I hurry around my newly fitted kitchen with its bespoke ash cupboards, a carbon copy of the original layout. It wasn’t easy to keep the feel of the old house once we opened up the ground floor, but I was determined to retain as much character as possible. The only stylistic change I made was swapping the rotten, warped timber worktop for highly polished black granite that sparkles when it catches the light. I take two glasses from the cupboard next to the sink and pour a glass of Chardonnay for Mrs Stranger and a gin and tonic for Mr Stranger. I reach for a third glass, fill it with tap water and fish around in my trouser pocket for a couple of paracetamol. I hope the medication kicks in soon and manages the migraine I’ve felt coming on all day. I was so enthusiastic when I started planning today but I had no idea that in practice it would be quite so stressful.
I glance out the window again. The sky is clear and blue but the leaves on the tall trees that separate our cottage from the farmland next to us rustle gently and I suspect a sudden wind has picked up. I grab Amelia’s yellow cardigan from the shelf and tuck it under my arm. Taking the wine in one hand and the gin in the other, I make my way out of the open double doors into our garden.
‘She’s back with the good stuff,’ Paul jokes breezily as he catches me out of the corner of his eye.
‘Chardonnay, was it, Helen?’ he asks, taking the glass of white wine from me and passing it to our neighbour.
‘I hope it’s cold enough,’ I say, ‘I forgot to put the wine in the fridge.’
‘I’m sure it’s lovely,’ Helen smiles, pressing the glass to her lips.
‘And a G&T, Larry, right?’ Paul offers her husband the second glass.
‘Won’t you have one yourself?’ Larry asks.
‘Paul doesn’t drink,’ I say, and it comes out more snappy than I mean it to.
‘Really?’ Helen giggles, amused by the idea of a pioneer.
‘Alcohol doesn’t agree with me when I’m training,’ Paul explains. ‘It makes me sluggish.’
‘Well, I must say, I admire your dedication, Paul,’ Larry says. ‘Wouldn’t be for me, but to each their own, eh?’
‘He doesn’t drink coffee either,’ I add, although I’m not sure why. I think I’m nervous.
‘Wow,’ Helen says, between sips of wine. ‘My God, Paul. You’re practically a saint. Susan, where did you get him, and are there any more like him?’
We all laugh. But I don’t miss Paul’s narrow eyes as he glares at Helen as if she is something unpleasant that he has scraped off the bottom of his shoe.
‘I love what you’ve done with the place, Susan,’ Larry says. ‘This place was an absolute shambles before you got your hands on it. Helen nearly drove me round the bend, constantly bangin’ on about how she’d love to give it a lick of paint. She loves a good fixer-upper.’
‘Well, I married you, didn’t I?’ Helen laughs.
Paul and I glance at each other, equally uncomfortable by Larry and Helen’s digs at one another. But we laugh too and brush it off as if our neighbours are hilarious.
‘Yes. It was certainly in need of some TLC,’ I say, running my eyes along the cream exterior of my cottage with its newly fitted windows. ‘It was hard work, I can’t lie, but I’m so pleased with the way it turned out.’
‘I must admit, I had no idea the renovation was going to be quite so extensive,’ Paul says, pressing the palm of his hand gently against the small of my back. ‘Susan kept talking about light and space and opening the place up. We had workmen in the house for weeks on end.’
‘But it was all worth it, wasn’t it?’ Helen asks, looking around, noticeably envious.
‘It was expensive. That’s what it was,’ Paul says, and I know he’s still pissed off that I went over budget. ‘But anything for my Susan.’ He dots a gentle kiss on the top of my head.
‘I wish Larry would let me redecorate,’ Helen says. ‘I’ve been staring at the same bloody yellow kitchen for the past twenty-odd years.’
‘What’s wrong with yellow?’ Larry says between large mouthfuls of gin. ‘I like yellow.’
‘I like lellow too,’ Amelia says, appearing at my side.
‘Well, hello there,’ Helen says, bending down to Amelia’s level.
Amelia takes a step back. I reach for her hand and she curls her small, sticky fingers around my palm.
‘This must be your little girl,’ Helen says, beaming.
