whether I was going to ‘fit in’, whether I had anything more in common with them than membership of the village’s select under-40 demographic? And when they’d met me, had I passed the test?

I stopped myself. I was here, wasn’t I? They wouldn’t be talking like this if I hadn’t.

Tom had gone to a cupboard and returned with a dusty bottle with something dark inside. ‘We should toast the incomer,’ he said. ‘Anyone for a tipple?’

Maggie grinned. ‘Is that …?’

He nodded. ‘Oh yes. Aunt Lydia’s sloe gin. Once drunk, never forgotten.’

Rebecca tutted. ‘Really, Tom. It’s eleven in the morning! Besides, I have things to do.’ She got to her feet and smoothed back a strand of blonde hair. ‘There’s a cake sale at Ellie’s nursery tomorrow, so I’ll be in the kitchen all day.’ She gave a martyred sigh. ‘My honey and oat cookies are in demand.’

I caught Tom rolling his eyes and suppressed a smile. Next to me Maggie was reaching for her yoga mat. ‘I’ll come with you, Becs. Much as I love you all, I need to get back to the grindstone.’ She pulled me into a brief hug. ‘But you should stay, Lucy. That sloe gin is quite the experience!’

For a moment I considered leaving with the two of them, checking some job adverts, brushing up my CV … But then Tom was sloshing purple liquid into a glass and pushing it across the table, and I put it to my lips and told myself the day was still young. It went down like gasoline, streaking fire down the back of my throat, and Tom confessed afterwards that he sometimes used it for cleaning his paintbrushes; but it was surprisingly drinkable after the initial shock, and I was two glasses down and swaying gently by the time I made my way back to the cottage.

It wasn’t long after that that the lorry turned up. I’d been on the laptop, battling with Willowcombe’s erratic broadband signal, when I heard the rumble of its engine. I paused, head cocked like a meerkat. I love the village, but there’s no denying it does something to you, living in a place like this. The sound of traffic, the slam of a door, noises that in London I would barely have registered, are significant here, echoing against the silence of the Fosters’ holiday home on one side and number 1 on the other, the fields stretching up beyond the hill behind. Sometimes I like to hear them, the reminders of other lives; but I didn’t like the sound of that engine.

I heard it chug and hiss the way big vehicles do when they come to a stop, and braced myself for what would come next. Satnavs don’t work well in Willowcombe, and once or twice before lorry drivers had called at the cottage to ask for directions. There I’d be, standing in the doorway explaining that I’d only just moved in, while a white guy of a certain age and taste in T-shirts huffed and puffed like it was my fault he couldn’t read a map. Perhaps this time I’d pretend to be out.

I heard a door slam, then voices; but there was no creak of the gate. I ventured into the living room and poked my head around the corner of the curtain, registering even as I did so that it had taken me only three months to turn into the archetypal village snoop. The lorry had stopped outside number 1. I peered closer, squinting at the lettering on the side: Abaddon Removals, Pimlico. So the new neighbours were ex-Londoners too. Maybe we’d have something in common: we could reminisce over functioning mobile phones and the existence of public transport. Still, I wasn’t sure how it would go down in the village. I could just picture Cynthia in the post office muttering about an invasion of townies, how they’d all be making unreasonable demands about courier services and asking Willowcombe Supplies to replace jacket potatoes with quinoa.

I watched for a while, but the men were leaning against the lorry chatting and hadn’t even opened up the back. They must be waiting for the new tenants to arrive with the keys. I wondered if I should go over there when they turned up, introduce myself. That was what Rebecca would have done; she’d arrived on my doorstep the day I’d moved in, complete with a homemade sponge cake in a wicker basket. I thought I’d moved to Stepford.

I twisted my head in the other direction, half expecting to see her outside now, pretending to water her plants or take out rubbish while she kept her own lookout for a glimpse of the newcomer – incomer, that’s what they call us here. But there was no sign of movement outside number 4, and her car was gone. Maybe she’d interrupted her baking for some child-related errand, taking Oscar to football or Ellie to ballet.

The lorry drivers were smoking now, obviously not expecting to be called to action any time soon. I let the curtain fall back into place, trying not to ask myself whether this was really what my life had come to: spying on the new neighbours in the hope of having some gossip to relay to the others, sitting in the pub with Tom, Rebecca and Maggie, recounting the colour of next door’s sofa or whether they preferred brass bedsteads to wooden ones. If Richard could see me now, he’d congratulate himself on a lucky escape.

