The Family Next Door

by Sally Hepworth

  Ange noticed Lucas coming out of the house and she spun around.

  “Yes. Of course I will. I’ll…”

  But she was gone.

  Essie walked up the driveway. Fran was already loading a second car seat into the back for Mia. (Of course, Fran had a second car seat for these types of situations.)

  “Was Ange giving you a bollocking for not coming to the meeting?” Fran called, her head still inside the car.

  “She was, actually. She seemed a little high-strung this morning.”

  “Ah well. That’s Ange.”

  Essie was about to say something more when Rosie appeared by the car, dressed in a tutu. A present wrapped in pink and white paper was tucked under her skinny arm. Essie’s heart sank. It meant they had three, maybe four seconds before Mia melted down, begging to go home and change into her tutu.

  “Mia—” she started.

  But it turned out Essie had underestimated Mia. It only took her a split-second before she dropped the present and bolted. Fran watched the whole thing, baffled.

  “She’s getting her tutu,” Essie said. “Mia, wait!”

  But she wasn’t stopping. She continued straight across the street, toward home. Essie scanned the cul-de-sac for cars, but thankfully it was empty. Fran raised her eyebrows at Essie—Do you need help?—but she shook her head. “I’ll get her,” she said, and turned in time to see Isabelle scoop Mia into her arms.

  “Got ya!” Isabelle said, tickling her. Mia squealed in delight. Mia usually didn’t take well to strangers showing her affection. Normally she was a shy type. Maybe, like Essie, she’d seen something special in Isabelle.

  Essie jogged over to them. “Thank you. She’s quick!”

  Isabelle put her down. “Perhaps,” she said. “But I’m quicker.”

  * * *

  “I’ve done something strange,” Essie said when her mum opened her front door.

  Her mum widened the door, letting Essie in. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  One of the most astonishing things about Essie’s mother was her patience. If she were to say those words to anyone else the obvious response would be to scream: “What is it? Tell me now!”

  Her mum made tea.

  “Sure,” Essie said. “Tea would be great.”

  Already Essie felt more relaxed. It was just something about being in her mother’s home. She lay a blanket on the carpet and put Polly in the middle. Mia had changed into her tutu and headed off to the party with Fran and Rosie.

  “How are you feeling, by the way?” Essie asked.

  “Fine,” her mum said. “Just a bit snuffly. I needed an early night.”

  Essie leaned against the counter while her mum filled the kettle, got out mugs, and put out mini muffins, raspberry and white chocolate. She put it all on her neat round kitchen table, next to a vase of frangipanis.

  “So,” she said as they sat down. “What did you do?”

  “I’ve lied about something,” Essie said, feeling immediately better. There were few things more cathartic, she decided, than confessing something to your mother. “And I’ve involved you.”

  Barbara paused, the milk jug hovering in midair, above her mug. “I assume you’re going to provide details.”

  “Well, I planned to go to the neighborhood watch meeting last night. I meant to go. Ben came home early from work and I was on my way over there when I saw Isabelle’s light on. I went over there to tell her to come to the meeting. Instead, I ended up staying there for dinner.”

  “And you don’t want Ange to know because she will think you’ve chosen Isabelle over her?” She finished pouring the milk and took a gulp of her tea.

  Essie was ashamed at how girlish this sounded. “Partly. But I also lied to Ben. I told them both I was here last night, looking after you.”

  Her mum choked. She coughed a couple of times, then said: “But why?”

  “I don’t know! Ben was half-asleep when I got home and he asked how the meeting was so I just said fine. Then this morning Ange confronted me while Ben was there, and I was trapped, so I said I’d come here to look after you.”

  Her mum put her tea down again. Neither one of them had touched the muffins. “So I suppose you want me to back up your story?”

  “Well … not necessarily. It probably won’t come up again. You know Ben, he’s hardly suspicious.”

  Her mum looked appalled. Essie had thought a visit to her mum was just what the doctor ordered, but she seemed to have taken a misstep. She should have expected it. Her mum prided herself on her good character, her honesty, her distaste for gossip and lies. Now Essie felt horribly guilty—as though she was a schoolgirl rather than a thirty-two-year-old mother of two.

