The Family Next Door(40)

“I don’t know, Barb. She seems to like Isabelle a lot. She’s been happier since they became friends. And it’s nice for her to have someone around … other than you and me, I mean. For company.”

Barbara pursed her lips. Like Essie, Barbara had been an only child so she knew about loneliness. But there were upsides to having your parents as your closest confidants. As a child, Barbara had never been relegated to the kids’ table or sent off to play in the garden—she’d always had her parents’ undivided attention. From an early age she’d gone to galleries and bookstores and plays with them. Every evening she’d regaled her parents with tales about her day, which they either found enthralling or at least did an excellent job of pretending they did. She never felt like the child, more like the three of them were part of a team. It made it all the more shocking when, just shy of twenty, Barbara lost them both in quick succession, to cancer, then a heart attack. So yes, she understood what it was like to want a friend. She also understood that the wrong company was worse than being alone.

“Look, you were the one who said you were worried about her the other day and I said I’d keep an eye on her. Now that I’m telling you that something doesn’t seem right, don’t you think you should do me the courtesy of listening?”

Ben was quiet for several seconds. “You’re right. All right. I’ll talk to Essie.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Hey,” Ben said, in a softer voice. “It’s okay. We’ll take care of her. You and me. Essie will be fine, Barb.”

Barbara wasn’t so sure. But he didn’t call her Barbie, at least, and that was something.





26


ANGE


Could you stalk your own husband? Ange wondered, as she sat in her car in the parking lot near Lucas’s studio. She’d been sitting there for nearly half an hour. In the first ten minutes Ange had just about convinced herself she was being ridiculous. After all, Lucas going to the studio on a weekend wasn’t proof of anything, was it? Maybe he had some pictures to develop, or some maintenance to do? And it would be just like him to get it done over the weekend. But then Ange had seen her.

Erin.

She’d pulled into the parking lot, and parked a few spaces down from Lucas’s car. Then she walked directly to his studio, clutching the hand of her little girl. That was how she knew for sure it was Erin—the child. Charlie’s face was burned into Ange’s mind.

Well, so what? Ange thought. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Perhaps when Erin had seen Lucas at the hospital it had reminded her to call up and book another photo shoot and Lucas had opened up a weekend appointment to squeeze her in. The last photo was probably when Charlie was born, and now she must be—how old?—two or three maybe? Time for an update. That was what Ange herself would say when she ran into one of Lucas’s clients. She’d eyeball the children and say, “Time for an update.”

So that was all it was. An update.

Ange was losing it, obviously.

She thought of her behavior earlier at Essie’s. Storming out of there and slamming the door. Why had she done that? She’d call over later with flowers, she decided. There was no excuse for being so rude. There was no excuse for what Fran had done either, but that wasn’t for her to judge.

She didn’t have enough to do, clearly. Ange thought of her clients who fussed over every little detail of the properties she showed them. (“I couldn’t possibly keep these bathroom cabinet handles,” they’d say. “They are a different silver from the ones in the kitchen!”) They didn’t have enough to do, those people.

Tomorrow she’d spend the day cold-calling for new listings. She’d run herself ragged. A busy brain was a happy brain. Who had said that? Someone. Perhaps she’d call another neighborhood watch meeting too? Essie and her mum hadn’t attended the first one, and it would be good to see how the surveillance cameras were working out.

She pulled her diary out of her purse—her trusty old-fashioned paper diary that she wouldn’t replace even if Apple came up with a version that floated in front of your eyes and made entries using data directly from your brain—and scribbled on today’s date. Set up neighborhood watch meeting. There. She snapped it shut again, feeling better already. On the cover of her diary was a picture of Will and Ollie aged three and four months, respectively. Will was kneeling on a blanket holding Ollie around his belly—Will beaming, Ollie screaming. Ange couldn’t help but smile. Ollie had spent the best part of the first six months of his life screaming, something Ange blamed on the fact that he was always hungry. It was because he was born so small, Lucas was fond of saying. He had to catch up to his brother’s birth weight. But the truth was, he wasn’t that small. Not if you took into account that he was born three weeks early.

Ange thought about that night that she’d told Lucas she was pregnant. He’d been about to tell her he wanted a divorce, she knew it.

“I’m pregnant, Lucas,” she said, before he could say it.

“What?” he’d exclaimed.

“You heard me.”

He blinked slowly, as if the idea of his wife being pregnant—his wife—was the absurd part of this conversation, instead of the fact he wanted a divorce. He rose to his feet and started to pace, trying to make sense of it all.