Felicity Everett - The People at Number 9 - a gripping novel of jealousy and betrayal among friends

Neil shrugged.

“Beats me,” he said, “but you’ve got to take your hat off to him. The nerve. The confidence. To take on a mortgage like they must have, knowing you’ve got four dependants…”

“Lou works,” Sara objected.

“Yeah, in film ,” he said. “And then to blow a ton of money kitting out the studio like it’s a private hospital, and all for…” he shrugged “… something so particular, so rarefied. I mean, how does he know people are going to get it?”

“Oh people get it,” said Sara, “I’ve looked him up online. He’s in the top fifty most collectable living artists.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Neil said, “I admired it. I’m just not sure I understood it.”

“Oh I did…” Sara said. She took a deep breath “… I definitely think he’s obsessed with mortality. And then I think there’s quite a lot about the sacred and the profane. I mean the writhing, emaciated ones – I think must be referencing Auschwitz or something, and then you’ve got the ones with the wings – they’re angels, obviously – but maybe fallen angels because there’s a sordidness about them, a sense of shame. My favourite – the one that really spoke to me – was that one with all the tiny toys stuck to it and whitewashed over, did you see that? It looked kind of diseased until you got up close and saw what they really were. That, to me, was about childhood, about how we’re all formed and scarred by our early experiences. I think he’s actually very courageous.”

“Ok-a-ay,” said Neil.

5

It was the start of the autumn term and Sara had promised to show Gavin the ropes. The school run was his thing, apparently. Over the course of the summer, they had forged a firm rapport, yet finding him on her doorstep bright and early this crisp September morning, she found herself unaccountably tongue-tied.

“Hi,” she said. “It’s not raining, is it?” Gavin frowned, held out his hand and scanned the cloudless sky.

“I think we’re okay.”

Sara ushered Patrick and Caleb out of the door, fussing unnecessarily over their lunchboxes and book bags to cover her awkwardness, then fell into step with Zuley’s buggy.

The day might have been warm, but the street was done with summer. The privet hedges were laced with dust and the trees held onto their leaves with an air of reluctance. The long grass in front of the council flats had snagged various items of litter. Here and there a car roof box, as yet un-dismantled, recalled the heady days of August in Carcassonne or Cornwall, but for the commuters hurrying by, earphones in, heads down, the holidays were ancient history.

Only Gavin, in his canvas shorts and flip-flops still seemed to inhabit the earlier season. Sara stole occasional glances at him as he strode along. She liked the way he gave the buggy an extra hard shove every few steps to make Zuley laugh, the way he gave his sons the latitude to surge fearlessly ahead, but pulled them up short with a word when they got out of hand. He might not spend that much time around his children, she thought, but he was a good parent when he did; a better one, probably, than Lou. To the casual observer he could be any old self-employed Dad – a web designer or a journalist. She hugged to herself the knowledge of his exceptionalness.

“So you didn’t get away in the end?” he said. “That’s a pity.”

“No,” Sara sighed, “Neil wanted me and the kids to go without him, but I wasn’t up for a busman’s holiday. We just stayed here and I took them swimming and did the museums and stuff. Lost our deposit on the cottage, but…” she said, shrugging, “... not the end of the world.”

She had been less phlegmatic when Neil had told her, with days to go, that he couldn’t make it to Dorset after all. A mix-up over the holiday rota at work – not his fault, but if he wanted to send the right message, improve his chances of getting the big job, he’d have to lead from the front.

“Sounds like you had a lovely time,” she said, wistfully.

“Yeah. Great to catch up with old mates,” Gav agreed.

They turned the corner, passing the bus shelter where shiny Year Sevens waited for the 108 in over-sized uniforms, like lambs to the slaughter.

“Where was it you went again?”

She knew perfectly well. Tom and Rhiannon’s place in the Lake District. She’d had the full account – the walk up Helvellyn, the skinny-dipping, the toasted marshmallows. She had managed to disguise her envy; had smiled, nodded, agreed with Lou that they should definitely all get up there some time, the six of them and that Tom and Rhiannon sounded lovely.

“The Lakes,” Gav said with a shrug. “Weather was terrible.”

She could have kissed him.

“Neil still odds-on for promotion?” he asked, as they waited at the pedestrian crossing for the man to turn green.

“Looks like it,” she admitted, embarrassed. What, after all, could promotion mean to a man like Gavin? A man for whom success was measured in the raising of hairs on the back of a neck, the falling of scales from the eyes?

They shepherded the children across the road and quickly past the newsagent’s, ignoring their clamour for sweets.

“Smart guy, your husband,” Gav said.

Sara gave him a curious sideways glance.

“No, really, I admire him,” Gavin insisted, “he’s got integrity. Doggedness. Do I mean dogged?”

Sara shrugged.

“He commits to things – his work, his family, the community. I admire that…”

“So, are you a quitter ?” Sara blurted.

“Because we left Spain, you mean?” Gavin frowned, after a pause.

Sara looked away, her cheeks hot. She always did this; overstepped the mark, said the wrong thing. A harassed-looking woman came out of her thirties semi, still tucking her shirt into her smart skirt. She waited, with barely disguised irritation, for their procession to pass so that she could reach her car and Sara gave her a meek smile of thanks.

“I didn’t mean that,” Sara said now, turning back to Gav. “Of course you’re not a quitter. Your commitment’s obvious. To Lou; to your work – my God, nobody could doubt your commitment to your work .”

“So you think I’m obsessed ?”

“No! Good grief, but even if you were, it goes with the territory, doesn’t it? Artists are supposed to be driven. I mean, can you imagine,” she added, with a manic little laugh, “Picasso getting up in the morning and going, ‘Right, Françoise, shall I reinvent modern art today, or do you need a hand with the kids?’”

“I suppose…” he said, doubtfully, swivelling the buggy up the ramp and through the school gate.

“No, you’re fine. It’s us mere mortals who have to worry about work-life balance.”

“But you’re a writer,” Gavin shouted, above the din of the playground, and Sara winced, hoping no one heard.

“A copy -writer,” she corrected him, “day job comes first. Don’t know when I last got to do any of my own stuff. For all you think Neil’s such a family man, with this promotion in the offing, he’s around less and less. And when he is around, his head’s not around, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I get accused of that a lot.”

“Do you?” said Sara curiously. “I’d have thought with you both being creatives—hey, boys, don’t forget your bookbags…” but it was too late, her sons had disappeared into the mêlée.

“Not by Lou ,” Gavin replied. “She’s got a sixth sense about that stuff. She gives me plenty of headspace. And I do her. No, it’s other people.”

“Oh,” said Sara, a little deflated. She couldn’t imagine who else would have dibs on Gavin’s headspace. Then again, there was still a lot about Gavin that mystified her. She could have gone on talking to him all day, but this was where they parted, he to deliver Zuley to her childminder, she to catch the 9.47 to Cannon Street.