  Polly squawked on the floor. “Oh, I meant to ask,” Essie said. “Is there any chance you could look after Polly for me for an hour this afternoon? Mia is having a playdate with Rosie and I thought I might go to the farmer’s market with Isabelle. I just bumped into her outside. What?”

  “Nothing,” her mum said, though it was clear she was thinking something. “Of course you can leave Polly with me.” She was quiet a moment. “I do have to ask though … is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine. I just thought it would be nice to go to the market with Isabelle. It’s no big deal.”

  Her mum watched her, her eyebrows arched skeptically. “You seem quite taken with Isabelle, Essie.”

  “She’s a friend,” Essie liked the way that sounded. “You know I don’t have a lot of friends.”

  “Not everyone needs a lot of friends.,” her mum said. “It’s a silly myth they push in American teen movies to fill people with insecurities.”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with striving to have a few more, is there?”

  Her mum’s expression didn’t change. Her gaze dropped back to her tea. “I just worry about you, Essie.”

  Essie smiled. She reached over the table and patted her mum’s forearm. “Well, you’re my mum. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  “The only one I ever wanted,” she replied, and she managed to smile back. A little.

  18

  ANGE

  Ange sat on the couch flicking through Instagram and Facebook, getting irritated with people’s posts. Don’t write open letters to your children/husband/parents about how much you love them, she wanted to cry. It’s vomit inducing! Don’t post about how many kilometers you’ve run today, it’s boring, not to mention braggy. Don’t rant about the traffic conditions on the way home—people don’t give two hoots about your commute!

  She tossed her phone. It was getting dark outside and Ange was tired. Why did no one get it? As far as she was concerned, social media was a place for witty, satirical comments; stylistic food pics; photos of beautiful homes and children; and birth announcements. (Who didn’t love a good birth announcement?) It was a place to scroll through to get an idea of where you fared in the world, and figure out whether you were winning or losing at life. Sometimes it felt like she was the only one who understood this.

  With a huge sigh, she sank back against the cushions. Lucas was pottering around somewhere and the boys were asleep—she’d checked on them half an hour ago and been treated to her all-time favorite sound: their snores. Thank goodness. Ollie had been complaining about a sore stomach all day, which had Ange worried. Ollie was a champion vomiter (the kid could actually vomit on demand—no finger down the throat, nothing) and she’d pictured herself spending the long night ahead washing sheets and rubbing his tummy. Instead she found herself at an unexpected loose end. Normally she loved nothing more than an evening on the couch with her phone, but tonight she just felt agitated.

  “It’s the heat,” Lucas had said to her earlier this evening.

  The heat was the catchall excuse for everything at the moment. Mothers at the school were using it to explain their children’s brattiness, Ange’s employees blamed it for their not sleeping well, Ange herself had blamed the heat for the fact she couldn’t do a thing wi
th her hair. She almost felt sorry for the poor old heat, taking the blame for everything. Especially since it was in no way to blame for her agitation.

  It was Erin.

  Ange couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was irritating. All day she’d been popping into her mind, out of the blue. And the image was always of Erin standing next to Lucas at the hospital, her little girl, Charlie, clasped to her hip.

  Ange would have loved a little girl. When she was younger, she’d always imagined she’d have two daughters with blond curls and old-fashioned names like Goldie and Ivy. Ange was going to dress them in navy-blue pinafores with red stockings, black Mary Janes, and red bows at their temples. Goldie and Ivy would have had fairy parties and dollhouses and tutus.

  Instead Ange had Minecraft parties and football and farts.

  When she had Will, she hadn’t been devastated. A daughter will come next, she told herself. Maybe, when they were older, her daughter would date Will’s friends and he’d keep an eye on things. A protective older brother. Yes, that would be perfect, she’d told herself. Except the younger sister hadn’t come. Instead, Ollie had arrived, far too happy with himself, thankfully, to consider that he was ever anything less than coveted. Ange loved him for that confidence. It had given her the space she needed to grieve.