He’s probably doing that anyway. And why do you even care?

I told myself to get a life and went to the living room to watch Loose Women. And yes, as it happens, I do appreciate the irony in that.

She got me on the back foot from the beginning, but I suppose that was my own fault too.

I’d heard them moving about outside, the rattle as the back of the lorry was opened up. I thought if the new tenants had arrived I could offer them a cup of tea while the removal men did their stuff. I liked the idea of welcoming someone else to the village.

I didn’t want them to think I was nosy. My plan was to take a casual look out of the window, get the lie of the land. I picked up a book (Pride and Prejudice, in case they had exceptionally keen eyesight; I wanted to make the right impression) and took the three steps from one side of the living room window to the other. But it was no good; I’d been too intent on looking absorbed in the book to see anything more than a blur of figures and furniture. I counted to five in my head and tried again, this time pausing at the window, holding the book at chin height, the slightest of turns …

‘Jesus!’

I was looking directly into a pair of grey eyes. The book slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor, pages fluttering. I bent and snatched it up, feeling the blood rush to my face. Blushing is a great look when you’ve got red hair: Welcome to the neighbourhood, you’ve moved next door to a giant beetroot.

The woman outside the window was staring at me. She was about my age, I guessed, late twenties or perhaps a little older, with small, even features and light brown hair cut so that it brushed her shoulders. For a second we stood looking at each other through the glass, and I had a momentary sense of something cold and absent; but then she gave a short laugh and mouthed, ‘Sorry.’ She was one of those people who looked much nicer when they smiled.

I hurried to the door.

‘Hi, hi! You must be my new neighbour! It’s lovely to meet you!’

‘Yes, you too.’ She almost looked as if she meant it. ‘Sorry about …’

‘Oh no, my fault. I mean, I was just, er, having a lazy morning with a book.’

I’d leaned forward as I said it with suitable levels of enthusiasm, hoping to distract her from my root vegetable appearance; but as soon as the words left my mouth I realised my mistake. She pulled back and grimaced as the noxious fumes of Tom’s sloe gin washed over her. Oh, this was getting better and better. Not just any beetroot, but an alcoholic beetroot – as M&S definitely would not say, ever.

But the woman on the doorstep had steeled herself for introductions. She gave me another little smile, pretending she hadn’t noticed. ‘No need to be embarrassed. I don’t blame you for wanting to see who’s moving in next door.’

I peered over her shoulder, searching for a neighbourly response, then realised it looked like I was trying to check out her furniture. She moved slightly to one side, blocking my view. ‘I’m Alice Darley.’

A formal introduction: we’d got off on the wrong foot. I effused away, hoping to repair the damage. ‘Hi, Alice! Good to meet you! I was going to come over and introduce myself once you were settled.’ Her raised eyebrow suggested she didn’t believe a word of it, but I rattled on. ‘I didn’t want to get in the way when you were moving in. It hasn’t been that long since I got here myself, actually! I remember what it was like. Just chaotic!’

‘Yes, it certainly is.’ A pause. She looked like she was waiting for something.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry! I’m Lucy. Lucy Shaw.’ I reached out to shake her hand, the response automatic from too many client meetings. I had a momentary impression of her stiffening, a subtle tension in her shoulders; but then she held out her own hand and clasped mine with sudden warmth.

‘Lucy. So lovely to meet you.’

I stepped aside for her to come in. ‘If you’ve got time for a cuppa?’ And now I sounded like a cockney builder. Owzabout a cuppa Rosie, love? Alice followed me into the kitchen and settled herself at the small table while I bustled around making fresh coffee, hoping she wouldn’t think it was a hangover cure.

She looked about the room as we attempted small talk, taking in the decor (still the pale yellow it had been when I moved in; the lease prohibited redecorating); asking me where I’d got the old-fashioned kitchen scales I’d bought when I was still imagining myself swanning around all Kirstie Allsopp, wearing a gingham apron and making jam; tipping up her mug when she thought I wasn’t looking to see if it had ‘Tesco’ stamped on the bottom (it did, damn it). Her movements were contained, careful, grey eyes scanning the room, missing nothing. And despite being in the middle of moving house, everything about her was neat and fresh: the crisp white T-shirt, the flat silver pumps, not a strand of light brown hair out of place.

