I Love It Here

It's a very neat street. Immaculate front lawns. No gates hanging off their hinges, or doors that need a lick of paint.

The people are cheery, and they all know each other. When I get out of my car, a neighbour greets me.

"Are you moving in to Number 4?" she asks with a big, welcoming smile.

"I'm not sure yet," I say. "I mean, I haven't seen it yet, but I hope so!" I try a smile of my own, less dazzling, less lipstick-ed, less sure.

"Hello! Mrs. Monohan, isn't it? Cass?"

The estate agent, Celeste, bustles up to me. She's a short, round lady with long, straight hair. When she smiles, her nose and eyes scrunch up. I can't tell if it's adorable, or patronising.

"Is your man not with you?" she asks, peering around as if she expected to see him behind me, like a shy Irish Wolfhound. Her smile has vanished.

"Er, no, sorry, he couldn't get away from work." Why was I apologising?

"Not to worry!" she chirrups, hoisting that smile back on her face, and brandishing an enormous bunch of keys.

She chatters away, and I discover that it's impossible to dislike her. I try, as well. It's her job to be likeable, right? Plus, I find very sociable people exhausting, so it should be easy.

Celeste leads me through the property. I can find no fault with it. No mould, no ugly fixtures. It's spacious. The living room is bright. Both bathroom and kitchen are new. While we're in the garden at the back (gorgeous), another woman pops beside the fence up like a smiling pantomime demon with thick glasses, and wiry grey hair in a bowl cut.

Jeez, do none of them have jobs?

"Hiii!!" she says, and she really says it like that: a drawn-out syllable with an extra exclamation mark. It grates. She subjects me to a stream of twittering, during which I'm pretty sure my face glazes over. In less than two minutes, I learn her name (Mikayla, but call me Micki), and also the name of her husband (Nate), son (Rufus, 6,) and cat (Erwin). I'm also regaled of her household ban on sugar, her various food intolerances, how long she'd lived there (only two months but I love it here!!), and the local school (really excellent!!)

Celeste joins in, and the two prattle away at each other with barely a break.

How does each one know when it's her turn?

I'm mesmerised.

With a start, I realise Celeste and Micki are silent, both smiling at me. Expectant. Oh, shit. Who spoke last? What did she say?

"The tree." Micki gestures at it. "What do you think of it?"

"Ummm. Yes. Very nice."

"You'll keep it then? Oh you mustn't think we mind, it just gives us wonderful coverage on this side, so if you were going to remove it, we'd want to plant something like..."

I haven't agreed to move in yet!

Back out on the street, Celeste glances at me.

"You mustn't mind her," she said. "It's just her way. Excellent tenant. Never had a complaint from the neighbours on the other side."

Another neighbour walked past with her little dog, and gave us a merry wave. Celeste wiggled her fingers, and called out her regards to the dog-walker's husband.

In a stage-whisper behind her tablet, Celeste tells me, "I live over there." She points, and follows this with another trademark crinkly smile.

It's a call-back to a time gone by, when the street was an extended family. Everyone in and out of each others' houses. Kids growing up as cousins even if they weren't blood-related. Except without the grime and poverty that I always imagined overlaid that bygone era, once the rose-tinted goggles were off.

That's a good thing. Right? Community? It's what's lacking these days.

These are my thoughts as I wave goodbye to Celeste, get in my car, and dial Sean's number.

The sunlight trickles through the beautifully kept trees. My teeth dig in to my lower lip. Eventually, the call goes to voicemail. I start writing a message, delete it. Start again. Delete it.

Sighing, I drop the phone on the passenger seat and start the car.

+

When I get back to our flat, Sean isn't home yet, so I make a start on dinner. It's almost done when the door bangs.

"How was it? The house?" Sean bounds in, like a red-headed Labrador who's just spotted the lead dangling from your hand.

"Weeelllll... The neighbours seem a bit... friendly."

"Oh? That's good." Wag wag wag.

"Mm."

"Decent kitchen?" He's panting for details.

"Oh, yeah. Lovely."

"New?"

Dear God, I think he's vibrating.

"Fairly new, I suppose."

"What's wrong with it then? Too small?"

"No, it's..." How can I explain that the women all feel like clones, somehow? That the friendliness feels like it's pressing in from all sides? "It's a good size."

"And the bathroom?"

I answer all his questions honestly, and his face shines. He practically drools.

"It sounds perfect! I should see it before we decide though, right? I'll get on to the estate agent tomorrow. What's her name? Claire?"

"Celeste, but I really don't think..."

"What? Didn't you like it? Why not?"

"Ummm... The neighbour seemed a bit... annoying."

Sean beamed, kissed me, and dashed out of the room.

+

I didn't really want to do another viewing. Why did I?

Sean loved the house, obviously. I couldn't find a sizeable enough objection, so here we are. Lugging boxes. Smiling back at everyone who walks by.

