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Nicole returned home two days ago and they’re going to call on her, but Sasha feels anxious about dropping in on spec. ‘I should message her.’
‘It’ll be fine. Neighbours visit each other unannounced all the time.’
‘They don’t. They message first. It’s polite. You wouldn’t like it if she turned up and interrupted your writing.’
‘That’s why I have a Kitty to answer the door.’
Or a Sasha, she thinks, but says, ‘But if you didn’t.’
‘But I do.’
Olly can be infuriating sometimes. She squeezes his hand hard enough to hurt. He stops and looks at her, surprised.
‘What?’
‘You know I’m only saying this because we want her to like us, yes? Not because I give a flying fuck about manners?’
‘You think it’ll upset her if we call in?’
‘She might be sick of the sight of us.’
‘It’s been two days. And we have cake. Her favourite.’ Over his shoulder, in a tote bag, Olly is carrying a tin containing a coffee sponge cake that Kitty made for Nicole. He mimes Nicole eating it, puffing his cheeks out like a guinea pig.
Sasha feels her anger rise at his flippancy. ‘Is this a game to you?’
The smile drops from Olly’s face, replaced by an ugly scowl, but she’s not intimidated. He blows hot and cold constantly and at least she has his attention now.
‘You know it isn’t,’ he says. ‘I think it’s more natural if we call round without warning her. It sets a nice precedent.’ His tone softens. ‘Casual neighbours, dropping in on one another. We don’t have to go inside. We can hand the cake over at the doorstep. If her friend isn’t there, we’ll see him another time. We’re going to ease in carefully, slowly. You remember how it works.’
She does. She often felt impatient in the early days when they were getting their foot in the door at the Manor, but the softly, softly approach worked in the end. In spite of his volatility Olly is more patient than her and always more confident that things will work out for them. ‘You’re right,’ she says, though she still doubts it, but she needs to pick her battles.
They walk on towards the Glass Barn. It glints in the near distance. All that glass. She doesn’t love how much attention thebuilding attracts. When she first saw the plans, she’d thought that all the glass would reflect the landscape and help the building settle into it, but it’s had the opposite effect. The Glass Barn advertises itself all the time, sticking out like a sore thumb, glinting in the sun. Anyone would think Nicole and Tom own the peninsula. Or just Nicole, now. That’s money, Sasha supposes. It gets you property, and a big enough, fine enough property gets you a feeling of power. She and Olly know it first-hand. The Manor has transformed life for them both.
She had some respect for Tom and Nicole’s wealth before Tom let slip to Olly that they won it all in the lottery, that they hadn’t earned a single penny of it, and used to live in a tiny house in a dormitory suburb in Swindon before moving here. It was hard not to feel some contempt for them after that. Lottery winners haven’t had to acquire the smarts to earn and retain money. That’s the hard bit.
Olly whistles something complicated and irritating. Sasha bats away clouds of midges. The air is rich with loamy late-summer smells and the mud on the surface of the lane has dried to a crust.
They hear the vehicle a moment before they see it, barrelling along the Barn’s driveway towards them, braking abruptly when it hits the lane and the driver sees them, stopping uncomfortably close.
‘That’s a very nice Jaguar,’ Olly says. He walks to the driver’s side and the window opens smoothly as he leans down. Music pumps, the bass offensively loud. The driver kills the volume and says, ‘Hi. Can I help you?’
The lenses of his Ray-Bans reflect and distort Olly’s face. The man has designer stubble and a wide smile. He’s chewing gum.
He’s attractive, Sasha thinks, and sort of smooth. She wasn’t expecting this. She’d assumed that Nicole’s old friend Patrick wouldn’t have money, or any kind of class. If this is Patrick.
‘You were going at quite a speed there,’ Olly says and laughs, as if it’s nothing to him, though Sasha knows it isn’t. When Tom first got his Maserati, Olly took to dragging dead branches across the lane to discourage him from speeding. He said he found the cliché of a young man in a fast car cheap.
‘Yeah, sorry,’ the driver says. ‘Hard not to in this beast.’ His grin looks a little wild and Sasha feels disconcerted, because it’s not the expression of a grieving man. Nicole told her that Patrick was Tom’s best friend. Perhaps this isn’t Patrick.
‘Are you visiting?’ Olly asks.
‘I’m a friend of Tom’s. I’ve come to help Nicole out. You know them?’ He takes off his sunglasses and his expression seems softer; it loses its manic edge. Sasha sees exhaustion and vulnerability in the dark circles beneath his eyes. Maybe she’d misjudged him.
‘We’re the neighbours from the Manor House, just up the lane. I’m Olly and this is my partner, Sasha. We’re so sorry about Tom.’
‘It’s unbelievable.’ He shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m Patrick.’ So, it is him. He sticks a hand through the window and Olly shakes it. Sasha reaches forward and shakes, too. Patrick’s grip is a little too firm.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she says. ‘Nicole told us you were old friends.’
