The Therapist(2)

A few moments later, the van drives off and I look back to where Eve and the other woman are standing. I wish I felt confident enough to go and introduce myself. Since we moved in ten days ago, I’ve only met one person, Maria, who lives at number 9. She’d been loading three little boys with the same thick dark hair as their mother, plus two beautiful golden Labradors, into a red people carrier. She’d called ‘hello’ to me over her shoulder, and we’d had a quick chat. It was Maria who explained that most people were still away on holiday, and would only be back at the end of the month, in time for school starting again in September.

‘Have you met them yet?’ Eve’s voice pulls my attention back, and from the way her head has turned towards the house, I realise she’s talking about me and Leo.

‘No.’

‘Shall we do it now?’

‘No!’ The force of the other woman’s reply has me stepping back, away from the window. ‘Why would I ever want to meet them?’

‘Don’t be silly, Tamsin,’ Eve soothes. ‘You’re not going to be able to ignore them, not somewhere like this.’

I don’t wait to hear the rest of what Tamsin says. Instead, my heart pounding, I escape into the shadows of the house. I wish Leo was here; he left for Birmingham this morning and won’t be back until Thursday. I feel bad, because a part of me was relieved to see him go. The last two weeks have been a bit intense, maybe because we haven’t got used to being with each other yet. Since we met, just over eighteen months ago, we’ve had a long-distance relationship, only seeing each other at weekends. It was only on our first morning here, when he drank straight from the orange juice carton and put it back in the fridge, that I realised I don’t know all his quirks and habits. I know that he loves good champagne, that he sleeps on the left side of the bed, that he loves to rest his chin on the top of my head, that he travels around the United Kingdom so much that he hates going anywhere and doesn’t even have a passport. But there’s still so much to discover about him and now, as I sit at the top of the stairs in our new home, the soft grey carpet warm under my bare feet, I already miss him.

I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on Eve’s conversation, I know, but it doesn’t take the sting out of Tamsin’s words. What if we never make friends here? It was exactly what I was worried about when Leo first asked me to move to London with him. He promised me it would be fine – except that when I suggested having a housewarming for everyone on the street so that we could meet them, he wasn’t keen.

‘Let’s get to know everyone before we start inviting people over,’ he’d said.

But what if we don’t get to know them? What if we’re meant to make the first move?

I take my phone from my pocket and open the WhatsApp icon. During our chat, Maria had offered to add me and Leo to a group for The Circle, so I’d given her both our numbers. We haven’t messaged anyone yet and Leo had wanted to delete himself when notifications kept coming in about missed parcels and the upkeep of the small play area in the square.

‘Leo, you can’t!’ I said, mortified that people would think he was rude. So he’d agreed to mute the group instead.

I glance at the screen. Today, there are already twelve new notifications and when I read them, my heart sinks a little more. They are full of messages from the other residents welcoming each other back from holiday, saying they can’t wait to catch up, see each other, start yoga, cycling, tennis again.

I think for a moment, then start typing.





* * *



Hi everyone, we’re your new neighbours at number 6. We’d love to meet you for drinks on Saturday, from 7 p.m. Please let us know if you can come. Alice and Leo.



* * *





And before I can change my mind, I press send.





Two


‘There you are,’ Leo says, coming into the kitchen, a stack of dirty glasses in his hands. He puts them down next to the sink, pushes his hair from his forehead. ‘Are you coming out to the garden? You’re missing all the chat.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m currently being warned about our bins being visible on the drive on collection day, not tucked away at the side of the house.’

‘Wow,’ I say, smiling. ‘I wouldn’t even know what to say to that.’ I open a bag of crisps, tip the contents into a bowl, rescue a couple that spill over the edge. The scent of truffle, artificial, catches my nose. ‘I’ll join you as soon as everyone has arrived, I promise. Someone needs to be here to answer the door.’

He eyes the bowl doubtfully. ‘What flavour are those?’

‘Try one.’

He takes one, crunches it in his mouth and wrinkles his nose.

‘Dead bodies,’ he says. ‘It tastes of dead bodies.’

I laugh, because I get what he means. They’re pungent, earthy. He takes another bite and grimaces exaggeratedly, and I’m glad he’s finally relaxed. He’d been annoyed when I told him I’d gone ahead and invited people for drinks. I’d sprung it on him on Thursday evening, when he came back from his three days in Birmingham. It had been another scorching day and he’d looked hot, and cross.

‘I thought we’d agreed to wait,’ he’d said, tugging at the neck of his shirt.