‘So, what made you decide to move to Willowcombe?’

She fixed me with a steady gaze. ‘Oh, you know, I just felt I needed a break from London. There were some … relationship issues.’

Join the club. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘No, really, it’s fine. Or it will be in time.’ Her fingers were suddenly restless, pulling at the sleeves of her cardigan. ‘How about you? You said you hadn’t been here long yourself.’

‘I was made redundant.’ Practice kept my tone light. ‘Thought I’d take the chance for a change of scene – get some perspective on things. Everyone kept saying it was a great opportunity for that.’

‘And were they right?’

‘I’m not sure yet. I hope so.’ Her scrutiny was a shade too close for comfort; time to change the subject. ‘I saw this place advertised in the Standard. I suppose they were looking out for the second-home market. I don’t know why I came, really – I’ve never lived anywhere like this. But the photo was so pretty. And of course, it’s great to have some outside space. Though I’m not very green-fingered, I’m afraid. As I’m sure you’ll have noticed.’

Now I admit I was fishing for a compliment there, because I had made an effort with the garden. I might not have known the names of any of the plants, but I’d tried to keep them neat, pulling out the obvious weeds and tying up the climbers when they were getting straggly. I’d gone to a garden centre just outside Tewkesbury and returned triumphant with terracotta pots, compost and red geraniums, a combination of which now sat on the strip of gravel that ran in front of the cottage. The colours didn’t really go with the spires of blue and pink flowers that rose from the borders, but they were bright and cheerful and I loved them.

Clearly my efforts hadn’t impressed Alice, who was nodding patiently.

‘Well, you don’t get a lot of chance to practise until you have a garden yourself. I could give you a hand if you like – my gran was a great gardener. I picked up quite a lot from her over the years.’

I tried not to bristle. ‘No, really, I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble …’

‘No trouble at all. It would be my pleasure.’

‘But you’ll have your own to do …’ I could hear the whiff of desperation in my voice.

Alice put down her mug, adjusting it so that the handle was precisely parallel to the edge of the table. ‘That’s the problem with having most of your garden at the front, isn’t it? Anyone not keeping on top of it brings down the appearance of the whole street.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Don’t worry, Lucy. I’ll have plenty of time for both of us.’

She looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘Goodness, is that the time? I’ve been enjoying our chat so much I completely lost track!’ She rose to her feet. ‘I’d better get back and see how they’re getting on. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll return the favour soon.’

And with that she was gone, a hint of fabric softener lingering in the air behind her.

I worried away at that conversation for the rest of the day. I told myself it was stupid, but I couldn’t help it. Maybe even then I knew on some subconscious level that Alice was someone who deserved to be worried about. Or perhaps I was just paranoid about her comments on my horticultural shortcomings, anxious that it was what the others in the village were thinking too. I told myself it didn’t matter what Alice thought; that she was new to Willowcombe and didn’t know how things were done, didn’t understand it was all cottage roses and jumbled hollyhocks here, not clipped topiary in stainless-steel planters. She’d probably offered to help with the garden as a way of getting to know me. I wouldn’t mention it again and it would soon be forgotten.

But what had Alice thought of me? It didn’t take a lot of guessing: a nosy cow, stinking of gin at two in the afternoon while she tried to snoop on her neighbour’s belongings. And had she noticed my evasiveness when she’d asked me why I’d moved to Willowcombe? Had she spotted the way I’d been unable to meet her eyes as I trotted out my half-truths?

For I hadn’t, of course, told her the real reason I’d left what friends I still had in London to move to this little cottage in the middle of nowhere. The redundancy had been merely a symptom of the disease, the rot in the apple, the cancer in my bones that had been my time – I refused any longer to dignify it by calling it a ‘relationship’ – with Richard. An affair with a married man, my boss no less; I wasn’t about to confide that to some woman I’d just met.

Of course, I know now there was no need.

Alice already knew.

Chapter 2

Maggie rocks back onto her heels, trying to take the pressure off the balls of her feet. She should have worn flats, but she hadn’t expected to be here long. ‘Just half an hour while the first rush is on.’ That was what Rebecca had said, and like a fool she’d let herself be talked into it. And the toy stall, of all things: couldn’t Becs at least have got them on tea and cakes? She checks her watch. With any luck, Tom will be here soon. He’s promised to put in an appearance and he’s bound to be up for sloping off to the pub for an early lunch.

