‘We don’t really need one,’ said Tim. ‘I’m afraid I got you alone on false pretences.’
‘Oh,’ said Amy. He must have seen her hide the corkscrew in the kitchen. She let go of his hand, feeling embarrassed.
‘It’s nothing sinister,’ he added quickly. ‘Although, lying to get a pretty girl on her own in the cold dark night surrounded by zombies – maybe it does sound a little on the creepy side.’
‘Lying?’ queried Amy, although inside she was busy being delighted about the ‘pretty’ comment.
He sheepishly held up the bottle. ‘Screw top,’ he said.
Amy laughed. ‘There was a bottle opener in the kitchen,’ she confessed.
‘I know,’ he replied. He smiled. ‘Is that a little park?’ he asked. ‘It looks nice.’
‘That’s a bit of grass in the middle of a roundabout,’ said Amy.
‘Care to join me for a swig of cheap red wine from my screw-top bottle in the middle of a roundabout?’ he offered, with a small bow, proffering his hand.
Amy took the hand and smiled again. ‘That’s the sort of offer I don’t get every day,’ she said. ‘At least not from a rock star with pumpkin in his ears.’
‘And wine,’ he replied, twisting open the bottle as they sat on the rough grass. ‘Don’t forget the bottle of wine.’ He handed the bottle to Amy. It felt cold in her hand, but the wine warmed her throat. She passed it back to him and watched as he drank. The bottle caught the moonlight and glowed a deep, beautiful green.
Amy nestled the pieces of the mug between two embroidered silk cushions on the sofa and spent a long time searching for her glue. It was frustrating. She must have at least twenty tubes of the stuff, accumulated over the years, but now, with the mug sitting, scared, incomplete, she couldn’t find any of them. She rummaged through her kitchen drawers. Didn’t the glue want to fulfil its sticky destiny? She pushed a collection of spare paper napkins to one side and stopped.
There was a photograph of the three of them together. Amy, Chantel and Tim. Taken outside this house, on the day they’d moved in, more than fifteen years ago. Amy was carrying a single oversized rucksack that had contained all her worldly possessions. She was smiling. But back then, of course, she couldn’t have known what those two would do to her.
The doorbell rang.
Amy put the photograph back in the drawer and covered it with the napkins again. Unless whoever it was had a delivery of glue, Amy could do without a visitor. But hiding hadn’t done her much good so far. Checking she had her keys, Amy made her way carefully through the hallway, opened the door just wide enough for her to squeeze outside, then swung it closed behind her.
A man stood in front of her. He looked strangely familiar to Amy, but she couldn’t work out why. He had a gentle attempt at a beard and wore a ratty old T-shirt in a shade of brown that matched his coffee-coloured eyes. He smiled at her and held out his hand. Amy was surprised that she could still make out dimples through his beard. She hesitated a moment and then took his hand. After clutching the cool mug, his hand felt hot to the touch.
‘I’m Richard,’ the man told her. ‘From next door. I think you met my partner and sons earlier?’
Amy looked past him into her front garden. Both boys were stroking Smudge, who was lying between two of her potted plants with his ears pushed back. He was giving the children a suspicious look as they showered him with unexpected affection. Of course, that’s where she recognised the man from, she realised. He was a bigger, bearded version of his elder son.
‘The mug isn’t fixed yet,’ said Amy quickly. ‘So I’m afraid you can’t have it back now.’
‘What?’ asked Richard, looking confused.
‘I can’t track down my glue,’ elaborated Amy. ‘And once I do, it will need some time to set.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Richard. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What mug?’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Nothing.’ They stood in silence for a moment.
‘Lovely front garden you have,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many pots.’
‘They are very fragile,’ warned Amy. She felt herself flush at the compliment nonetheless. There was another moment of silence. Richard turned to check on his children, then looked back at Amy.
‘My sons have taken quite a liking to your cat,’ he said eventually. ‘I heard she took a bullet for them?’ He smiled again, like a co-conspirator. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s a he,’ replied Amy. ‘Smudge. And he’s not mine. He belongs to Rachel next door. Your wife met her earlier.’
‘My girlfriend,’ corrected Richard.
‘I can’t keep a cat,’ continued Amy. ‘Because I have birds.’ The harm that animal could do if he ever got inside. Smudge looked at her, then lazily stretched out and closed his eyes, enjoying the children’s caresses. But there was no fooling Amy. She knew the carnage he could cause.
‘The boys would love to see the birds sometime,’ said Richard. Then he turned and called to his two sons. ‘Wouldn’t you, boys?’ Charles clambered to his feet, pulling his smaller brother up too, and they started walking towards the door. Smudge opened his eyes and began licking his foot. He seemed annoyed at his massage ending.
‘No!’ said Amy, stepping backwards and banging into her own door. Three sets of surprised brown eyes looked back at her and she realised she’d shouted. Suddenly Amy wanted nothing more than to be inside her house again, but she’d have to step closer to her neighbours, turn around and fiddle with her key. Instead she pinned herself to her door and tried to breathe.
‘No worries,’ said Richard breezily, stepping backwards to give Amy more room. He put a hand on Charles’s head.
