Page 35 of The Lucky Winners

Monday

The empty boxes are stacked neatly in the corner, which is more than I can say for my racing mind. My thoughts have reverted to an unspooled mess, circling back to Simon’s unexpected visit.

His parting words ache, like a loose tooth I can’t stop prodding.

‘Why do you think he said that?’ Dev asked, with a frown, when I told him over dinner last night.

‘He basically said Tilda was jealous.’ I shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask for any details.’

Can you not mention to Tilda that I called in?

There are ten words in Simon’s simple request, but it feels far more loaded than that. Not mentioning Simon dropping by to Tilda is an omission that’s dragging me down. I shiver, suddenly feeling cold.

It’s too soon for me to call Tilda a friend, but I’d like to think we’re edging towards something like it.

She’s been helpful and kind. I like her funny laugh and I like her .

If there’s jealousy in their relationship, it’s nothing to do with me or my friendship with Tilda.

I want to keep liking her. But Simon and his restless eyes, the way his smile comes with an edge – I keep thinking about him, too.

I remember Tilda’s yoga mat, still rolled up and forgotten in the boot of the car since our class at the village hall. Returning it is the perfect excuse to see her and, hopefully, ease the sense of guilt pressing against my ribs.

I didn’t ask Simon to come to the house, but if I’m not careful, Tilda might blame me for it. If I just act normally, maybe this whole thing will go away. I can brush it under the carpet and forget it ever happened.

The sun beats down, too hot, on my skin, as if it’s trying to force warmth into my cold bones. It’s the kind of day that carries a promise of perfection, but the shadows under the trees stretch long fingers across the path as I walk towards Tilda’s house.

The lake glints under the sunlight, its surface fractured into a thousand tiny diamonds.

My stomach tightens, a reflex I can’t control.

Beneath that glittering veneer, I know the water is deep and dark.

The unwelcome memory slides in, offers a flash of limbs and the sound of the water swallowing a scream.

I push it down and focus on the crunch of gravel under my feet as I walk.

Dev thinks I’m overreacting about the vandalism to the windows, but there’s something about the entire house that prickles at me. It should feel like a beautiful fortress, but I feel more exposed in it than ever before.

Dev has promised to get security cameras, but his easy dismissal sticks in my throat. When I reminded him about the brick through the window before our visit, he has an answer: ‘Jack says the brick was probably local kids, not campaigners.’

But Jack doesn’t know that for certain and now we’ve had the more serious vandalism.

Tilda and Simon’s barn comes into view, all clean lines and soft-coloured masonry, like a magazine photo brought to life.

Set well back off the road, their front garden is very different from ours – wild and cottagy, beautifully sculpted in a way that feels unintentional.

Lavender spills over the path with pink and yellow roses climbing in lazy arcs along a rickety trellis.

It feels lived in and loved while everything around us is landscaped and pristine. Like a film set.

Tilda is outside, lounging in a wicker chair with a book in her lap. She looks up as I approach, and her face brightens in a way that feels genuine. I wave and hold up the yoga mat.

‘Merri! It’s nice to see you, but you could’ve kept that until next week’s class.’

I give her a small smile. ‘It missed you terribly, though.’

She grins and her eyes scan me, the way they always do. Not unkind but assessing. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my scuffed trainers, the old T-shirt and cut-off jeans I threw on without thinking. She, of course, looks cool and put together in loose shorts and a dazzling white T-shirt.

‘Simon’s out on errands, so we have a bit of peace. Let’s sit for a while,’ she says, gesturing to the chair opposite. ‘I’ll get us something to drink.’

I wonder if that’s what he told her when he called in to see me.

I sink into the chair, the striped cushions soft against my back. The garden hums with life – the lazy buzz of bees, the distant ripple of the lake. But underneath it all, tension threads through me, like barbed wire.

Tilda returns with a jug of something that rattles with ice cubes and gleams pale in the sunlight, condensation beading on the glass. ‘Homemade lemonade. It’s the perfect antidote to this heat.’

I take the glass she offers, its cool surface welcome against my skin.

‘Are you OK, Merri?’ Tilda says, pouring the lemonade. ‘It must have been such a shock to get home and see your windows in that state.’