‘How much is this?’ A grubby-fingered boy with golden ringlets is holding up a toy car.

‘Er – ten pence.’ She hasn’t got a clue, but it’s only small.

The boy holds out a palmful of change. ‘Have I got enough?’

Maggie smiles in spite of herself. Kids are cute sometimes, there’s no denying it. She bends down and selects one of the coins. ‘Here. This is a ten-pence piece. Do you see that number ten there on the bottom?’

He looks uncertain. Maybe he’s too young to have learnt his numbers.

‘Yes, you’ve got enough.’ She straightens up. ‘I’ll take this coin, and the car’s yours.’

He grins at her and runs off to show his loot to a statuesque brunette in designer jeans. So he’s Claudia’s little boy – Maggie knew he looked familiar. No doubt she’ll be tripping over that car the next time she’s there for a consultation on the design scheme for the new studio. For someone wanting ‘modern industrial’, Claudia seems remarkably impervious to the bits of primary-coloured plastic scattered throughout her home. That’s what having children does to you, Maggie supposes; she’s glad she’s never had to find out.

‘Has the Paw Patrol car gone then? I thought it wouldn’t last long.’ Rebecca leans past her to drop some coins in the cash box.

‘Poor Patrol?’

‘That blue car that was at the front. The one with the dogs in the window.’ Rebecca is smiling brightly, but Maggie can see the suspicion beginning to dawn.

‘Oh yes, that one.’

‘Oscar used to love Paw Patrol. He’s too old for it now, of course.’

‘Hmm …’ Maybe she should have checked the price.

‘You did check the price, didn’t you, Maggie?’

‘Of course I did!’ She’ll take a look later and make up the difference. Rebecca will have everything inventoried down to the last wax crayon. You’d never guess this was a church bring-and-buy, not the Harrods sale. And where the hell is Tom?

She scans the crowd. She knows most of the people here – has even, as with Claudia, done work for one or two of them, though most of her commissions come from outside the village. Willowcombe has its share of incomers looking to remodel their quaint Cotswold cottages as far as the planners will allow, but the majority of villagers are still Combers born and bred, as likely to hire an interior designer as to take up base jumping or vote Labour.

There, though, is a face she doesn’t know: a woman on the edge of the crowd near the tea stand, small and slim with light brown hair in a neat shoulder-length bob. She’s talking to Cynthia Sullivan from the post office – or rather, Cynthia is talking at her. The woman is only half listening, Maggie can see that from here, looking over Cynthia’s shoulder as though searching for someone. Maybe she’s hoping to be rescued.

A flash of red hair over by the door distracts her attention. At last – hope for her own escape. She waves madly. ‘Lucy! Over here!’

Lucy weaves through the crowd, flushed in the heat, hair escaping from a straggly ponytail. She arrives slightly out of breath, clutching a pile of books to her chest as Maggie pulls her into a one-armed hug. ‘Hey, both. Who knew the church jumble sale was such a crowd-pleaser? There’s a proper scrum at the bookstall.’

‘Oh yes, we always do well.’ Rebecca has the air of the seasoned organiser. She nods at the books in Lucy’s arms. ‘Pleased to see you contributing to the church funds. If you find a first edition in there, mind, we’ll expect an appropriate donation.’

Maggie laughs. ‘I’m impressed you managed to find anything that wasn’t a Mills & Boon. So what have you got planned for the rest of the morning?’ Because if the answer is anything less than root canal surgery, you’re about to take over from me …

‘Well, I was supposed to be meeting Tom for lunch …’

Maggie surveys the room again. ‘Yes, he told me he’d be here too.’ And there’s still no sign of him. Typical. Still, if he hasn’t arrived for Lucy’s lunch date …

Her train of thought is halted by the sight of the woman with the light brown hair. She’s stopped pretending to listen to Cynthia and is staring at them. Maggie blinks and looks again. If she didn’t know she’d never set eyes on her before, she’d think she’d done something to upset her: the expression on the woman’s face is pure dislike.

She nudges Rebecca and lowers her voice. ‘Don’t look now, but do either of you know the woman with Cynthia? Over there, by the tea stand.’

Lucy swings around, craning her neck. So much for subtlety.

