The Perfect Neighbours. Rachel Sargeant
a couple more turnings he made a right into Dickensweg, a cul-de-sac of identical semi-detached houses. Unlike the grey of the Bulgarian patch they’d driven through, the houses had been painted lemon in the last decade and, as if by some unwritten rule, all the cars were parked on the left side of the road. Bicycles, trailers, and pushchairs were propped up against almost every front door as if soliciting at a car boot sale, and large yellow dustbins lurked on front lawns like Tupperware daleks.
A pink-faced man with big, white hair climbed out of a red sports car. Gary beeped the horn and gave him a thumbs up. “That’s our next-door neighbour, Chris Mowar. He’s head of art.”
The man crossed the road in front of them, bowed theatrically and disappeared into a house on the other side.
“Is everyone round here head of something?” she asked.
Gary nodded. “We’ve got the head of geography at number 4, although he’s hardly ever at home, and the school’s public relations manager at number 1. And the head teacher, of course.”
He touched the brake and pointed up the street. “Through that copse is Hardyweg, where the rest of the heads of department live. The weg bit means way. Dickens and Hardy. The town council re-named the streets in honour of the school thirty years ago. A nice gesture, don’t you think?”
Helen smiled. It did sound nice, welcoming. She felt mean for thinking the street looked shabby.
Three boys, dressed in T-shirts, shorts, and wellies, were playing with remote-controlled trucks in the road. Maybe they didn’t feel the cold. Helen zipped up her jacket.
Gary braked again. “I’d better not run them over; they’re the head teacher’s kids.”
The boys waved at the car and moved out of the way. Gary waved back and drove to the end of the road. Instead of another pair of semis, there was a large detached house with a magnificent wisteria that framed the front door, and sunny yellow shutters at every window. Number Ten declared the carved wooden plaque, with no sign anywhere of the ugly metal house numbers that Helen had seen on the other walls.
Warmth sped through her. Moving here was the right thing. They couldn’t have maintained a long-distance marriage for much longer. She was bound to get another teaching job. It might not be head of PE again but there would be something. In the meantime she could enjoy living in this beautiful house.
Gary reversed into the turning circle and moved back down the street.
“That one’s Damian and Louisa’s. Number Ten, that’s what we call it, like the prime minister’s place. We’re at number 5.”
“Damian and Louisa?”
“The head and his wife. Remember I talked about them.”
Helen swallowed her disappointment as he pulled up opposite a house displaying a lopsided metal 5, weed-ridden flower beds and a knocked-over bin. Twenty yards from her husband’s boss and his executive home.
Tuesday, 6 April
Something disturbed Helen. The warm mound under the bedclothes beside her was fast asleep. She turned over.
The ringing noise sounded again.
“Gary.” She nudged the duvet. “Doorbell.”
She’d woken up once already, and Gary had been standing by the window. Too tired to ask him what he was doing, she had gone back to sleep. Now he snuggled further down the bed.
“Gary?”
She climbed out and padded around in search of her robe. She slipped it over her naked body and headed downstairs. The doorbell rang again.
A perfect woman stood on the doorstep – sleek shoulder-length hair a shade of chestnut that only a top salon could make look natural, and flawless made-up skin. The woman’s eyes did a tour of her tousled hair, bare face, and ancient towelling dressing gown. Helen tugged at its hem but could do nothing to stop it ending mid-thigh.
“I’ll come in so you don’t catch cold,” the stranger said, stepping into the hall. She closed the front door and filled the air with eau de Chanel. Helen found herself apologizing for being in bed at eight thirty. Heat spread across her neck and cheeks. Why the self-conscious idiocy? It was her home now and she could sleep all day if she wanted.
“You’ve had a long journey, Helen. It’s understandable,” the woman said.
Helen tugged at her dressing gown again; the woman knew so much about her. Were they all nosy neighbours here? God, she hoped not.
“I’ve called round to let you know that I’m throwing your welcome party tonight. It’s seven for seven thirty. You don’t need to bring anything, this time. I’ve got Polly helping me, and Mel, of course, bless her.” She rolled her eyes. Without waiting for a response she opened the door to leave.
“But where …? I didn’t catch your name?” Helen called.
The woman turned. “Hasn’t Gary mentioned me? I’m Louisa.” She headed down the path, stepping over the weeds between the paving slabs.
***
Helen squeezed Gary’s hand as they walked over the road to Louisa and Damian Howard’s house that evening. “Should we have brought something? It seems rude to turn up empty-handed.”
“Don’t worry about it. Louisa likes to make a fuss of new people. I suppose it’s what head teachers’ spouses do.” He pulled her towards him, smiling. “Come on, I can’t wait to show off my gorgeous wife.”
One of the children she’d seen in the road the previous day, a boy of about eight, opened the door.
“Hi, Toby,” Gary said.
The child was wearing a white shirt and black bow tie. “Super to see you,” he said, as if quoting from a script. “Let me take your coats. Oh, you haven’t got any.” He looked at a loss at this departure from what he’d rehearsed.
“Don’t worry, mate,” Gary said, patting his shoulder.
The hallway was vast and had the most amazing smell – some kind of herb. No sign of the functionally beige carpet that plagued the floors in Gary’s place. Louisa and Damian must have ripped theirs out and put down vinyl. When Helen looked closer, she realized it was solid wood. So this was Number Ten. She found herself placing the words in capital letters.
“Gary, darling.” Louisa appeared in the hall and kissed Gary on both cheeks. She was wearing tailored brown trousers and a cream chiffon blouse, every inch a prime minister’s wife and living up to her house name.
She eyed Helen’s jeans. “You wear casual so well,” she said as her head moved in the general direction of Helen’s in an air kiss.
Helen stiffened but Louisa seemed oblivious to the offence she’d caused. “Toby, poppet,” she said, “move your school bag; it’s a deathtrap when you leave it on the stairs. Put it in the cellar and then get ready for the recital.”
“Yes, Mummy,” Toby groaned.
The wooden floor continued into the lounge, a sumptuous cream rug at the centre. Did all head teachers live like this or only those in international schools? A gold and yellow striped wallpaper adorned the far wall. The French windows were draped in blue velvet curtains, half closed, but Helen could make out a trampoline in the large back garden beyond. The other lounge walls had modern art prints mounted on them. Sliding doors through to the dining room were pushed back to reveal an elegantly laid table.
“I know those doors are ghastly,” Louisa said, appearing behind her with a bowl of salad. “Our next project is to have them removed and the surrounding wall knocked out. It’s difficult for Damian when he has to entertain important visitors in such a