Page 6 of Rich Little Liars

He walks away, and I continue towards my house, acutely aware that my cheeks feel warm. Perhaps he was just being neighbourly, but there had been something in the way he looked at me. Not the assessing gaze Caroline had worn, or the friendly curiosity from Emma and Natasha. Something softer. Something that felt, bizarrely, like recognition.

The next few days blur together in a haze of unpacking and pretending to settle in. I register with Richard’s clinic – an online form, impersonal and easy. I walk round the park each morning, learning the rhythms of the town: who jogs at what time, which houses have dogs, where the cleaners’ trucks park. I see Richard twice more in passing. Both times he waves, friendly but not intrusive. Both times I feel that same flutter in my chest that may not be panic.

On Thursday evening, I do something I don’t expect.

I go to the homeowners’ association meeting.

It’s held in the community centre – a building that’s probably seen a hundred years of committee meetings and parish notices but has been renovated into something sleek and modern. There are maybe twenty people scattered across chairs arranged in a loose semicircle. Caroline stands at the front, clipboard in hand, looking pleased.

‘Kelly.’ She spots me immediately. ‘How wonderful that you’ve come. Please, sit anywhere you like.’

I take a chair near the end, next to Emma, who grins at me.

‘Brave of you,’ she whispers. ‘First meeting and everything.’

The meeting is exactly as tedious as I expected: discussions about Malory’s beach party, the timing of the fountain, someone’s complaint about ‘the awful new-money problem around here’, whatever that means. I let the words wash over me, focusing on looking engaged while my mind drifts.

That’s when Richard walks in.

He’s late, slipping into a chair across the circle from me with an apologetic nod towards Caroline. His gaze finds mine almost immediately, and he smiles. Not a big smile. Just a quick, warm acknowledgement that makes something in my chest loosen.

The meeting drags on. I contribute nothing, sign nothing, volunteer for nothing. But when it finally ends and people start dispersing into little conversation clusters, Richard makes his way over.

‘You survived the whole meeting,’ he says, voice low and amused. ‘Well done.’

‘Barely,’ I admit. ‘I zoned out somewhere around the trash rotation discussion.’

‘That’s when I arrived. Clearly I have excellent timing.’ He pauses. ‘Look, I know you’re still settling in and probably have better things to do, but there’s a decent bar in town. The Orchard. And I’m heading there now for a drink. If you’d like to join me.’

It’s not quite a question. Not quite a statement. Just an opening, gently offered.

I should say no. Should go home to my house and boxes and solitude.

Instead, I hear myself say: ‘That sounds nice. Thank you.’

The Orchard sits right on the beach, a weathered clapboard building with a wraparound deck overlooking the sand. We take a table outside despite the slight chill, and Richard fetches a blanket from the basket by the door. The ocean stretches out before us, grey-blue and endless, the waves a soft constant beneath our conversation. It’s so quiet here – just a handful of locals and the gentle hush of water meeting shore.

Richard orders wine for me – white, dry – and a beer for himself, and we settle into a table that overlooks the waves.

‘So,’ he says, once we’re seated. ‘How are you finding East Hampton? Honestly.’

‘It’s nice,’ I say. ‘Quiet.’

‘That’s one word for it.’ He takes a sip of his beer. ‘It can be a bit much sometimes, but there’s good people here, once you get past the performance of it all.’

‘Performance?’

‘The perfection. The keeping-up-with-the-Joneses. The sense that everyone’s presenting their lives like an Instagram feed.’ He shrugs. ‘But maybe I’m cynical. Occupational hazard. You see people at their worst when you’re a doctor.’

‘Do you like it? Being a doctor here?’

‘Most days.’ His expression softens. ‘I like helping people. And town medicine has its advantages. You really get to know your patients. See them not just when they’re ill, but as whole people.’

There’s something in his voice – a gentleness that makes me believe him. That makes me think he’s the sort of doctor who actually listens instead of just prescribing some quick medication and moving on.

We talk about easier things: how he ended up in East Hampton (followed a job opportunity, stayed because he liked it), what there is to do around here (not much, but the beach is beautiful), the best walks if you don’t like sand or people.

And then, inevitable as sunrise: ‘What about you? What brought you here?’