‘Tourist, maybe.’ Rebecca is dismissive, but Lucy has raised her hand in acknowledgement. Maggie sees the woman wave back, a friendly smile lighting up her face and making her almost pretty. She must have been imagining things.

‘That’s our new neighbour, Alice something. You were right about number 1. She’s just moved in.’

‘Lucy, you should have said!’ Lucy is about to protest, but Maggie rolls her eyes at her and shakes her head. There’s no point trying to argue when Rebecca is about to go into hostess mode. ‘So they’re in? I saw the car, of course …’ She turns to Lucy with a questioning look. ‘Silver Renault, yes? Fairly new? But I just assumed … She’ll think I’m so rude for not going round. Call her over, for goodness’ sake!’

But Alice has already detached herself from Cynthia, and a moment later she’s joined the group.

‘Hi, Alice. Lovely to see you.’ Lucy’s tone doesn’t quite match the sentiment, Maggie thinks. Surely they can’t have fallen out already?

‘I’m Rebecca.’ Rebecca almost pushes Lucy to the side as she stretches out a perfectly manicured hand. ‘I live at number 4, just a few doors along from you. And this is Maggie.’

Alice’s handshake is surprisingly firm, and Maggie winces as the edge of her ring is pressed into her finger; but Alice is still smiling and doesn’t seem to notice.

‘So how are you settling in?’

‘Good, thanks. I’ve almost finished unpacking.’

‘Goodness, that was quick!’ Rebecca shoots Lucy a look of reproach. ‘So it’s just you, then?’

‘Just me.’ Is there a tightness to her jaw as she says it? Perhaps it’s man trouble. Maggie glances at Alice’s hands, but there’s no sign of a ring and no mark where one might recently have been. Maybe it was the terseness of the reply, but a pause has formed and it’s on the verge of becoming uncomfortable. Maggie racks her brains for something to say, but it’s Lucy who comes to the rescue.

‘I don’t know how you managed to sort everything out so quickly.’ She smiles at Alice. ‘I know it took me weeks. It was the books that were the problem – I took loads to the charity shop but still ended up moving six boxes—’

Rebecca interrupts her. ‘You should get an e-reader.’

‘Becs, no!’ Maggie and Lucy are almost in harmony.

‘It’s just not the same …’

‘The feel of the pages …’

‘The smell of the paper …’

Rebecca looks put out. ‘Well, I love mine. And when you have children, you don’t have the luxury of being sentimental about your stuff. Believe me, you need every bit of storage you can lay your hands on.’

‘Excuse me!’ A voice pipes up from hip level. ‘How much are the Top Trumps?’

Rebecca turns to their latest customer and Maggie sighs. ‘I’d better get back to the excitement, I suppose. Unless either of you ladies fancies taking over?’

‘Sorry, Maggie. Since Tom’s stood me up, I’ve got a hot date with Agatha Christie.’ Lucy nods at the copy of Sparkling Cyanide topping her pile of books. ‘Besides, I need to check for those first editions.’

Maggie is about to try to convince Alice what a great opportunity it will be to get to know the villagers, but something in her expression tells her it’s not worth bothering.

Sure enough, Alice says, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got things to do this afternoon. But it’s been lovely to meet you all …’ The rest of the sentence trails away, and for a moment she looks lost. Maggie feels sorry for her; it must be hard, coming alone to a new place, especially if there’s some kind of relationship break-up behind the move. She reaches out and places a hand on Alice’s arm.

‘Why don’t we all meet up tonight?’ She turns to ask Rebecca if she’s free, but she’s deep in negotiation with a small girl. ‘I’ll check with Becs. And I’ll get hold of Tom, too. The Red Cow, seven o’clock? We can get something to eat and welcome you to the village properly.’

‘I’d love to.’ Alice shrugs and Maggie’s hand falls away. Then she smiles and Maggie thinks again how much it suits her. ‘I feel I’m already amongst friends.’

* * *

The phone is ringing as Tom opens the kitchen door and receives Ferdy’s rapturous welcome. He bends to scratch the terrier’s head, then strides into the hallway to snatch the handset from its cradle.

‘No rest for the wicked,’ he mutters, then, ‘Hello?’

Maggie. Oh Christ, he’d forgotten all about that bloody bring-and-buy. And he’d been supposed to be meeting Lucy for lunch too, though he knows she won’t mind. She doesn’t get upset about that kind of thing; it’s one of the reasons they get on so well.

