The Neighbours: A gripping, addictive novel with a twist that will leave you breathless. Hannah McKinnon Mary
get a pair, too. Figured reverse psychology would stop her from wanting them.”
“Did it?”
“Nope. She gave me one of her looks.”
I laughed. “I think they’re pretty cool.” When Abby raised an eyebrow I added, “The boots, not the looks. And it’s her money. She saved up for them. Let her do what she wants.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I’d wear them if they didn’t make me look like a middle-aged has-been.”
Abby smiled, rolled on top of me and kissed my neck. Her hair tickled my face and smelled of something vanilla and cherryish. She always smelled nice, even when she’d been on one of her insane, million-mile runs.
“You’re not a has-been, Nate,” she whispered.
I wrapped an arm around her, slid my other hand underneath her T-shirt, ran my fingers up and down the soft skin of her back. “And what about the middle-aged part?” I said before nibbling on her neck.
She raised her head and looked at me with one eyebrow arched, and a sly smile playing on her lips. “Let’s see...”
As her mouth traveled down my chest, I shoved the papers off the bed, letting them slide to the floor in a heap. Reviewing Mr. Rav Ramjug’s superior programming skills could wait. Frankly it had been a while since Abby and I last got busy. People say it’s normal for a couple’s sex life to disappear for a while after having a kid. What they don’t tell you is the vanishing act repeats once said kid hits teenage years because she a) doesn’t go to bed at seven and sleep like a dead man until dawn, and b) has the hearing of a greater wax moth.
I groaned as Abby kissed my stomach. Despite us having the house to ourselves and the entire night ahead of us, we ended up in a frantic quickie, with Abby collapsing onto my chest afterward, the two of us breathing heavily.
“I think we both needed that,” she said, before sliding off me and getting up. I never had the chance to moan about my wife wanting to spoon endlessly after sex. Three minutes in and she was about as cuddly as a piece of Lego.
I propped myself up on one elbow and watched her get dressed. I did that sometimes—watch Abby—and mostly she was unaware of it. When she was baking and I pretended to be engrossed in a book or—another favorite—when she was going over the monthly bills, hair scrunched up in a messy ponytail, brow furrowed at the latest phone statement, lips moving silently as she checked the numbers.
I liked to look at her, I mean properly look at her. Study her as if she was a Miró at The Tate I could stand in front of and ponder, cocking my head to one side, pompously tapping my lips with one finger, wondering what the artiste meant to express with the masterfully applied strokes and splashes of paint. Not that I had a bloody clue about art. I could barely tell a Picasso from a stick man even if the latter tapped me on the shoulder and kicked me in the nuts.
So I silently perused Abby’s long, slim legs with the scars she hated so much but were a huge part of her, the arch of her back, her elegant, swan-like neck. A classic masterpiece.
“What?” Her voice pulled me out of my trance. She’d turned around, and I’d missed it. Busted.
“Nothing,” I answered with what I hoped was a charming grin, and shook my head slightly. “Just looking at you.”
As she smiled her blue eyes sparkled, and her long blond hair settled in that sexy, tousled bed-head look, the one that screamed, “Oh, yeah, I got some.” I let my gaze linger as she went to the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
I lay back in bed and thought about my wife the way you do in a fuzzy postcoital state. Abby could give Jennifer Aniston a run for her money anytime. At forty-four she looked at least six years younger. It put me, with my slight paunch that I swore every January (the last one being no exception) I’d get rid of, to absolute shame. I wasn’t overly proud of the thinning spot on the top of my head either. But what can you do? I was almost halfway between my forty-sixth and forty-seventh birthday. Jesus, forty-seven—it had sneaked up on me like my slight paunch. I stretched, sighed and soon felt myself drift off to sleep, only stirring slightly when Abby climbed into bed a while later.
Back in my warm living room, I reluctantly dragged myself out of the memory, cleared my throat and concentrated on Ozzy’s extravagant tales. They kept me entertained for a further ten minutes, before, mug of fresh coffee in hand, I meandered to the window, fully intent on spying on who was moving in next door.
I sipped my drink and watched three jacket-, hat-and glove-clad figures slowly lugging boxes from the van to the house. Not professional movers, I decided. Not brisk enough. Difficult to tell for sure from the angle, but they looked like a standard family. Woman, bloke and, from what I could see, a gangly-legged teenage boy, hunched over, moving slowly, his body language screaming “get me out of here.” I couldn’t blame him. Like I said, moving at this time of year was a ridiculous notion.
I picked up my phone from the coffee table and sent Abby a text. Neighbors moving in. Look normal. How’s the shopping? Should we re-mortgage the house?
A few seconds later my phone buzzed.
HAHA. Haven’t left Camilla’s yet! Are you helping them? You’d make a good impression.
Shit. I hadn’t thought this through. Why did I send a message in the first place? Now I’d be a dickhead if I didn’t do my share of carrying. I walked back to the window.
The teenager stood at the back of the van, gesticulating to someone inside the vehicle, his arms flying around. He appeared to cross them over his chest, and, although I could only see the back of his black-and-yellow hat, which made his head look like a giant and slightly angry bee, I’d have bet money he’d stuck out his chin, too. The woman walked over and put a hand on the teen’s shoulder before waving her arms around, too, pointing to the house, the inside of the van and back to the house again, shaking her head.
I sighed loudly and made my way into the hall, where I pulled out my coat, boots and hat. I looked at the photograph of Tom, my wife’s brother, whom I’d almost met before he died, and gave him a nod. “You think I’m a crazy bugger going out there. Don’t you?”
He stared back at me with his forever boyish grin and early ’90s boy band haircut, which made him look like he’d stuck a fluffy palm tree on top of his head.
“Yeah, exactly,” I said, then opened the front door. The cold air whipped around my face, and the gravel scrunched beneath my feet, protesting each of my heavy steps. “Jesus, my balls will turn to ice cubes,” I muttered as I pulled my hat past my ears and trudged to the van.
“...telling you. There’s no way we can lift it, Liam,” I heard the woman say to the person in the van when I got within earshot. “It’s not happening. It isn’t.”
Her voice was soft yet determined. It reminded me of Abby, and what Sarah and I secretly called the tone. My daughter and I knew there wasn’t an inch of wriggle room left when Abby used the tone. Capitulation was the only option. Capitulation or certain death—probably. We’d never dared find out.
I looked in the back of the van and saw the guy—Liam, apparently—put down the side of a green sofa. As he straightened his back he caught sight of me and smiled.
“Hey,” he said, tilting his head. “Can I help you?”
I smiled back and shrugged. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
The woman and Beanie Boy turned around. I guessed him to be around the same age as Sarah. The woman smiled; he didn’t. No surprise there. There’s nothing quite like the downer of amputated teenage happiness.
“I’m Nate.” I pointed to our house. “From next door. Thought you might need a hand.”
The woman’s smile broadened, showing off immaculate teeth. Brown curls stuck out from underneath her fire engine-red bobble hat. She stood around the same height as Abby but looked