Spying something else white under one of the bushes, I walk over and pull back a leafy branch, while Daisy tries to wriggle out of my arms. There, tipped onto its side beneath the bush, lies a paint can leaking more of the toxic stuff into the ground. A few yards away the lid lies glinting on the trampled flower bed. This is getting ridiculous. What’s going on around here? I bite my lip, unsure of what to do.
Perhaps the paint can is from the building site. I may as well go over there – I can ask them about the paint as well as asking them to keep the noise down. That drill feels like it’s boring into my brain. I reach over the puddle to close the front door, before walking back to retrieve the paint can, its handle warm and sticky.
I take a breath and walk over to number six. The noise has already spooked Daisy, whose happy nonsense-chatter stops as the drilling gets louder. A burly man in his forties, dressed in a plaster-splattered T-shirt and shorts, paces on the driveway, shouting into a mobile phone clamped to his ear. I pay no attention to his words, concentrating instead on what I’m going to say to him. He looks up and catches my eye, holds a forefinger up to indicate he’ll be a minute. I wait, unsmiling.
Finally, he ends the call and raises an eyebrow.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m Kirstie Rawlings. I live at number four.’
‘Speak up, love! Can’t hear you.’
‘I live at number four!’ I point to my house.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I’m Kirstie.’
‘Rob. Rob Carson, site manager. How can I help?’
I vaguely recognise the name.
He glances behind him at a young guy pushing a wheelbarrow down the drive, then barks some instructions at him before turning back to me. ‘What’s it you want?’
‘Is this yours?’ I hold out the dripping paint can.
‘Careful, love, you’re getting paint all over your dress, not to mention the drive. Gloss paint is a bugger to get out.’
‘Yes, well, it’s all over my front step. Does it belong to you?’
Carson holds his hands up. ‘Nothing to do with me. We haven’t even started the plastering yet, let alone the painting, and we wouldn’t be using that stuff anyway.’
I don’t suppose he’d admit to it even if it was from their site.
‘All over your front step?’ he adds. ‘I don’t envy you, cleaning all that lot up.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply drily. ‘So you don’t know how the paint ended up on my step?’
He gives me a hard stare.
‘I’m not accusing you,’ I say. ‘Just asking, that’s all.’
He softens his gaze a little and shrugs. ‘Haven’t got a clue, love.’
‘Well, if you hear anything, can you let me know? I’ve had a couple of incidents now – trampled flower bed, spilt paint.’
‘Sounds like kids.’
‘Yeah, well. Don’t suppose you know how to get gloss paint off a stone step?’
‘Paint stripper and a scrubbing brush.’ He tuts and shakes his head. ‘Bloody kids. I can chuck that paint can in our skip if you like?’ Carson reaches across to take it from me.
I pause for a moment, wondering if I might need it as evidence. But it’s a sticky mess – I don’t want to keep it – so I hand it over. ‘Thanks.’
‘Well, sorry about the paint and all that, but I’d better get back to it.’ He turns away.
‘Also,’ I say, ‘I was wondering… if there’s any chance you could stop the drilling and sawing? Just for an hour or two. It’s just, I’ve got a baby and it’s so loud that I can’t—’
‘You want me to stop work?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Mmm, I’d love to have the day off, but I don’t think the owners would be very happy if I got the lads to down tools.’
‘Just the noisy tools,’ I clarify.
‘They’re all noisy – it’s a building site, isn’t it.’
‘Just the drilling, then?’
‘Sorry, love. No can do.’ He goes on to explain why my request is impossible, but I only catch odd snatches of his words. He speaks quickly, dismissively, with no eye contact, like he’s already finished the conversation, his attention caught by cement mixers and spirit levels, suppliers and late deliveries. I am a nuisance, a distraction, hardly worth bothering with. I’m not sure why I even thought he would listen to me. Wishful thinking, I suppose.
