tired to ask him what he was doing, she had gone back to sleep. Now he snuggled further down the bed.
“Gary?”
She climbed out and padded around in search of her robe. She slipped it over her naked body and headed downstairs. The doorbell rang again.
A perfect woman stood on the doorstep – sleek shoulder-length hair a shade of chestnut that only a top salon could make look natural, and flawless made-up skin. The woman’s eyes did a tour of her tousled hair, bare face, and ancient towelling dressing gown. Helen tugged at its hem but could do nothing to stop it ending mid-thigh.
“I’ll come in so you don’t catch cold,” the stranger said, stepping into the hall. She closed the front door and filled the air with eau de Chanel. Helen found herself apologizing for being in bed at eight thirty. Heat spread across her neck and cheeks. Why the self-conscious idiocy? It was her home now and she could sleep all day if she wanted.
“You’ve had a long journey, Helen. It’s understandable,” the woman said.
Helen tugged at her dressing gown again; the woman knew so much about her. Were they all nosy neighbours here? God, she hoped not.
“I’ve called round to let you know that I’m throwing your welcome party tonight. It’s seven for seven thirty. You don’t need to bring anything, this time. I’ve got Polly helping me, and Mel, of course, bless her.” She rolled her eyes. Without waiting for a response she opened the door to leave.
“But where …? I didn’t catch your name?” Helen called.
The woman turned. “Hasn’t Gary mentioned me? I’m Louisa.” She headed down the path, stepping over the weeds between the paving slabs.
***
Helen squeezed Gary’s hand as they walked over the road to Louisa and Damian Howard’s house that evening. “Should we have brought something? It seems rude to turn up empty-handed.”
“Don’t worry about it. Louisa likes to make a fuss of new people. I suppose it’s what head teachers’ spouses do.” He pulled her towards him, smiling. “Come on, I can’t wait to show off my gorgeous wife.”
One of the children she’d seen in the road the previous day, a boy of about eight, opened the door.
“Hi, Toby,” Gary said.
The child was wearing a white shirt and black bow tie. “Super to see you,” he said, as if quoting from a script. “Let me take your coats. Oh, you haven’t got any.” He looked at a loss at this departure from what he’d rehearsed.
“Don’t worry, mate,” Gary said, patting his shoulder.
The hallway was vast and had the most amazing smell – some kind of herb. No sign of the functionally beige carpet that plagued the floors in Gary’s place. Louisa and Damian must have ripped theirs out and put down vinyl. When Helen looked closer, she realized it was solid wood. So this was Number Ten. She found herself placing the words in capital letters.
“Gary, darling.” Louisa appeared in the hall and kissed Gary on both cheeks. She was wearing tailored brown trousers and a cream chiffon blouse, every inch a prime minister’s wife and living up to her house name.
She eyed Helen’s jeans. “You wear casual so well,” she said as her head moved in the general direction of Helen’s in an air kiss.
Helen stiffened but Louisa seemed oblivious to the offence she’d caused. “Toby, poppet,” she said, “move your school bag; it’s a deathtrap when you leave it on the stairs. Put it in the cellar and then get ready for the recital.”
“Yes, Mummy,” Toby groaned.
The wooden floor continued into the lounge, a sumptuous cream rug at the centre. Did all head teachers live like this or only those in international schools? A gold and yellow striped wallpaper adorned the far wall. The French windows were draped in blue velvet curtains, half closed, but Helen could make out a trampoline in the large back garden beyond. The other lounge walls had modern art prints mounted on them. Sliding doors through to the dining room were pushed back to reveal an elegantly laid table.
“I know those doors are ghastly,” Louisa said, appearing behind her with a bowl of salad. “Our next project is to have them removed and the surrounding wall knocked out. It’s difficult for Damian when he has to entertain important visitors in such a tiny space, isn’t it, darling?” She patted the arm of a tall, blond man who had walked in with two glasses of champagne.
“It seats twelve, Louisa. It’s fine. You must be Helen. I’m Damian.” He turned the sigh he’d aimed at his wife into a smile at Helen. He gave both women their drinks and kissed Helen on the cheek. The kiss was chaste but his hand stayed on her waist. Damian Howard struck her as someone who might spend a lot of time kissing other people’s wives.
“Darling, why don’t you take Gary to choose a beer? I’m sure he’d prefer it to champagne. Helen, come and meet Jerome and Polly. Jerome’s our head of science.” In a slick manoeuvre Louisa separated her husband from the new female guest. She ushered Helen over to a couple who had just arrived.
Jerome shook Helen’s hand.
His wife, who was holding a baby monitor, smiled in greeting. “Gary’s told us so much about you. It’s super to meet you at last,” she said. She was wearing jeans. Had she been on the receiving end of Louisa’s “casual” jibe too?
“Do you think I could put this down?” she asked her husband, holding up the monitor. She turned to Helen. “We’re next-door – at number 8 – so we’ll hear the girls on the baby alarm if they wake up. That’s the marvellous thing about living here. You always know who’s about.”
Helen nodded but was surprised these middle-class parents left their children under the supervision of a piece of Mothercare kit.
The doorbell rang and Louisa brought another couple into the room. It was the man Helen had seen climbing out of the red sports car. He took her hand. “I’m Chris Mowar and you must be my new lady next door. It’s going to be a pleasure.”
He held onto her and his shiny eyes scrutinized her face. She decided it was time to tug her hand away, but as she did so, he let go, making it look as if she had pulled harder than necessary. She had the unpleasant sensation that she’d reacted exactly as he had wanted her to.
“This is Mel,” he said, as if introducing someone he’d met in the hallway.
The woman tried to balance the large plate she was carrying in her left hand to free her right for a handshake but she couldn’t manage it. Beads of moisture gathered on her hairline. When Damian appeared with Gary’s beer and more champagne on a tray, she tried to give him the plate of food she’d brought.
“Sorry, Mel, I’m just the bartender. I’ll put your drink over here.”
“I can hold that plate while you have your drink,” Helen said.
Mel shook her head. She must be about thirty-five years old, around the same age as her husband, Chris, but he’d aged better despite his white hair. He dressed better too; his silk shirt must have had a tidy price tag. But looking at Mel, Helen wondered whether Louisa had told her as a joke that this was a Vicars and Tarts party. Dimples of cellulite showed