  She knew she wasn’t supposed to think these things. But then again, what were thoughts for if not to process the awful things you couldn’t say out loud? It wasn’t as if she didn’t love her sons. Will was handsome and gentle and sweet, and Ollie—well, it was impossible not to adore Ollie. Today, for instance, after driving him across town to a friend’s place, he’d announced: “You are the best, Mum. When you’re old, I’m going to buy you a walking stick. Diamond encrusted!”

  Random, she’d thought. But also lovely.

  “Thank you, Ollie,” she’d said. “I’ll be the envy of everyone in my nursing home.”

  Ollie was funny and stubborn and downright charming. He could make you want to throttle him one moment and kiss him the next. Ollie understood the fragilities of relationships in a way most adults never would. He’d never get her a walking stick, but he knew what she needed to hear in that moment. He knew that lies were necessary sometimes. He got that from her.

  After all, the way he’d come into their lives hadn’t exactly been honest.

  Ange stood up. She’d been sitting too long, she realized. Sitting lent itself to obsessing about things best left in the past. There was a message on her phone, and she turned her attention to it. It was Julia, from the office. Perfect.

  “Hey, Ange, sorry to bother you. I finally got hold of Isabelle Heatherington’s workplace to check her employment status…”

  Ange groaned. The landlord had been in a hurry to rent the place as the fire had left him without rent for months, so when Isabelle applied they moved her in quickly, thinking she could check the paperwork later. Of course the first time she did this, they’d run into trouble.

  “… Isabelle listed her place of work as the Abigail Ferris Foundation, but the number she provided didn’t work so I called the head office. The person I spoke to said they didn’t have any record of her working for them.”

  Ange ran her finger along a high shelf of the built-in cabinet, bringing away a trail of dust. She wasn’t worried about Isabelle. Employers had become increasingly reluctant to give out information about their employees and it was not uncommon for employers to refuse to even admit they’d heard of the person in question. She’d just speak to Isabelle tomorrow about getting someone to release the information.

  “Anyway, let me know what you want me to do,” pre-recorded Julia continued. “She’s paid her first and second months’ rent and her bond. Byeeeee.”

  Ange ended the call on the way to the laundry. Her house needed a good cleaning, she decided. She found the feather duster and returned to the front room and started dusting. When was the last time she’d dusted? Usually the cleaners did it—but clearly they weren’t doing a great job of it. Dust was flying all over the place. Next, she’d have to vacuum.

  “Muuuum?” Ollie called from his room.

  “I’ll go,” Lucas called to her.

  Ange kept dusting. There was something vaguely calming about it. Maybe Ange would start dusting for relaxation. It would be like yoga or meditation or adult coloring. What did they call it these days? Mindfulness, that was it. She would dust mindfully.

  Once she’d had such plans for her life. She’d been passionate about everything. Refugees. Women’s rights. Religious freedoms! She marched in marches and signed petitions. On the weekends she took a canvas outside and painted, just for fun. Now, she made lunch boxes and signed permission slips and was passionate about breaches in her social media etiquette. She made a point of not getting too up in arms about anything and whenever anyone got too passionate, she felt her eyes start to glaze over.

  What had become of her?

  Maybe she needed to get passionate about things again. Start volunteering for some committees, raising money for a good cause. She could start a foundation, or at least offer her time to an established foundation. Maybe she’d pick up a paintbrush again. Her children weren’t babies anymore, maybe she could get some of her life back? Maybe she could get some of her self back. Then she’d stop obsessing about Erin and her daughter. After all, she had secrets too.

  Her duster hit something and a second later a hard object fell and skittered across the floor. She had to duck to avoid it. She put down her duster and picked it up.

  A brand-new iPhone.

  “Ange?” Lucas called from upstairs.

  “Yes?”

  “Ollie just threw up.”

  Ange glanced in the mirror above the fireplace. She’d worked up quite a sweat. Clumps of dust sat on her head and shoulders like dandruff and her face was quite red. “I’ll be right there,” she said.

