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‘Oh.’ She looked around. ‘Is she moving down too?’
‘Er – no.’ He looked at the ground, awkward. Nikki sensed she’d made a faux pas. ‘I’m afraid my wife passed away.’ He looked back up at her. ‘Right at the beginning of Covid. She was a consultant anaesthetist working on a frontline ward.’ He gave a little shrug which meant that Nikki was to fill in the rest of the blanks.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Nikki put a hand to her throat. She could feel it tighten with emotion. ‘I’m so sorry. That’s terrible. I …’
She trailed off, mortified now she had been so confrontational.
‘Sometimes I think I should wear a badge, to stop people being embarrassed.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Saying recently bereaved or widower or something. Because I really hate this bit, when people don’t know what to say.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Nikki. ‘It must be really bloody awful.’
‘It is.’ He gazed at her earnestly, and gave a little helpless shrug.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said, only too aware how insufficient her words were. ‘What was your wife’s name?’
He looked surprised. It was rare for people to ask questions. They usually wanted to change the subject as soon as they could. ‘Jill.’
‘Jill.’ Nikki wanted to acknowledge her existence by saying her name.
‘Jill Chesterton. She didn’t take my name when we got married. Because of her job, I think. Not that I minded. I mean, I’m not one of those men who thinks a woman should have his name. Obviously. Because that’s …’ He trailed off, looking sheepish. ‘Sorry. I’m babbling. I always feel really awkward talking about her because I know it makes people feel awkward.’
‘I don’t.’
‘No, I can see that. It’s very unusual. And I really appreciate it.’
He smiled at her. Nikki suddenly wished she wasn’t standing there in a North Property Management boiler suit with the legs rolled up and her hair in a bandana, like a dishevelled member of Bananarama.
‘I understand,’ she said softly, for she knew exactly how important it was, to be able to talk about the one you’d lost. What a release it must be to be able to share memories, the things you had loved most about them, the little moments that had meant so much, your fears for their safety now they had gone, your fear that you might forget them or betray them in some way.
She’d never had that luxury.
Silence hung between them, but it was a comfortable one. He swept his left hand through his hair, and Nikki noticed how it fell back into place straight away. It was slate grey, the colour of wet rocks on the beach below.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m sure you’ve got stuff to be getting on with. Why don’t I make us a cocktail at around six? Are you new around here too?’
Nikki recognised the need to change the subject, the bright tone that was slightly forced. She knew how much energy that took.
‘Gosh, no. Speedwell born and bred. But I’ve wanted one of these cottages for as long as I can remember. I’ve spent half my life on that beach.’
She nodded her head towards the clifftop.
‘I can’t wait to explore properly. Maybe you can give me some inside knowledge?’
‘Of course. I’ll see you at six.’ She bent down to fondle Gatsby’s head. ‘And you are forgiven. See you later, Gatsby.’
She headed back up the path with a fizz inside her that hadn’t been there before. She felt pleased she was going to have a proper neighbour, rather than a rotation of holidaymakers. They often had no consideration for whoever was next door to them. Noisy children, loud music, endless barbecues belching smoke, barking dogs: they could be tricky, and by the time you’d complained they had gone back home, to be replaced with the next lot.
Adam Fitzroy. For a moment she was tempted to google him, but she decided that was a bit stalky and she could find out what she needed to know from the horse’s mouth. She wouldn’t google his wife either. He could tell her everything himself in good time.
She was pretty sure he wouldn’t be boring. Adam seemed like the epitome of a certain type of man – urbane and charming, a silver fox with a hint of the dandy. Suave but not arrogant. Confident but not brash. As if Richard E. Grant had a long-lost brother, with a bit of Alan Rickman thrown in.
Steady on, Nikki, she told herself with a grin. It was easy, when you lived in your home town, to be overwhelmed by the novelty of newcomers.
As she headed back into the house, she noticed there was a pile of post in the little wire cage on the back of the front door. She fished out the post and leafed through it. A Lidl leaflet, charity letters, what looked like the gas bill. And a postcard. A plain white old-fashioned postcard, with a message written on the back in black italics:
There are no secrets in a small town
She felt a spike of fear, and her heart tripped over itself. With a dry mouth, she turned the card over to see if there were any clues, but there was no such thing as a postmark anymore, just a purple first-class stamp in the right-hand corner. It was addressed to her personally, in capital letters – Nikki North – in the same black ink as the message. It didn’t look like a flyer, but she was on a lot of mailing lists, so she often got enigmatic mail from companies whose marketing messaging was more baffling than intriguing. Perhaps she’d receive a follow-up in a week or two and all would become clear.