I turn away from Carson with a muttered goodbye and head back home, shifting Daisy to my other side to give my left arm a break. Going over there has made my headache worse, and talking to that condescending builder has made me irritable. There’s no point going back to bed now. I’ll never get to sleep.
I should make a start on cleaning up all that paint, but I can’t face it. Not right now. Besides, I don’t have all the right equipment. I’ll do it later. Maybe I’ll fetch Daisy’s pram and we’ll go for a walk – get away from the cul-de-sac for a while. That might be nice. Take my mind off things.
I glance up the road at the sound of a car. It’s Mel in her cherry-red Mercedes. Back from dropping the kids off at nursery no doubt. At least she made it home last night. I decide to head over there to find out what happened with her waiter, and also to see if maybe I can get my cash back.
As I approach, Mel gets out of her car, her hair tied up in a swinging ponytail, Jackie O sunglasses covering half her face. She’s wearing a slightly creased cotton skirt, a plunging halter top and strappy sandals.
‘Nursery run,’ she croaks. ‘At least I can go back to bed now. Although, what the bloody fuck are they doing over at number six? Sounds like they’re sawing the house in half.’
‘I’ve just been over there to ask them to keep the noise down.’
‘Ha! Bet that went down well.’
‘Actually, they’re more likely to listen to you than me,’ I say, ‘if you ask them especially nicely while wearing that top. And yes, I am prepared for you to stoop that low for a bit of blessed peace and quiet.’
‘Maybe later,’ she drawls, and shakes her head. ‘Got time for a coffee? A quick one, though, and decaf for me – I need sleep.’
‘Good luck getting to sleep with that lot going on.’
‘You know me, I could sleep through the apocalypse.’
I’m envious of her ability to sleep through the noise.
‘You didn’t happen to see anyone in our front garden this morning, did you?’ I ask.
‘Your garden? No.’ She squints. ‘Come inside. It’s far too bright for civilised people out here.’
I follow her into her immaculate house. When she first moved in, she made everything ultra-modern, with sleek surfaces and glossy worktops. But she got bored of that last year and now it’s done out in a New England style, with painted wood and tasteful pastel colours.
‘Someone sloshed paint all over our front step,’ I say.
‘What? Paint?’
‘White gloss paint. A great big puddle of the stuff. I almost stepped right in it.’
‘That’s…’
‘I know, right.’
‘Any idea who did it?’
I sit on the sofa with Daisy on my knee. ‘Not a clue. The builder at number six said it’s not their paint.’
‘Iced coffee?’ Mel asks.
‘Please. Although gin would be good about now.’
She gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Don’t worry. Sounds like it’s just kids mucking about.’ She walks over to one of the kitchen cupboards and takes out two tall glasses.
‘I guess so.’
‘Bit weird though, paint.’
I shake my head. ‘Really weird. Anyway, enough about my boring life. Tell me how last night went with your hot waiter.’
‘It was fun.’ Her eyes sparkle. ‘Alfie and I went dancing.’
‘Alfie?’
‘I know. Isn’t that just the last name you’d think of when you look at that baby face of his.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. That’s it. We danced, had a smoochy kiss and then he dropped me home at one thirty.’
‘Really? Are you going to see him again?’
‘No.’ Mel rolls her eyes. ‘He was sweet, but way too young. I must have had my wine goggles on last night. You should’ve told me I was hooking up with a minor.’
‘No! He’s not, is he?’
‘Joking! He’s twenty-two. Still, that’s bad enough.’ She brings our drinks over and sits on the sofa opposite. ‘So, did you have a good night? Are you glad I made you go?’
‘Yes, I’m glad. It was good to talk to other grown-ups for a change. Apart from Tamsin, that is,’ I mutter.
‘She’s not that bad, is she?’ Mel says, raising an eyebrow. ‘I know she was awful to you back then, but that was years ago. Surely she’s moved on.’
‘You’d think so,’ I huff. ‘But no. She pretty much said she hates me.’