  But instead of heading to the stairs, she sat in the armchair. She powered on the phone and waited as it sprang to life.

  19

  FRAN

  Fran lay on her back, breathing heavily. Beside her, Nigel let out a soft groan. They’d just had sex. Not boring, married sex. New couple sex. Interesting sex.

  “That was…” Nigel started.

  “I know,” she agreed.

  She rolled onto her side and laid her head on his chest. The room glowed with peach light as the sun made its descent into the bay. If the girls hadn’t been in bed, she might have suggested they run down to the beach and watch the sunset while bobbing in the ocean. She felt drunken, euphoric. Perhaps it was the fact that it had been a while? Perhaps it was because they were on the living room rug? Or maybe it was the fact that they were going to be all right. She and Nigel were moving on. Moving forward.

  “Water?” Nigel asked.

  “Please.”

  He got up and Fran slid off his chest, watching his naked bottom as he walked into the kitchen. She sighed contentedly. It was the first day of the rest of her life. She’d always loathed that saying, but today, it was perfect. She was putting the past behind her. She was going to have sex, and lots of it. She was going to be a devoted wife and mother. She would make up for her indiscretions. If it got hard, she would work harder.

  Today had been a good start. She and Nigel had taken Rosie and Ava out for breakfast, then to the adjacent park to play. It had been one of those blue-skied mornings where it felt good to be outside and alive. By midmorning it was too hot to be outside so they all came home, piled onto the couch to watch Frozen, and then everyone had a lunchtime nap. It had been bliss. Perfect family bliss.

  “I might make a toasted cheese sandwich,” Nigel called from the kitchen. “You want some?”

  “No, thanks,” Fran said sleepily. “I’ll just share yours.”

  She could feel his grin, even from the next room.

  Nigel was happier too, she realized. He had been worried about her. They’d been through a rough patch, that was all. He’d made mistakes, she’d made mistake
s. Keeping the secret would, in a way, be her penance. She wasn’t returning to her job after maternity leave, she didn’t want to risk running into Mark. She’d told Nigel that now that she had two children, she wanted to stay home with the girls for a while, and he hadn’t questioned it. Probably because it was exactly what she should be doing. Focusing on the family.

  From the kitchen, Fran heard the sizzle of bread in the pan, and Nigel started humming “Quando Quando Quando.” He’d sung it that first trivia night—word for word—to get them a bonus point (after already naming Engelbert Humperdinck as the original singer), and since then, it had been “their song.” Nigel didn’t have a bad voice, and he only sang it when he was happy. So far, it seemed, she was doing a good job.

  She pulled a cushion from the couch and rested it under her head. They’d both put the girls to bed tonight. The four of them had sat on the floor in Rosie’s room while Nigel had read a story. Rosie had actually sat in Fran’s lap, which was a first, while Ava lay on a cushion next to Nigel and blinked up at them all in contented puzzlement. Fran had tucked Rosie in afterward and by the time she’d gotten to Ava’s room, Nigel had been sitting with her in the armchair. (“There’s nothing nicer, is there,” he’d said, “than a baby on your chest?”)

  She was so lucky, Fran realized. Those girls were even luckier.

  Nigel was singing loudly enough now that Fran worried he’d wake up the girls. Rosie adored it when he sang. When she was older, she’d probably roll her eyes. You’re so tragic, Dad, she’d say, and he’d probably pull her in and make her start dancing with him, the way he did to Fran sometimes. But then, dads were meant to be tragic. To embarrass their kids. It was part of the gig.

  Would he embarrass Ava that way? Fran wondered suddenly. Yes, he loved her now, but what about later, when she started to show her personality? He’d always had such a connection with Rosie, but then Rosie was so much like him. Ava may not be. What if, as she got older, it became apparent that she was nothing like him? What if her eyelashes were short and pale? What if she was short and burly and full of confidence—like Mark? Would he keep her at a distance? Would he feel as though something just wasn’t right?