Page 4 of The Psychopath Next Door

‘It’s absolutely no problem.’ She looked at Rose. ‘We girls have to stick together, don’t we?’

They locked eyes. It was a strange moment, like they were communicating, saying something I couldn’t understand. Female bonding. Something I would never truly understand.

‘Great to meet you, Ethan,’ Fiona said. ‘I think we’re going to get along and be great friends.’

She didn’t look at me as she said this. She looked directly at Rose, holding eye contact.

Then she walked away, calling, ‘See you later,’ as she went.

2

Emma got home an hour later. I was making dinner, efforts to organise my office abandoned. I’d spent way too long on my Cure records, and had only just made it to the Ds and my collection of Depeche Mode twelve-inches.

‘Smells good,’ she said, coming in. ‘What are we having?’

I subscribed to a food box service which delivered several recipes each week along with the ingredients. Tonight’s dish was a chickpea and tomato curry, one of my favourites.

‘How was work?’ I asked.

Until recently, Emma had worked as the marketing manager for a little company that sold yoga products, mostly online. She had loved it, but in order to afford the house move, she had taken a job with a bigger, more corporate firm, marketing a product she was far less passionate about: pet food. There were some perks – for Lola anyway, because she got sent tons of samples of dog treats – but I knew Emma wasn’t happy.

‘Same old bullshit,’ she said, launching into a typical tale of how her boss, the dog-food-empire equivalent of anepobaby – his grandfather had founded the company – had asked her to prepare a presentation for a new product, about which he’d now changed his mind.

She took a bottle of wine out of the fridge and poured herself a glass. I watched her gulp it down and reminded myself what our relationship counsellor had said: it was important for our marriage that I not keep reminding her of the chain of events that had led to her working there.

Emma refilled her glass, then went upstairs to get changed, taking her wine with her. Moments later, Dylan appeared.

‘What are we having?’ he asked, sniffing the air. ‘Curry? Can I have a whole naan to myself?’

At fifteen, Dylan was going through his ravenous-teenage-boy phase, when there was never enough food in the fridge and ordinary portions simply didn’t suffice. He sat down at the table next to Rose, who was already there, phone in hand.

‘Good last day of term?’ I asked Dylan.

‘It was all right.’

Everybody told us that, while Rose was the spit of her mum, Dylan looked just like me: dark brown hair that was almost black, a little cleft in his chin, tall and skinny, and usually clad in a band T-shirt, a few of which he’d stolen from me. Right now he was still in his school uniform, collar undone, shirt untucked, hair ruffled and sticking up at the back just like mine used to before it started falling out. Was it narcissistic of me to think he was a good-looking kid?

Emma came in, smelling of soap, having changed into jeans and a baggy T-shirt. Sometimes, the sight of her still made me catch my breath. Her hair was loosely piled up on the top of her head, and the neck of the T-shirt was so stretched it hung loose to expose a clavicle and most of one shoulder. I abandoned the curry, which I was halfway through serving, and pulled her into a hug, kissing her cheek. Behind me, I heard Dylan groan, and Emma pulled away gently, going over to the table. Lola followed her, taking upposition by her feet, where she would spend the mealtime gazing up, begging for scraps with her soft brown eyes.

‘Phone away please, Rose,’ Emma said, as I put the plates in front of them.

Rose huffed a little but did it without any real protest.

‘I met our new neighbour today,’ I said as I sat down beside Emma and poured myself a glass of wine.

‘Oh?’

‘Her name’s Fiona. Australian, though she said she’s lived in the UK since she graduated. Late thirties, I’d guess. Seems nice.’

‘Is it just her?’ Dylan asked.

‘Why, are you hoping she might have a teenage daughter?’

‘Urgh, Dad.’ His face had gone pink. ‘You’re so lame.’

‘It’s part of my job as your father to be lame. The most important part of this story is that she rescued Rose from a pair of kids who were teasing her on the bus.’

‘What?’ Emma put her fork down. ‘Rose? Are you okay?’

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