The Woman Next Door Read online

  The Woman Next Door

  Natasha Boydell

  Copyright © 2021 Natasha Boydell

  * * *

  The right of Natasha Boydell to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  * * *

  Print ISBN 978-1-914614-43-9

  Contents

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Also by Natasha Boydell

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

  You will also enjoy:

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks!

  * * *

  Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors?

  Also by Natasha Boydell

  The Missing Husband

  1

  Sophie rested her head against the soft rim of the paddling pool and looked up at the cloudless sky. In the distance she could see the white undercarriage of an aeroplane as it flew over London. She imagined the passengers inside; snoozing, reading or watching a video, as they headed off on business trips or holidays to far-flung destinations. She started to move her arm out of the water so that she could trace the contrails with her finger but changed her mind. It was too much effort. Instead, she observed her hand on the surface of the water, sandwiched in between a fallen leaf and a dead, floating fly.

  She was sweating. The once ice-cold hosepipe water in the paddling pool had been warmed up by the sun and beads of liquid trickled down her face. She reached for her cola on the grass beside her, pressing the chilled can to her forehead for a minute before opening it and drinking in great gulps. When she was satisfied, she put the can back down and watched her feet for a while. They were poking out of the water at the other end of the pool, the weeks-old coral-coloured nail varnish peeling off at the top of her toenails. She should remove it but she was just so… so what? Hot? Tired? Lazy? Lethargic, that’s what she was. Lethargic.

  The heatwave had begun in the middle of June and now, six weeks later, it was still going strong. The neat rows of semi-detached houses in Pemberton Road, the north London street, sweltered beneath the relentless daily bombardment of sun so that when she looked at them, they blurred at the edges. The lush green garden lawns had turned yellow and along the edges of the garden Sophie’s plants had all wilted, a cruel reminder that she kept forgetting to water them. In the corner of the cracked patio, a pile of discarded children’s toys lay in an unruly heap – footballs, tennis racquets, space-hoppers.

  Sophie glanced at them and frowned. I should tidy them up, she thought, and put them back in the shed where they belong. Instead, she drained the dregs of her drink and closed her eyes. After a few minutes she opened them again and glanced down at her phone on the grass beside the pool. She had another two hours before she had to pick the children up from school. Should she go back inside and do some work? She’d done none whatsoever today and an all too familiar feeling of guilt was niggling at her. But there was absolutely no breeze and it would be claustrophobically hot in the house. Why were British homes so unprepared for summer? No, she was better off out here. She could bring her laptop outside though, sit under the umbrella and at least fire off a few emails. Yes, in five minutes, she decided.

  The sound of a door opening nearby made her start. Sophie raised her head slightly and listened with curiosity as she heard flip-flops slapping across the patio of the house next door. She instinctively glanced at the garden fence, as if she might develop X-ray vision and see through to the other side. A few seconds later she heard the unmistakable pop of a bottle of something fizzy being opened and another set of footsteps joining the first.

  ‘Christ on a bike, it’s hot,’ a male voice said.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ a woman replied. ‘Who’d be so stupid as to move house in a heatwave?’

  They both laughed. ‘Well, we did it anyway. We’re in.’

  ‘Thank heavens,’ the woman said. ‘The journey over was hairy though. Remind me never to follow a removal van again. Every time it turned a corner, I imagined your great aunty Vera’s china set being smashed to pieces. And I’ve got a headache. Where are the painkillers?’

  The man snorted. ‘They’re packed away somewhere along with the Calpol and Strepsils in any one of boxes one to thirty-two if you want to look for them. Anyway, we’d better get started with the unpacking: we’ve got a lot to do before my parents bring the kids over tomorrow.’

  ‘In a minute, Jack. Let’s just stand out here with some bubbles and enjoy our new home.’

  After that it was silent and Sophie suddenly felt conspicuous, like she was intruding on a private moment. But if she moved, they’d hear her and know that she’d been listening. She stayed as still as she could in the water, too afraid to move or even to breathe. Her skin was beginning to wrinkle, and she felt exposed in her faded, too small spotty bikini, even though she knew that the strangers couldn’t see her. Every second that ticked by was like an hour as she closed her eyes and pretended that she was invisible. Eventually she heard the flip-flops slapping back towards the house and the back door closing, and she finally relaxed.