‘This is Amelia,’ I smile proudly. ‘Say hello, sweetheart.’
‘Hello,’ Amelia echoes, sidestepping so half her body is hidden behind my leg.
‘She is just adorable, Susan,’ Helen says. ‘We have three boys. The youngest started college this year. It’s just me and Larry at home on our own now.’
Helen doesn’t look old enough to have grown-up children. I knew she was older than me, but I didn’t think by much. But I’ve always been a terrible judge of age. I guess she must be closer to fifty than early forties as I’d thought.
‘Amelia is almost three,’ I say, crouching and wobbling on my unforgiving high heels as I attempt to guide her arms into her cardigan.
She wriggles and twists as I try to do up the delicate buttons. ‘Can we feed the ducks now?’ she asks.
‘Not today.’ I shake my head.
‘But they’re hungry.’ Her blue eyes cloud over with disappointment.
‘Amelia,’ I say sternly. ‘I said not today, okay?’
Her bottom lip drops and I know she’s about to cry. ‘We’ll feed them tomorrow, I promise.’
Her frown turns into a bright smile once more and she nods her head enthusiastically.
‘Okay, sweetheart,’ I smile as my fingers fasten the last button on her cardigan. ‘Do you want to play some more?’
Amelia looks up at me, her beautiful eyes sparkling as she nods and then runs off to join a group of slightly older neighbourhood children laughing and playing at the end of the garden.
‘She’s as pretty as a picture,’ Helen smiles, sipping her wine casually. ‘Enjoy every moment of her, before you know it she’ll be old enough to answer back and will want to borrow the car.’
I exaggerate a frown. ‘Something to look forward to,’ I joke.
‘Seriously though,’ Helen says, ‘how are you doing? I remember the early days at home alone with the boys when Larry was working. I thought I’d lose my mind with loneliness. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. But sometimes we all need grown-up talk, don’t we? It can’t be easy moving into a new area with a toddler and not knowing a soul. I only live up the road, if you fancy popping in for a coffee anytime. I’d be glad of the company, really.’
‘Amelia and I try to get out for a walk every day,’ I say.
‘Oh yes,’ Helen smiles, ‘I’ve seen you. Down by the lake, feeding ducks.’
I nod. ‘Amelia is mad about the ducks. We feed them most days.’
‘I had no idea we were neighbours,’ Helen says. ‘I should have introduced myself. You must think I’m awful.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, ‘you weren’t to know. And it’s lovely getting to know each other now.’
‘Well, you must let me make it up to you. And Amelia too, of course. You should call in after your walk. How does Monday sound? I’ll bake some scones or something. We can get to know each other better.’
‘Ah thank you, Helen,’ I say. ‘But Amelia usually goes for a nap after our walk. My only chance to get any work done is while she’s sleeping. It’s a long walk there and back, and it tires her out for a good couple of hours.’
‘Oh, you work from home,’ Helen says, thankfully unoffended by my decline of her kind offer. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a counsellor. Bereavement mostly.’
‘Oh wow. How interesting,’ Helen says. ‘Like a doctor?’
‘Not quite,’ I blush. ‘More like a good listener.’
‘We’d make a good team, us two,’ Helen says, pointing to me and then tapping her finger against her chest. ‘Larry says I never know when to shut up. But it�
��s only because I have to repeat myself no end. That man doesn’t listen to a word I say.’
‘Mmm,’ I smile, wide-eyed, and shift my weight from one foot to the other. I try to catch Paul’s eye, hoping he’ll join our conversation. Unsurprisingly, he and Larry are chatting like a pair of old friends. No doubt bonding over sport or cars, Paul’s favourites. He’s a dab hand at making people feel comfortable. Larry is so content he is blissfully unaware that his wife has just belittled him for a second time in as many minutes, in front of a complete stranger. I wonder how often Helen does that. They’re such an odd couple, I decide, and I think it might be harder to make friends around here than I thought.
‘Have you been in the counselling business long?’ Helen asks.