Maggie hasn’t paused for breath – something about going to the pub to meet some incomer.

‘So I said tonight, but Rebecca’s doing an overnighter for a conference – women with start-up businesses or something. Can you do Tuesday instead?’

Tom mentally checks his diary, but Tuesdays are usually quiet. ‘Should be fine …’

‘I’ve heard that before, Thomas. So what happened to you earlier? I was relying on you to rescue me from the ankle-biters.’

‘The what?’

‘Becs had me on the bloody toy stall.’

He laughs. ‘Your idea of heaven. Rebecca knows you so well.’

‘Hmm.’

There’s a catch in Maggie’s voice and all at once he remembers: it’s July, nearly the anniversary. Christ, of all the times to be surrounded by kids.

His voice when he speaks again is soft. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, fine, you know me.’ The forced jollity doesn’t fool him and she knows it. She sighs. ‘It’s not the children …’

‘I know.’

‘I was fine until I got home. I walked through the door and it just hit me …’ A pause. ‘I don’t know why I still get like this.’

‘Is David there?’ He knows he won’t be; Maggie wouldn’t be having this conversation if there were any chance of her husband overhearing.

‘He’s in London. They’re such slave-drivers at that surgery; the weekends are the only time he gets for his research.’ She sounds like she’s apologising for him, and Tom murmurs something non-committal. ‘Anyway, I’ll be OK. I’ve booked myself in at Armitage Hall for a couple of days.’

The spa; it’s where she always goes. ‘You know I’ll be here if …’

‘I know. Thanks, Tom. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ She laughs, but he knows she means it. ‘So I’ll see you on Tuesday, then.’

After Maggie’s hung up, he heads for the studio; the day is still fine, and if he leaves now, he can get in a couple of hours’ painting the irises by the river before the light fades. They’re a rich shade of indigo and the prints will sell well – Tom knows his buyers appreciate a bit of colour to go with their cushion covers and cashmere throws.

His thoughts drift back to Maggie. He wonders if being relieved she’s been distracted from asking him about his no-show makes him a bad friend. He meant what he said, though: he’ll be there if she needs him. Experience suggests she will. She can’t carry a secret, that’s Maggie’s problem. She has an urge to openness.

Tom’s only glad he doesn’t suffer the same affliction.

* * *

Three doors down, the woman who calls herself Alice Darley sits at the brand-new dining table covered with a fresh white cloth. In its centre stands a crystal vase filled with roses and sweet peas, the only object brought with her from her grandmother’s flat. On the wall in front of her, the one that divides 1 Mellingford Cottages from number 2, a print of a field dotted with red flowers hangs in a gilt frame. The writing underneath it reads: Poppy Field near Giverny, Claude Monet.

There’s something about the scene that’s wrong, a discordant note. Perhaps it’s only that the woman has just moved in and the room hasn’t yet taken on her personality. Perhaps it’s that there’s no personality for it to take.

She sits upright, her shoulders tense, only her neck bowed as she looks at something on the table in front of her. A notepad. It’s open at what appears to be a list, until you look more closely and see that the words seem to bear no relation to each other. It reads:

Her

Rebecca (4 MC)

Maggie

Tom (??)

books (Christie)

e-reader

Pub, (?) Cow

She is sitting very still, her eyes fixed on the page. Her lips move but make no sound as she reads what she has written. Slowly her left hand moves towards the notepad. A pen is clutched between her fingers and it scratches as it moves across the paper, round and round, circling the first four lines, bringing the words together inside a blue boundary: Her, Rebecca, Maggie, Tom. The pen moves quicker, the blue circle growing fat as the lines multiply. Round and round it goes, and then suddenly it stops. Her hand moves up the notepad and now the pen is moving left to right, short lines, the nib pressed hard into the surface of the paper.

There’s a salty taste in her mouth. She puts down the pen, and when she touches her fingers to her lips, they come away red. She rises and leaves the room through a door at the back, the one that leads to the kitchen.

The notepad sits there, its edges aligned precisely with those of the table. The list looks messy now, the circles like a bird’s nest around the first four entries. One of the words has been underlined again and again, and if you ran your finger beneath it you’d feel the sharp indentation where the surface has been almost worn away.

Her.