Oil paintings of other houses and very old-fashioned-looking people line all visible walls.
My parents were middle class, so I have no real idea if these are meant to be her relations or if they are important pieces of art. And I’m way too middle class to be gauche enough to ask.
A large marble-topped hall table holds an impressive Atmos clock, its inner works in constant motion. Beside it is a large, yellow fresh-flower display and a hefty stack of mail.
“Well, well, well, what a bit of excitement,” Arabella says, smirking, as she shuts the door on the tête-à-tête between Chris and Greg.
Ten minutes later, ensconced in the drawing room, a fresh pot of tea and some hastily gathered provisions on the table in front of us, I dive straight in.
“So, Greg’s not happy again. That seems to be quite a regular thing?”
She emits a short, tight cackle. “I think you have a knack for nailing people down. Has anyone ever told you that?” She offers me a cup and saucer.
“It comes and it goes. I’ve been known to get people wrong,” I confess. She acknowledges this solemnly, my divorce inference clear.
“Well, love is blind. Don’t I know it,” she says with a little eye roll, and I wonder again where the hell Mr. Arabella is and why I’ve never seen him.
“Oh, you, too?” I try, but instead of the confession of marital strifethat I’m now half anticipating, she gives me an enigmatic smile and places a hand on her flat, cashmere-clad stomach.
It takes me a second to work out that she doesn’t mean she has indigestion.
“Three in school and now…one on the way,” she says, beaming. “Will likes even numbers—what can I say. Love is blind. Or has a short memory at least!”
“Oh, my goodness, congratulations,” I enthuse, plastering on joy over the emotional sink hole that has unexpectedly appeared in our conversation. Suddenly all I can think about is the smell of the bakery department in Morrisons supermarket the last time I miscarried and how a shelf-stacker had to help me out to Ben’s car when he arrived to collect me. That won’t happen to Arabella, though; she has three healthy examples of the opposite already.
I now know her husband’s name, though: Will, not Simon. That means nothing, of course.
“Only mentioning it because the tea’s decaf,” Arabella says with a smile. “Anyway, back to Greg. Yes, all very intense. He’s a very competitive man.”
Glad of the topic shift, I jump back on the disclosure. “Why is he angry about the sign?”
“He’s not angry about the sign; he’s angry Richard is selling. Not sure how much I can say, but Greg’s got a lot of property in the area, home prices can fluctuate a lot, given certain circumstances, and he’d asked Richard to hold off listing until the new year. But as we can see, Richard did not listen. And has conveniently skipped town, as they say.” Arabella pops half a buttered scone in her mouth.
“Did Greg actually think someone would wait to sell for his benefit?” I ask.
Arabella nods, sips some tea. “Well, it would technically be for all of our benefit. We’re all dependent on house prices. It’s good to stay as liquid as you can right now—they’re constantly changing the tax rules on us. The children’s fees alone have gone up sixty percent in the last year. Switzerland or Dubai is looking pretty good at the moment. The children can always stay here and board. Will is keen to move, to be honest—he’s down in his office all the hours in the day. He’s finally agreed to cut back; after all, he can work anywhere.”
The idea of Will being downstairs in his office all day sets alarm bells ringing in my head.
I muster up the courage to ask the question that’s been on my mind since I heard it.
“Is there something I should know about my house, Arabella?” I ask.
Her eyebrows fly up, and she doesn’t answer immediately, seemingly confused by the question.
“What do you mean?”
“I overheard Greg saying if I knew something about my house, I never would have bought it.”
She lets out a chuckle.
“Maybe you wouldn’t have bought your house if you had known that Greg would end up being your neighbor, on both sides?”
She’s deflected the question with humor. Or maybe she hasn’t; maybe Greg is worse than I thought.
On the way to the restroom, I take a detour from the route Arabella described and land by the basement door.
It has no lock and the door stands ajar, the sound of an air-conditioning unit whirring loudly down there, its cool air wafting up to hit my tea-flushed face.
