Page 15 of Perfect Wives
He smacks his hand to his forehead, making me laugh as I open the front door and we step onto Magnolia Close.
The twelve houses are set like the numbers on a clock, built in grand red brick with white sash windows. But that’s where the similarity ends. Each house is bespoke. Each offering something different from its neighbours. Ours – number six – sits at the top of the close opposite the gates, and it’s the grandest of them all – three storeys and my huge open-plan kitchen, perfect for hosting. But the garden is small – a strip of lawn with two borders of shrubs and rose bushes.
Beth and Alistair are three doors down at number three. And Tasha and Marc’s house – number twelve – is at the bottom of the close, nearest to the gates. It’s smaller than the others, but it has the largest garden plot, which would’ve been perfect for the extension she so desperately wanted. And on the other side of the gates to Tasha, tucked slightly back, next door to Beth and Alistair, is number two – Jonny’s house. The only house without hanging baskets or a flower bed at the front. The only house that hasn’t put their bin away from the collection yesterday.
Just looking at Jonny’s black front door causes a familiar pulsing anger to stir in my body. I cast around for a mantra, something positive and bright, but when it comes to Jonny, all I have is this hate.
Oscar pulls me along to where Beth and Henry are already waiting like always. I spot Tasha across the close, struggling with Lanie’s pushchair at her front door while hurrying Matilda and Sofia along.
We meet by the gates, and the children move together like a pack of wolf cubs, Oscar leading with Matilda at his side, heads bent close. Henry trails behind, his red hair neatly combed, his uniform straight in a way Oscar’s never seems to look. He’s holding out a conker in his hand, showing it to little Sofia. Hereyes widen in delight, and she nearly trips on her book bag in her excitement.
I fall into step beside Beth and Tasha and slide my sunglasses on before assessing my friends. Tasha, even with her flawless skin and model-like beauty, looks washed out. In her pushchair, ten-month-old Lanie is grizzling, shoving a rice cake into her mouth with sticky fingers. Beth is faring better. The grey pallor beneath her skin is the only giveaway that she’s feeling last night’s excesses. Her long auburn hair is neatly braided. The black skirt she made herself is paired with a pea-green jumper she knitted last month. She reminds me of Nicole Kidman in an autumnVoguespread.
I’m desperate to dissect last night in the pub and Keira. Unease sweeps through my body when I think of the way she slipped so confidently into the chair beside mine. How quickly the conversation turned to murder. But the children are only a few steps ahead and at that age where they hear and repeat everything, so we make small talk instead.
‘Alistair nearly missed his train again this morning,’ Beth says, rolling her eyes. ‘He had to run back to the house for his phone. He barely made it.’
I feel a pang of something in my gut I don’t like. It’s not jealousy exactly. It’s just…Alistair is in London every day. So is Marc, Tasha’s husband. Or he’s constantly off on business trips. Nate used to commute too, but his job shifted to remote working, and now he spends all day in his study on the third floor. There’s never a moment to miss him. Never a moment to be alone in my home. No stories to trade at the end of each day. He’s just…always there. At least he’s out tonight. I think about popping into town for a new underwear set. Maybe some candles too. Waiting for him when he comes home late.
It’s only a five-minute walk to Magnolia Road Primary School. It sits on the edge of the town and has a village-schoolfeel to it – welcoming and friendly. Its low buildings stretch out in a neat cluster, connected by glass walkways and edged with flower beds and vegetable patches the children care for in gardening club. It’s ranked as one of the best schools in Essex, and only those in the small catchment area get a space. I see the desperation in the parents who pop in on a weekly basis to the estate agent’s on Park Street where I work part-time. I swear some of them look ready to kill to get their hands on a property inside the catchment.
The metal school gate clangs, causing Tasha to wince as we make our way to our usual corner of the playground. Oscar charges into the melee of playing children without a backward glance, and I scan the groups of waiting parents. It’s mostly mums with a few dads and grandparents thrown in. It takes me a moment to realise who I’m looking for – Keira. But there’s no sign of the sleek black bob or those sharp charcoaled eyes anywhere.
‘Strange,’ I murmur to myself. I’m sure she said her daughter Rowan was starting today.
The bell rings, and there’s a scramble to grab bags and coats and say goodbyes, and then the children disappear. Beth and I wait for Tasha by the gate as she deals with Matilda’s daily wobble – the tears and the clinging to her mum’s legs. I swear I catch her little sister, Sofia, rolling her eyes as she walks, perfectly composed, into the reception class. God, with Sri Lankan and Italian blood, she could be a supermodel when she grows up. All three girls are the perfect mix of both parents and jaw-droppingly beautiful.
And then it’s just the three of us, with Lanie asleep in the pushchair, and finally, we can talk about last night.
I flash a mischievous smile, trying to lift the mood, but it’s Tasha who speaks first.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, rubbing her forehead. ‘But what the hell was that last night?’ She sighs, scrunching her eyes shut for a moment. ‘I feel awful,’ she says. ‘Marc was waiting by the front door when I got home. He had to leave to catch his flight for his business trip, and I told him I’d be back by ten. He was fuming. He almost missed his flight.’
I feel a familiar pang of sadness for Tasha. She’s juggling so much. I drop my hand around her shoulder and give her a hug.
‘We lost track of time, and I lost track of my belongings,’ Beth adds with a sigh. ‘I left my scarf at the pub last night. So annoying. I only finished knitting it last week. I’ll pop in later and see if it’s still there.’
‘Can you check if they’ve got one of my gloves too?’ I ask, showing her the lone suede glove from the pocket of my jacket.
Beth nods before flicking a glance at the passing parents. ‘Did anyone see Keira this morning?’ she asks, her voice low.
I shake my head. ‘I swear she said Rowan was starting today, but maybe it’s next week. There was something…’ I trail off, not sure how to explain the prickling thorns in the pit of my stomach this morning when I think of Keira.
‘Odd about her?’ Tasha finishes for me. ‘Yeah. What kind of person joins a table of women and then starts talking about murder?’
‘Definitely unhinged,’ Beth mutters in reply. ‘Let’s have the next PTA meeting at your house, Georgie. I don’t want to repeat last night.’
‘So we had a strange encounter with someone and let our hair down a bit,’ I say, trying to make light of last night, even though it feels like more to me too. ‘It’s not a crime.’
‘Come on, Georgie,’ Beth says. ‘It was more than that. Planning someone’s murderisa crime,’ she adds so quietly I almost don’t catch it.
‘We hardly planned it,’ I scoff.
Beth raises her brows at me. ‘We talked about how we would kill someone and when we would do it.’
‘We didn’t mean it,’ Tasha protests.
‘I know,’ Beth replies. ‘But I don’t know if the law would see it that way. Conspiracy to commit murder constitutes a crime under the Criminal Law Act 1977. Ten years to life in prison.’
