Free The Sudden Departure of the Frasers by Louise Candlish Page A

shared photos of the new house as if it were a holiday let she’d found on the other side of the world, a trip she dreamed of taking but doubted she ever actually would.
    ‘What are your new neighbours like?’ Ellen asked.
    Christy pulled a face. ‘Well, I’ve only had contact with a few so far and, to be honest, they’ve all been a bit strange.’
    ‘That’s the burbs for you,’ said Ellen, who lived in Shoreditch and regarded the Thames as a lethal electric demarcation line. ‘It’s the lower air temperature, the poorer visibility, all that tranquillizer dust in the air …’
    Christy bore the digs about the suburbs good-naturedly. ‘You know when you get the feeling you’ve landed in the middle of some private drama? People are being weird with you, but it’s not actually to do with you?’
    ‘Because they’re zombies or Stepford wives or something? Not quite human?’
    Christy giggled. ‘Just not what I was expecting, that’s all.’ It was good to be back in the office. It put Lime Park in perspective. Of course the neighbours weren’t zombies; she’d merely caught a couple of them off their game. ‘Talking of not quite human, is anything going on with Laurie? She seems more fraught than ever.’
    Ellen pulled a face, all at once conspiratorial. ‘There were a lot of meetings behind closed doors last week, and apparently she’s taking Thursday afternoon off. You know what Amy and I think?’
    ‘What? A restructure?’
    ‘A pregnancy.’
    Christy almost choked on her ciabatta. ‘Goodness, another one already?’
    ‘I know. Twins would have been a lot more time-efficient.’
    If this was correct, it would be their director’s second maternity leave in two years. Christy had stood in with good grace (and mixed success) the first time around, determined not to buy into the culture of the agency that made pregnancy a Black Death, its carriers to be feared, their dwellings marked with a cross. She hoped, after all, to be doing it herself one day. But a second time so soon: the thought was exhausting. Then again, Laurie had turned a blind eye (of sorts) to Christy’s month-long sideshow of mortgage-brokering and utilities comparison-shopping.
    ‘Oh well, I’ve been no use to anyone these last few weeks. The least I can do is cover another maternity leave for her.’
    ‘You are
so
honourable,’ Ellen said, balling up hersandwich wrapper and dropping it into the waste-paper basket. ‘Seriously, Christy, she doesn’t deserve you.’
    It was the following Saturday, a still, sharp April morning, when the Davenports’ neighbour Felicity moved out of number 38A. Though Christy had heard her letting herself into the flat a day earlier and had glimpsed a bowed grey head at the bay window, she did not see her properly until the hour of her departure. Watching from the bedroom window while Joe was in the shower, she saw a slight older woman in sportswear hasten down the path towards the leader of the removals team, who stood with a clipboard at the yawning doors of a large van. There was defeat in her posture – or perhaps it was simply an expression of sadness.
    No amount of money could keep her here …
That was what Felicity’s friend had said when Christy had called at the flat to introduce herself. What on earth had she meant? The same friend was here this morning to assist, but given the lukewarm reception on that previous occasion Christy did not dare go down and approach her when she was genuinely occupied. In any case, Felicity was moving out, their paths would not cross again. It was more relevant to her to discover who would be moving
in
.
    A surprising number of boxes were emerging from the flat, at least three times as many as Christy and Joe had brought with them, and the young removals guys hoisted the cartons with comical ease. Meanwhile, Felicity and her friend brought out a succession of fragile items, stacking them gingerly in the boot of a Honda Civic and pausingfrequently to