They say things like, Need a hand? or We’re just across the way - don’t be shy! and We'll get the kettle on if you need a break! Sean grins wider each time, until I think his face might split.

"You were right," he says, hauling another box. "They're really friendly here."

Unable to think of a response, I turn to dig the kettle out of the footwell. He says that like it's a good thing!

Tugging at the cable which has caught on something, I chew my temper until it's swallowable, like a bitter pill.

He's always been more extroverted than me. It's only six months. The place is great, and the rent is a steal.

When I straighten up, another woman is standing beside me. Even with my poor social skills, I know she's sizing me up. A second later, the thoughtful frown slides away, and a welcoming smile clicks into place. She has a 1920's look about her, like she should be smoking a cigarette with those matte red lips.

"We've come to lend a hand," she says. "We all know how stressful moving can be!"

Out of nowhere, a man steps forward, and takes another box.

"I'm Nona, and this is my husband, Jac. We're here if you need anything at all!"

Sean comes back out for more stuff, chatting to this "Jac", and barely noticing that he was carrying the whole conversation.

"Lift with your knees," Jac says.

Nona turns that appraising look on her husband.

"You need to work on those biceps."

Jac doesn't laugh, and say, Piss off. He doesn't look offended, or make a jibe about her waistline. He just says, "Got it," and keeps moving.

Who am I to judge? So he's a doormat. What does that make me? He just ducked an argument, whereas I have been shoehorned into living here.

"Why don't you go inside and tell the boys where you want things put? I'll mind the fort out here."

+

Through the window, I see more couples arrive. The men fetch and carry, and the women conduct everything, waving and pointing, giving clipped instructions. One goes round to the garden. Another comes indoors, and calls out that she's just going to help get the furniture put in the bedrooms. Moments later, I hear the muffled thump of several socked feet on the stairs.

We should've hired removal people.

In no time at all, it's all done, and Nona suggests a takeaway. "Neither of you will want to cook after all that!" she says.

All what? I moved two boxes and a kettle!

Sean concedes he could murder a curry.

"My treat," Nona says. "What do you normally have? Any allergies or anything? Jac, sort it out would you? And pop back and get a couple of bottles of wine." She turns to me. "What do you drink?"

"Ummm. I don't really drink wine..."

"It's fine," she elbows me in the ribs, "We'll teach you."

+

More people turned up, like someone had sent out a signal. One brought a crate of beers, another some freshly-made flatbreads. Someone else brought coffee-and-walnut cake. Everybody made themselves at home in my garden, and the lower level of my house.

Dismayed, I worry about the mess we'd have to clean up when everyone left. This isn't how I pictured spending our first night here.

"I know what you're thinking," Micki said, grinning at me over her wine glass. "They all clean up after themselves. Everyone takes their shoes off when they go inside. In the morning, you'll never know anyone was here."

"Really?"

"Mhmm. They did the same to- I mean, they did the same for me when I moved in. Apparently, it's a bit of a tradition. I told you, I love it here!"

It should've been an opportunity to learn everyone's names, but I've never been any good at that. The best I can do is keep thanking them for helping us move in and making us feel welcome, but I stutter on that last part. I don't feel welcome. I feel suffocated.

+

Micki's right. Everyone's having a great time. At least, the women are, and they're all dressed up and made up to draw the eye. They cackle and clink loudly enough, and sparkle bright enough, that it does sound like everybody is having a good time. Micki (with her natural hair, bare face, poorly fitting jeggings and baggy old t-shirt) sticks out like a sore thumb, but she smiles like she doesn't know it.

I'm conscious that I'm wearing scruffy "moving" clothes, my hair is scraped back off my face, and I have no idea where my lip gloss even is.

The men fade into the background in pairs or small clusters, in dark jeans or pale chinos, and smart, muted shirts. Each one nurses a bottle of lager, or a measure of whiskey. They don't speak much, and smile occasionally, giving the impression they're also having a good time. Each one hovers, an eye on his respective partner, never allowing her glass to run dry. Always ready with a steady arm if she needs to stand.

The only exceptions are Nate, who went home early (he's ever so shy!!) Jac, who left early to relieve the babysitter, and Sean, who got blind drunk. He vomited on the patio, then again in the begonias, and is currently passed out on the sofa.

Someone cleaned up the mess, spread a blanket over him, and left a glass of water and some paracetamol on a side table.

"A sick bowl as well," Nona prompted. "Cass doesn't want to be cleaning vomit off that nice blanket."

Somebody breaks a glass. Her husband sweeps it up, mops the spilled wine, and offers me a rather stiff apology on behalf of his wife. He informs me he's ordered a full set identical to the glass that was smashed.

"I'll suggest to her that we go home, now," he says, "but if you'd like me to remove any breakables to the bedroom first, just say the word."

"It's fine. Umm. Thank you, though."

He tries to steer his wife away. She flaps at him, until Nona speaks sharply. Then, drooping, she lets him gather up her things, guide her around the damp patch on the patio, down the path and out of the front gate.

