The People at Number 9. Felicity Everett

a copywriter,” she said.

      “Great! Advertising. Must be fun.”

      “Oh it’s not Saatchi’s or anything,” she said quickly, “it’s really boring. Just in-house stuff for companies mainly. And consumer-y bits…”

      He nodded, and turned his head, scanning the garden for someone more interesting to talk to, she assumed.

      “… But I write,” she added quickly, “just for myself, you know.”

      “Cool,” he said, turning back to her. “What sort of thing?”

      “Short stories, the odd poem. I’ve started a novel, but it’s run out of steam.”

      “You should talk to Lou.”

      “Oh?” said Sara warily.

      “Yeah,” he replied, nodding, “she’ll give you a few pointers – depending on the kind of thing it is, of course.”

      “Lou’s a writer?”

      “A writer-director.”

      “What, films?”

      “Yeah. She’s working on a short at the moment. Terrific concept.”

      “She never said…”

      “Oh, she wouldn’t. She’s very humble, my wife. One of those quiet types that just beavers away in the background and then comes up with this gob-smackingly amazing thing. Know what I mean?”

      “Mmm,” said Sara miserably. She had only just got comfortable with the idea of Lou the style maven, earth mother and muse; now, it seemed, she had to contend with Lou the creative genius.

      “Well…” Gavin looked around for more glasses to fill. It suddenly seemed imperative that she detain him.

      “What do you make of Spanish cinema?” she blurted. He looked taken aback.

      “I’m no connoisseur,” he said, “Almodóvar can be fun, but he’s so inconsistent.”

      “I know what you mean,” Sara agreed, hoping she wouldn’t have to elaborate. “And doesn’t it get on your nerves how sloppy they are with the subtitles?” she rolled her eyes despairingly. “Some of the French films I’ve seen….”

      “You speak French?” He looked impressed.

      “I get by,” she replied, then shrugged.

      “Ce qui expliquerait le mystère subtil de votre allure,” said Gavin, with a very passable accent and a twinkle in his eye.

      “Er… yeah, okay, I did it for A level.” She pulled a rueful face. “I’m a bit rusty.”

      There was a pause, then they both burst out laughing.

      “Great!” he said, shaking his head. “I love it.”

      “Good joke?” Neil appeared at Sara’s elbow.

      “Oh hello,” she said, trying not to feel annoyed with him. “Gavin, this is my husband, Neil.”

      They shook hands.

      “It’s ten thirty,” Neil said to her, meaningfully.

      “’Scuse me,” Gavin said, touching Neil’s shoulder, “if it’s that time, I should probably be helping my missus with the food. Great talking to you, Sara.”

      He walked away, still shaking his head and smiling.

      “Don’t you think it’s time we left?” Neil said.

      “Why?”

      “Well, the boys are on their own, for one thing.”

      “Go and check on them, if you’re worried.”

      “Are you having that good a time?” He seemed surprised.

      “Yes, because I’m not stuck in the kitchen with Carol and Simon.”

      “They’ve gone now,” he told her. “They said no one talked to them.”

      She felt a twinge of guilt.

      “I’ll go and check on the boys,” she said.“You, you know… put yourself about a bit. These are our new neighbours.”

      He glanced doubtfully at the clusters of people – the beautiful, waif-like women, the men with statement sideburns and recherché spectacles.

      “All right,” he said with an unconvincing air of bravado. He raised his glass to her and she felt a pang of love for him. It reminded her of the day she had left Patrick in Reception for the first time – the brave smile he had given her, that she knew would become a major lip-wobble as soon as she walked away. Neil might be CEO-in-waiting of Haven Housing Association, but they both knew that wasn’t going to cut any ice here.

      The boys were fine. Patrick was snoring lightly, sweat glistening on his top lip. Sleep had stripped back the years, restoring the cherubic quality to features, which, by day, he worked hard to make pugnacious. She turned down his duvet and smoothed his hair to one side with her palm.

      Caleb was in bed reading Harry Potter, his eyelids drooping.

      “Good party?” he said.

      “Not bad.”

      “It’s very loud.”

      It was. They were having a Hispanic interlude. Sara could feel the salsa rhythm pulsing through the brickwork. They had a bit of a nerve really, subjecting people to this when they had only just moved in; a lot of families nearby had young kids. She suddenly wondered whether that was why she and Neil had been invited – so they wouldn’t complain about the noise.

      “I’ll ask them to keep it down,” she said. She went to kiss him, but he pulled the duvet up over his face to prevent her. She smiled sadly and stood up.

      “’Night, Mum,” he called, as she went downstairs.

      “’Night,” she called back, in a stage whisper.

      Their front door was shut now. She leaned on the doorbell, but she knew she didn’t stand a chance of being heard above the racket. Then she noticed that the gate to the side passage stood open. She hurried through it and into the garden, just in time for the music to come to an abrupt stop. For a moment she thought she had timed her return to coincide with the end of the party, but something in the atmosphere told her that was wrong. The guests had formed a circle around the edge of the grass. As she squeezed her way through to the front, she saw Lou and Gavin standing close together in the middle, Lou’s face inclined submissively against Gavin’s shoulder. At first she thought they must have had a row, but then she noticed a guitarist sitting on a stool in front of the gazebo. There was a hush of anticipation. Rat tat tat; three times the musician slapped his soundboard and the loudness of the cracks belied the absence of an amplifier. Then he summoned a high-pitched, tuneful wail from his upper chest and started to thrum and sing the opening bars of a tango. Sara felt a shudder of embarrassment as Lou and Gavin flung their arms out at shoulder level, intertwined their wrists and began to dance. As the virtuosity of the guitarist and the commitment of the dancers became apparent, however, she found herself spellbound. Lou and Gavin circled the improvised dance floor, their ankles weaving intricately in and out of one another’s path, Lou’s slinky red dress flowing around Gav’s thighs, as they embraced and parted, attracted and repelled one another. The crowd clapped along, not in a spirit of solidarity but of daring; an egging on of something dangerous and illicit. Despite lacking the polish and timing of professional dancers, Gavin and Lou had something even more compelling – a quality that utterly faced down any ambivalence or awkwardness in the watching crowd – they really meant it. As they glanced off each other, brought their cheeks together and their thighs together, closed their eyes and jutted their chins, the sexual chemistry between them was flagrant. It was like watching a cataclysm; a slow-motion car crash with pulverised metal and shattered bone and rending flesh, and knowing that one