“What did you say?” Patrick spoke sharply.

“Nothing.”

“Ellen! I just said I would move them.”

“So you did hear me.”

“Are you two fighting?” asked Jack with interest.

So much for beautiful poignant moments, thought Ellen.

I decided I would spend the rest of Sunday watching television. A few months ago, Lance, who works in the office next to mine, lent me the series The Wire. He and his wife are always developing obsessions with TV series, and then he talks on and on about the fabulous character development and the amazing plotlines and the whatever—it’s just television. I always want to say, “Look, Lance, I’m not that interested in television. I have a life.”

Ha. Good one.

Such a pity that “stalking” isn’t a socially acceptable hobby.

For some reason he insisted on lending me the series, even though I’m sure I’d showed minimal interest. He wants me to watch it so we can talk at length about each episode. I know this because he lent The West Wing to another girl in the office, and then every time he saw her he wanted to know what episode she was up to so he could do an in-depth analysis. Eventually she started hiding, leaping into nearby offices whenever she saw him coming down the corridor.

So I was never going to bother watching it and Lance has given up asking me if I’ve seen the “pilot” yet, but suddenly it seemed like the perfect way to swallow up a whole Sunday. I would eat toast and chocolate and try to let the rest of the day go by without even thinking of Patrick, Ellen or Jack. I was even looking forward to it.

But of course, like so many other things, it wasn’t meant to be.

When I drove into my driveway, the new family from next door was pulling in too, with impeccably horrible timing.

They moved in on Friday, and they’re just as bad as I knew they would be. A swinging-ponytail mummy and a bald-in-a-cool-way daddy. A little girl with freckles and curls. A little boy with dimples. They’re adorable and athletic, friendly and frisky. It’s going to be like living next door to four Labradors. They introduced themselves and said they hoped they wouldn’t be too noisy, and I must tell them if they are, and they must have me over for drinks sometime. I tried to be polite but standoffish so they would know that none of this was necessary, that all that was required was a friendly wave. Jeff or the real estate agent should have explained this to them. The garage door sticks, garbage night is Monday, the neighbor doesn’t require conversation.

As soon as I got out of the car, they all came bounding over to me, their tongues hanging out, tails wagging. I nearly held up a palm to ward them off.

“Do you want to come over to our place this afternoon?” asked the little girl.

“Give Saskia a minute,” said the mother, all loving laughter. She’s at least fifteen years younger than me. Maybe more. I had no memory of her name. I hadn’t even bothered to register it.

They wanted to know if I would like to come over for a “housewarming barbecue” that afternoon.

“Just a few friends,” said the mother. “Just very casual.”

“The next-door neighbor at our last house was called Mrs. Short,” the little boy told me. “But she actually wasn’t short. She was actually pretty tall.”

“Huh,” I said.

The boy reminded me a little of Jack, something about the eyes maybe. Or perhaps it’s just the age. He looks about five, the same age as Jack was when Patrick and I broke up. I didn’t want to make friends with him. Just looking at him made my chest hurt.

“Or even if you just wanted to stop by for a quick drink,” suggested the father.

“We’ve got special sausages,” said the little girl. “They’ve got chili in them.”

“No pressure, don’t feel obligated!” said the mother. “We just thought—you know, if you didn’t have anything else on, seeing as we’re sort of sharing a house, we’ve never lived in a duplex before, so we thought—but of course, you probably have other plans, or you might prefer to just relax on a Sunday.”

She stopped, a little flustered. I saw her husband give her a look. They could sense my resistance and they were giving me a way out. They’re nice. Nice, polite, ordinary people. That’s all I need. To be living next door to nice people. They make me feel so inferior.

So much for my day at home sedating myself with television. I told them I would have loved to join them but I had another commitment that would take up most of the day.

I overdid it with my regrets. I shouldn’t have acted at all regretful.

“Another time!” said the father.

“Another time!” said the mother.

“Another time!” said I.

“Another time!” said the little boy, and we all laughed oh so heartily, and the poor kid frowned because, after all, why was it funny when he said it?

So, fabulous. Now there will be another time.

I went inside and spent quite a lot of time preparing for my fake social obligation. I decided I was going to an old friend’s fortieth birthday party. It was just a casual but elegant event in her backyard. There would be lots of kids running about, and she was having it catered—I decided she was a well-off friend; in fact, her house actually backed on to the harbor—so the food would be good. I would be doing a speech! It would be funny and sentimental. The sort of speech that Ellen would do at a friend’s fortieth birthday party.

I dressed in jeans, boots, a really beautiful blue top that Tammy had bought me for my birthday just before Mum died, that I’d never found the right occasion to wear—a fortieth birthday by the harbor, perfect!—and a long scarf that Mum had made for me. I knew that everyone at the party would compliment me on the scarf. My mother was very talented, I would tell them. I even blow-dried my hair and put on makeup and a pair of big earrings that Patrick always said made me look sexy.

By the time I walked out the door I was feeling the most attractive I’d felt in a long time.

On impulse I grabbed together the ingredients I’d bought for the Anzac biscuits and put them in a plastic bag. I decided I would drop them off at Ellen’s front door on my way to the party. She could make biscuits; I was too busy with my active social life.

As I walked to my car, a man and woman were walking up the driveway toward the neighbor’s house for the housewarming barbecue. The man was holding a bottle of wine and the woman was carrying a large plate wrapped in aluminum foil.

Tags: Liane Moriarty Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net