  The interruption had given her a new burst of energy that just a few minutes before she couldn’t imagine ever having again. With a fresh purpose, she heaved herself out of the paddling pool, grabbed one of the kids’ frayed hooded towels and put it over her head so that the edge of the towel barely skimmed her backside. She hurried self-consciously into the house, wondering if anyone was watching her from a window next door. Once she was back in the sanctuary of the kitchen, she typed out a text message to Alan, her husband.

  Breaking news! The new people have just moved in next door!

  His reply came a few minutes later.

  Go on then Detective Brennan. What have you found out?

  She grinned and replied.

  They’ve only been there a few minutes. Will investigate and report back.

  He quickly responded.

  Let’s debrief over a curry tonight.

  She smiled with anticipation, checked there was a bottle of white wine in the fridge for later and then padded upstairs to the bathroom for a shower. Fifteen minutes later she was washed, dressed and just as sweaty as she’d been before.

  ‘So
d it,’ she said to herself, looking in the mirror. There was no point attempting foundation in this heat. Instead, she dabbed on some tinted moisturiser, half-heartedly ran a mascara wand through her eyelashes and grabbed her phone. She still had ages to go before her two children, Tom and Katie, finished school but when the weather was nice some of the mums often gathered earlier in the park. She’d take her chances and hope there was someone there to chat to. Perhaps she’d get an iced coffee on the way. The prospect made her mouth water.

  She glanced guiltily at her laptop on the way out but even that wasn’t enough to dampen the Friday feeling that had overcome her. ‘Sorry,’ she said to it as she passed. ‘I promise you’ll get some action on Monday. But it’s Friday afternoon and I’ve got places to go and people to see.’

  She closed the front door behind her and made her way down the steps, glancing curiously at the house next door as she passed. There was a large SUV in the driveway and as she peered into it, she spotted some child car seats. She looked up and saw that all the windows of the house had been thrown open, presumably to get some air circulating. It had been empty for months after the previous owners, an elderly couple, had moved into sheltered accommodation. It had only been on the market for a few days before the sold sign went up outside. That was the way in this area now – fixer-uppers were like gold dust and were quickly snapped up, usually by families looking to upsize. She and Alan had been lucky to get theirs ten years ago before the area became so popular. There was no way they’d be able to afford a property here now.

  As she walked past the house Sophie looked at the front door, silently willing it to open so that she could meet the new neighbours, but it remained resolutely shut. With a small wave of disappointment, she carried on walking down Pemberton Road towards the school. She’d stop at the supermarket and pick up a bottle of bubbles and a card, she decided. Then she could drop it round over the weekend. The children were going to be thrilled when she told them the news: they loved a bit of excitement, especially the prospect of making new friends. She’d probably have to prise them down from the top of the back-garden fence when they got home that afternoon, the nosy little sods.

  She reached for her headphones, plugged them into her ears, turned on a pop playlist and made her leisurely way towards the park. As the music lifted her spirits, she smiled to herself. The sun was shining, the white wine was chilling, she had the whole weekend ahead of her and Alan was coming home early. So what if she hadn’t done any actual work for longer than she cared to remember and she was feeling unmotivated? Life, she decided, could be worse.

  Later that evening, after Tom and Katie had gone to bed, Sophie and Alan chewed over the prospect of the new neighbours as they chewed on their curry.

  ‘They’ve definitely got young children,’ Sophie confirmed. ‘I saw child seats in the car.’

  Alan swallowed his korma thoughtfully as he digested the new information. ‘They’ve got a hell of a job ahead of them doing up that house if they’re planning to live there at the same time. It looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since the First World War.’

  ‘Come on, Alan, that’s an exaggeration, it’s not that bad. Anyway, it’s good for the area, this regeneration. It pushes up the property prices.’

  ‘Tell me about it: it’s keeping us in kormas.’

  Alan ran a building company and his bread and butter were families buying run-down houses and paying him a fortune to do them up. And there were enough projects in Finchley alone to keep him busy for life. You couldn’t walk down a single street without seeing skips and vans parked up, builders chatting on the pavement outside while having a break from doing rear extensions and loft conversions. But Alan had a strict three-mile no-work zone around the house. ‘You’ve got to be able to leave your work behind when you come home,’ he always said.

  ‘I hope they’re nice,’ she said. ‘It’ll be lovely to have some friendly neighbours, and some pals for the kids to play with. I wonder if they’ll go to the same school as Tom and Katie?’