+

A thundering on the front door is what wakes me. I ghost through the clean, quiet house. There's a parcel on the doorstep and a delivery van already speeding away.

Someone has very helpfully moved my recycling bin out onto the pavement. It isn't even full; they all took most of the empty bottles home.

I open the box in the kitchen. Oh, look. A set of wine glasses. Rinsing them in the gleaming sink, I realise that I didn't see Celeste the night before. Why she didn't come? Surely, the whole street turned up?

Sean is still drooling and snoring on the sofa. The room smells sour, like old beer and vomit and sweat. I open the window, and use a liberal spritz of the air freshener someone left out on the coffee table.

After the hustle and bustle of the night before, this feels weird. Looking up and down the street, there's not a single soul about. I wanted that. I did. Why do I feel uneasy?

Sean has no patience for any of it when he wakes up. He presses the flats of his fingers to his eyes, and begs me to shut the curtains and bring coffee.

"Don't be stupid, Cass," he says. "You moan when people are friendly, and welcoming, and you moan when they back off and give you space to settle in. It's just you being weird. You know you're no good at this stuff."

+

Over the following weeks, Micki grows on me. Her home feels... homely. Rufus is always sticky, or wearing mismatching outfits covered in dirt and bogies. There's weeds in the garden, dust and stray cobwebs in the corners. It feels... normal.

I even like her exasperation with Nate, how she nags him for not putting the seat down or taking his shoes off, the half-finished little jobs around the house. The way he clocks out when he comes home, unlike Jac and the other Interchangeable Chinos. How he always slopes off any time someone comes over, leaving Micki alone with them.

"I just want us to socialise together sometimes, you know?" Micki looks wistful.

I still haven't seen Celeste. When I ask Micki about it, she fidgets, and looks away.

"I think she fell out with Nona. You can't..." Micki blushes a deep pink. "You have to get along with Nona, to live here."

+

When I was invited to Rita's, I felt that I should go. Show willing, you know. Besides, I hear she's very close with Nona. She only lives over the street and a few doors down, so it's no trouble.

It's like walking into a show-home. I wondered aloud how she kept it all so nice, and she said,

"It's actually pretty easy when your husband plays his part." She gives me a sharp look. "Does Sean not do his bit? He was ever so drunk that first night. Does he do that sort of thing a lot? It's a bit selfish, isn't it?"

+

Nona turned up yesterday while Sean was out, asked how I was settling in. I hesitated, because I didn't know how to respond to that, and she pulled a sympathetic face.

"Is Sean not pulling his weight?"

She didn't stay, thank goodness, and instead went next door, to Micki and Nate's.

+

That was a week ago. I haven't seen Micki even once over the fence. She's normally so friendly, so sweet. I've seen Nate, though. Mowing the lawn, trimming the hedge, arranging some planters. He said hello to me, probably for the first time.

"What do you want, Cass?" Sean is exasperated. "You told me, and I quote the neighbour is annoying. Now she's leaving you alone, and you're still not happy."

I pop round, knock on the door. Micki invites me in, and tells Nate to go and make us coffees.

"Anything else?"

"No, Nate, thanks. Just go and finish clearing out the garage, would you?"

Micki looks... different. The same, but different.

"Alright," I say, "What's going on?"

Micki blushes a deep red.

"Don't know what you're talking about," she mumbles.

"You look different. Nate looks different. He's talking to me now. I bet if I used your bathroom right now, the seat would be down." I look around. "Everything is too... too neat."

"We had a chat," she said, an even deeper red. "And I've been getting more sleep. Taking some time for myself. You should, too," she adds. "It's easy to do when your partner pulls his weight. Is Sean pulling his weight? He didn't come with you for the viewing, did he? Too busy at work, wasn't it? Does he make excuses like that a lot?"

"He works hard, but- no, don't turn it around like that, like Rita and the rest of them. It's not about me. It's about you. What changed? We're friends, aren't we? Tell me."

She shakes her head, flaming like a beetroot, now.

"I shouldn't say," she says. "It's nothing, anyway. Just a little snip, and then he's..."

"He's what?"

She presses her lips together, but eventually she calls Nate back into the house, and shows me the row of stitches behind his left ear. tells me about the chip.

I bang out of the house. My blood is up. I start shoving clothes into suitcases.

Sean is bewildered. I beg him to come with me, try to explain I can't stand it here, that he might be in daner. We have a long row, during which I look crazy, and he refuses to leave.

"Are you mad?" he says. "I love it here!"

+

Yesterday, I saw him again, and I know they did it to him. Whatever they do. He was with Nona. Carrying something heavy, of course. Wearing dark jeans, and a dull shirt, taut over his biceps. His manner was like a harshly-trained puppy: all the exuberance squashed out. Trailing a pace or two behind Nona, in the cloud of non-existent cigarette smoke that should have followed her like a cape.