The Family Next Door(13)

Ange sat up. Through the window she could see a few lights on in the street. Fran and Essie were probably having sex with their husbands, she decided. Essie’s muscleman of a husband probably had a Cirque du Soleil line-up of moves, and Fran and Nigel were so straightlaced you could just tell they liked it dirty. (They were coy, of course, when Ange asked them about their sex lives, but that only proved it. It was the quiet ones you had to watch.)

Isabelle’s light was on too. What was she up to? It irked Ange that she couldn’t even hazard a guess. When she’d showed her around Mrs. Harrap’s old place, Isabelle had mentioned an ex-partner, which had been telling. If it had been a man, surely she would have said ex-boyfriend or ex-husband? Add to that the fact that she was unmarried without kids at forty and, well, it made sense. Not that it mattered—Ange couldn’t have cared less if she was gay, straight, bisexual, or any of the other preferences encompassed by LGBTQIA—but she liked to have a handle on these sorts of things. It would be embarrassing to ask her if she had a boyfriend for example, when she was interested in women. And if she did happen to like men, well, Ange knew some single men at the office who were great catches.

At some point Ange had designated herself the architect of Pleasant Court, determined to make it the most desirable street in Bayside, if not the whole of Melbourne. She’d done a good job too. They had families with young children. One grandmother. An older couple, one an ex-doctor. Her own family, of course—a happy family of four living in the prettiest bungalow that sat on a slight hill so every other house in the street seemed to pay homage to it. If you turned right at the end of the street, you’d be at the beach within two minutes, and if you turned left, Sandringham Village, a miniature hub of cafes, shops and AMOS hair, the only hairdresser in Melbourne that Ange trusted with her platinum blond tresses. Yes, Pleasant Court lived up to its name. Pleasant Court hosted Christmas parties and street parties. Kids rode their bikes and skateboards in the street. Soon they’d have a neighborhood watch. There was no opportunity for scandal anywhere. Whenever Ange posted photos of the street on Instagram she tagged it #pleasantcourt #whereeverythingispleasant. But Isabelle Heatherington was an unknown quantity. It was irritating.

Ange yawned. She listened for Lucas—the telltale clang of a pot or pan being washed, or the dishwasher being stacked. Instead she heard something else. He was on the phone, she realized. His voice hushed and urgent.

Ange rolled over and switched off the light. Sleep was already calling her, a siren, and all at once she was happy to answer its call. Things were far better watched from a distance, Ange thought as she drifted off. When you watched too closely, you saw things you didn’t want to see.





8


“Look at meeeeee!”

Ange was watching Ollie skateboard—in body, if not in mind. She leaned against her low brick fence, which was still warm from the day’s heat. It had been yet another scorcher. The air was sticky and salty-sweet, a mixture of ocean and ice cream, and the scream of cicadas pierced the early-evening air. A procession of children, families, and dog walkers trailed past the opening of the street, following the peach sunset down to the beach. Usually on nights like this, she and Lucas and the boys would also head down to the beach and they’d all swim until dark, but Ollie had been pestering her to watch him do tricks on his skateboard and she’d run out of excuses.

“Watch this!” he cried, doing some sort of midair spin. He was far too focused on whether she was looking and not nearly focused enough on landing safely, in her humble opinion.

“Fantastic!” Ange concealed a yawn. “Tremendous!”

“Did you see that?” Ollie cried. “I nailed it.”

“You sure did. You’re amazing.”

Ange resisted the urge to check her iPhone, which was in the pocket of her sundress. It was tough going. Sometimes Ange wondered if she had a phone addiction. With each minute that passed without checking her phone, the more uncomfortable she became. Isn’t that what happened to junkies when deprived from their drug? And then, when she finally got to check it—total euphoria. Seventeen new emails. Five new Instagram comments. Twenty-seven new Facebook likes?

Nirvana. She’d got her hit.

Occasionally at work Ange even ate lunch in her car so she could scroll through her phone in peace without fear of anyone interrupting her. She always found an hour alone with her phone to be as soothing as a cold glass of pinot gris. But not now, she reminded herself with a little shake. Now she was watching Ollie try to kill himself on a small board with wheels. It was what any good mother would do.

“Mind if I join you, Ange?’

It was Isabelle. She was headed over, by the looks of it, to chat. Not that there was a problem with that. It was just that, in general, they tended to do a lot more waving than chatting in Pleasant Court.

“I had to get some fresh air,” Isabelle said. She wore a white tank and a long black skirt covered in red flowers and her feet were bare. Her chest and neck were shiny with sweat. “My house is like an oven. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep!”

“Oh. Well … we only get a handful of these heatwaves each summer in Melbourne,” Ange said. “It’s not like Sydney.”

“Thank heavens for that. I’m really looking forward to four seasons.”

“You’ll get them,” Ange said. “Probably in the one day.”