  Alan shrugged and reached for a second helping of naan bread. She could sense him losing interest already. It was different for him: he left the house early each morning and returned home in the evening, tired and ready to put his feet up and doze off in front of the TV. He enjoyed socialising but only when Sophie organised it. Alan was a family man but new people moving in next door were of little concern to him. For Sophie though, their home and neighbourhood were her whole life. It was where she lived, worked, made friends and raised a family all in one. And new people moving into the street was her equivalent of office gossip.

  She had been a reporter in her twenties, covering stories for local, and later national, newspapers. But after they had children the long, unsociable hours and constant travelling went from being an adventure to a logistical, guilt-ridden nightmare. Eventually, she’d thrown in the towel and become a freelance writer. Now her old dressing table doubled as a desk and her kitchen was the staffroom for one. She enjoyed the flexibility, but she missed the colleagues terribly.

  They mopped up their leftover curry sauce and cleared away the takeaway together in companiable silence, then relocated to the living room to watch TV. Alan turned on an old nineties comedy show and within minutes he was chortling away, glancing at Sophie occasionally to see if she was laughing too. But although she smiled back at him, she was distracted, hot and bothered. As she reached for her cold glass of wine, her mind wandered back to earlier that day and the new voices she’d heard from next door. The woman had sounded well-spoken and fairly local. The man definitely had a northern accent – Manchester, maybe, she thought.

  Restless, she got up and walked over to the window to open it, desperate for even a puff of breeze. That curry had been a bad idea. As she returned to the sofa, she spied the card and Prosecco that she’d bought earlier, sitting on the dining room table ready to be delivered by hand in the morning. Oh well, I’ll meet them soon enough, she thought, and with that she grabbed her wine and portable mini fan, curled up next to Alan and switched her attention to the TV.

  2

  Angie was rinsing coffee cups in the sink when the doorbell rang. She glanced at her watch. It was 9am. Jack thundered down the stairs and opened the front door before she’d even had a chance to dry her hands.

  ‘Hi, we’re the neighbours at number 47. We just wanted to come over and introduce ourselves,’ a woman’s voice said.

  Christ, they’re keen, Angie thought, before wiping her hands on her sundress, plastering on her best smile and heading out to greet them.

  In the hallway stood a woman about her age, maybe few years younger, and two children. The boy seemed to be vibrating with excitement, like an overeager puppy, as his eyes searched the house. Angie suspected he was looking for signs of other boys his age. The girl hid behind her mother’s leg, peering out shyly before quickly withdrawing when she caught Angie’s eye. The woman was barefoot, apparently having crossed the driveway with no shoes on. She was dressed in a T-shirt and khaki shorts, her fair hair scraped back into a bun and a friendly, open, freckly kind of face that made Angie warm to her immediately.

  ‘Sorry for the early intrusion,’ she said, looking a little sheepish. ‘The kids were just so excited to meet you, they’d have come round at 6am if they could. You’d have thought Father Christmas had moved in next door.’

  Angie laughed and stretched out her hand, trying to relax and not think about the endless things she had to do that morning. ‘No problem at all, we’re thrilled to meet you. I’m Angie, and this is my husband, Jack.’

  The woman shook it firmly, before handing over a bottle of fizz and a card. ‘I’m Sophie and this is Tom and Katie.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Angie said effusively, giving the bottle a quick once over, mentally categorising it as cheap and cheerful, and sticking it under her arm as she opened the card.

  ‘It’s nothing really; we just wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood.’

  ‘It’s very
kind of you,’ Angie said, and gestured for the neighbours to follow her into the house. ‘Come into the kitchen and sit down. The place is a mess and there’s boxes everywhere but at least we’ve got a table and some chairs. Tea? Coffee?’

  Sophie hesitated, perhaps worried about intruding, but then she nodded. ‘Coffee please,’ she replied, following Angie and sinking down onto one of the chairs. Angie saw her glance around the room. The house was a typical four-bed semi-detached. When Angie and Jack had come to view it, along with several other houses in the area, they’d both tried to look past the dark green carpets, avocado bathroom suite and dilapidated kitchen and visualise the potential. It was a nice-looking house, they agreed. They’d have enough money to refurbish it to a high spec, it was close to good primary and secondary schools, and walking distance to Angie’s mum’s house.

  ‘We’ll do a loft conversion and rear extension,’ Jack had said, already making mental notes and measurements. ‘Then the kids can have a bedroom each. They’ll want that soon.’