‘I worked full-time when we lived in Dublin.’ I pause, relieved the conversation is moving in a more comfortable direction. ‘It’s been a big change moving here and giving up a permanent position. But I’m enjoying the freedom. I only have a couple of clients at the moment, but I’ve contacted local charities offering to volunteer an hour or two here and there, mostly at the weekends, when Paul can watch Amelia. It’s slow progress getting word out about my services, but I’m embracing the challenge.’
‘And do your clients come to the house?’ Helen probes.
‘Yes. For now,’ I say, feeling somewhat unprofessional. ‘But I’m hoping to take an office in the city when business picks up.’
‘Larry, do you hear this?’ Helen nudges her elbow into her husband’s ribs. ‘Susan is a counsellor.’
Larry turns his head towards me with an awkward smile.
‘She talks to people who have lost someone,’ Helen explains. ‘It’s her job. And you thought she was a photographer.’
‘Really? A photographer.’ I tilt my head to one side, intrigued. ‘What gave you that impression, Larry?’
My eyes are on Larry’s but it’s Helen who answers, unsurprisingly. ‘He noticed the lovely photographs hanging in the hall. The lightning strikes. He thought they didn’t fit well with the rest of the house, so he assumed you’d snapped the shots yourself. I told him to mind his own business. What does a farmer know about interior design, right?’
Larry’s puckered brow tells me Helen is making him uncomfortable. Him and me both, but most likely for very different reasons. Larry Mullin may look like a simple farmer, but I suspect there is nothing simple about this man.
‘I’m not artistic at all, unfortunately,’ I say, my eyes sweeping over Larry. ‘I didn’t take those photographs.’
‘Well, they’re nice pictures,’ Helen says, ‘wherever you got them.’
‘Thank you. I like them,’ I say.
‘Ah c’mon, Susan. You more than like them. Be honest,’ Paul says. ‘She adores those bloody things. I don’t see the appeal, personally, but she has better taste than me, so I take her word for it that they’re fantastic.’
‘I think the photographer was very talented to snap the lightning at the exact moment of the strike. It gives me chills,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ Helen nods. ‘Can you imagine how difficult it must be to click right at the exact moment? Sure, you only have a split second to get it right.’
‘Exactly,’ I smile. Helen has finally said something to help me like her.
‘Women,’ Larry snorts, trying to catch Paul’s eye. ‘Full of romantic notions, aren’t they? Lightning is lethal. Anyone who sees anything other than Mother Nature’s temper needs their head examined, that’s what I say.’
‘Jesus, Larry. You’re a brave man,’ Paul smirks. ‘Susan will have your guts for garters talking like that. She loves those photos. Has for years. She found these old prints in a drawer in my apartment when we first started going out. I’d forgotten I had them, to be honest. She became obsessed with them. So I had them framed for her the following Christmas as a surprise. They’ve become her pride and joy over the years.’
‘So, you don’t see the photographer’s talent, Larry?’ I ask, trying hard to hide my offence, but my cheeks feel hot and I’m guessing my frustration is showing.
‘Clickin’ an aul button on a camera?’ Larry rolls his eyes. ‘Talent me arse.’
‘We’ll have to agree to disagree,’ I grimace.
‘Well, I agree with Susan.’ Helen glares at her husband, warning him to keep his mouth shut. ‘I think they’re fantastic. They must be a great conversation starter when your clients come to visit the house.’
‘Actually,’ I say, pausing to envisage the photos, ‘Larry is the first person to notice them in quite a while.’
‘Do you hear that, Larry?’ Helen asks. ‘Maybe it’s a sign. You should come for one of Susan’s sessions. You could talk about your mother and all your issues.’
An unmissable redness creeps across Larry’s face and I wonder if he’s irritated or embarrassed. Probably both. I avert my eyes, finding myself agreeing with at least one thing Larry says . . . Helen really doesn’t know when to shut up.
‘Larry’s mother passed away two years ago,’ Helen continues. ‘She was eighty-nine, but young at heart. It was sudden. Wasn’t it, Larry?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Paul says.
Larry shuffles on the spot and I wonder if I’ve been too quick to judge him. He’s obviously dominated by his wife, and I can tell how much he misses his mother. The mere mention of her forces his eyes to the ground and his thumb is curled and stroking the tip of his little finger. It’s a classic fidget. A distraction. Watching out for these traits is an occupational hazard. Larry is hiding something, I decide.
‘Our house is the old family home,’ Helen says. ‘Larry grew up there. I’d love to do it up now that his mother has passed. You know, put our own stamp on it.’ Helen’s eyes sweep over our cottage longingly. ‘I thought we could do something artistic, like you and Paul. But Larry won’t hear of it. He says our house is just fine the way it is. But I think our boys are embarrassed to bring their friends around because of the state of the old place.’
‘Jesus, Helen,’ Larry grunts through gritted teeth.
‘What?’ Helen shrugs. ‘Even you agree it’s lonely in that big old house, just the two of us rattling around.’
Larry’s square shoulders stiffen and he glares at me, as if it’s my fault Helen is oversharing.
‘That’s the trouble with kids,’ Helen sighs. ‘They grow up. I miss the boys. We tried for another baby over the years, but it didn’t happen. I always wished we’d had a girl, but I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. C’est la vie.’
‘We’re hoping for another soon,’ Paul smiles.
‘Oh lovely,’ Helen says, her enthusiasm punctuated by outstretching her arms. The remaining wine splashes over the rim of her glass and on to the grass. She doesn’t seem to notice as she raises the empty glass to her lips, clearly disappointed when all she gets is the last dribble. ‘It’ll be wonderful for little Amelia to have a brother or sister soon.’ Helen’s eyes are on me, studying my reaction. I smile, but my eyes narrow as they shift to my husband.
‘Will you excuse me, please?’ I say. ‘I really should put Amelia down for her nap.’
‘But she’s having such fun, Susan,’ Paul says. ‘Leave her to play for a while longer, yeah?’
My gaze shifts to the spot at the end of the garden where my daughter is playing contentedly with her new friends. Their giggles carry through the air like waves of childhood innocence. Their happiness is contagious, and I find myself grinning, absorbing their fun.
‘Okay,’ I nod.
‘She probably wouldn’t sleep with all this excitement and noise anyway,’ Paul says. ‘Let’s throw routine out the window, just for today, eh?’ He runs his hand up and down my upper arm encouragingly. ‘It is a party after all.’
It’s way past Amelia’s naptime, but her bedroom is at the back of the cottage and the window overlooks the patio area where a group of elderly neighbours are sitting at our picnic table and chatting loudly.
‘I wish I had half her energy,’ Helen
says. ‘She’s a little dote.’
‘I’m going to pop inside and check on the appetisers,’ I say, peeling my eyes reluctantly away from my little girl running around so much I know she must be exhausted, but she’s determined to keep up with the bigger kids. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Okay. Cool,’ Paul says. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Millie.’
‘Make sure she keeps her cardigan on,’ I insist. ‘She keeps trying to take it off, and I don’t want her catching cold.’
Paul looks at Amelia and shakes his head. ‘She doesn’t like that one.’
‘It’s her favourite,’ I correct. ‘It’s yellow.’
‘No.’ Paul shakes his head again. ‘She says it’s scratchy.’
‘Well, it will have to do,’ I say. ‘I don’t know where her other yellow one is and she won’t wear any other colour at the moment. Anyway, can you just make sure she keeps it on?’
‘Ah Susan, do you really need to mollycoddle her so much?’
‘There’s a wind picking up and she’s in the shade. She needs her cardigan. It’s important.’
‘You know best,’ Paul sighs, defeated. ‘If you need any help with the food just gimme a shout, okay?’
‘Yeah. Okay.’
‘I can help,’ Helen suggests.
‘Oh, not at all,’ I say, waving my hand to politely dismiss her offer. ‘You stay out here and enjoy chatting.’
‘It’s no trouble, honestly. I’d like to help,’ she insists. ‘And I’d love an excuse to inspect this new kitchen Paul has been telling us all about.’
‘Great,’ I lie, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind my ear as I groan inwardly. ‘Thank you.’
I really hope Helen isn’t going to talk about babies and kids some more once we’re inside. I already have to listen to Paul drone on about how lonely Amelia will be growing up as an only child. As if I don’t understand better than anyone exactly what it feels like to be without a sibling.
Under Lying Page 2