I’m staring at the dark slate roof of the house against the backdrop of blue sky beyond. ‘It’s a horrible feeling, knowing people out there resent us being here.’

‘I totally get that,’ Tilda says. ‘It’s bound to rattle you. There are people here who campaign against Airbnb rentals and suchlike, but you guys aren’t guilty of that. And whatever people think, there’s absolutely no excuse for damaging property.’

For a moment, we sit, sipping quietly in companionable silence. The lemonade is sharp with citrus and a faint bitterness that clings to my tongue.

I clear my throat, keen to change the subject. ‘This place is so peaceful and you’ve got the garden looking beautiful. I much prefer it to ours at Lakeview House. It’s too sterile.’

‘The garden is a work in progress, like everything else.’ Her smile dims slightly. ‘Life. Marriage. It’s so bloody hard to get it right.’

The words hang between us, and before I can stop myself, I steer us towards the very thing I should avoid talking about.

‘Do you ever …’ I trail off, then try again. ‘Do you ever feel trust is harder than it should be? In a marriage, I mean.’

Her eyes sharpen and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. But then she sighs, setting her glass down with a soft clink. ‘It can be hard, in some marriages. Mine, for instance,’ she says quietly. ‘Simon’s had his moments.’

‘Moments?’

‘Affairs. More than one.’

The admission lands heavily between us. I didn’t expect the conversation to take that turn, not after Simon’s parting comment had seemed to imply Tilda’s jealousy was unwarranted.

I blink, forcing my face into something neutral but my mind spins.

Simon’s lingering gaze … Is that the look he gave other women before Tilda found out what he was up to?

That flush rises in me again, not quite guilt, but something dark I don’t want to examine.

‘I’m so sorry, Tilda. That must have been really tough for you.

’ Now I feel implicated. Tangled up in something I didn’t ask for.

Tilda waves away my apology, but her eyes are distant.

‘The last one was bad and we almost split up for good. But then Simon begged me for one last chance. He found this house and suggested we sell the business, and I thought a fresh start could be just what we needed. A new place, new people. A chance to leave the past behind.’

I put down my glass, the lemonade suddenly tasting sour. ‘You two seem really good together,’ I say, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind and I believed it was true until I heard about Simon’s affairs. ‘You seem such a good match.’

Tilda pulls a face. ‘That doesn’t mean much when you’re trying to stitch something badly torn back together.

But marriage isn’t about perfection, is it?

Sometimes it’s about what you’re willing to do, or willing to ignore, to keep it in one piece.

And that’s the decision I had to make more than once. ’

I look down at my glass, watching the ice cubes melt, and think of Dev. The things I haven’t told him, the weight of the secrets that are pressed into the spaces between us. I know I shouldn’t say anything, but in seeking relief, the words slip out before I can stop them.

‘I get that,’ I murmur. ‘I’ve got stuff that lies heavy on my mind, too. Things I’ve never told Dev and I should have. Then time moves on and it seems harder and harder.’

Tilda leans forward, her interest sharpening. ‘What kind of stuff?’

Panic flares inside me, quick and hot. I scramble to reel my words back in, but I’m floundering.

‘Oh, nothing dramatic,’ I say quickly. ‘Just, you know, little things over time. Stuff that feels bigger in my head than it probably is.’

If only that were true.

Tilda doesn’t look convinced. She regards me, her gaze steady. ‘I thought Dev knew all about your past with him mentioning your foster family the other night at ours.’

‘He knows most of it.’ I shrug. ‘Do we ever know every last detail about another person?’

She blinks but doesn’t say anything.

I scuff the toe of my trainer against the hard paving slab under the chair. I smile and sip my drink, but I feel as tight as a drum beneath the mask.

Then Tilda says slowly, ‘Have you ever had an affair behind Dev’s back, Merri?’

The words hang in the air like slivers of glass.

So that ’s what she thinks I’m keeping from Dev.

I stare back at her, but her expression is unreadable.

The silence stretches too long between us and I almost feel like I’ve done something wrong.

Worst of all, I feel I’m betraying Tilda in some way.

It was only a coffee, nothing more. But Simon asking me not to mention it feels wrong.

‘Of course not,’ I say quickly. ‘I’d never do that to Dev. And I hope he’d never do it to me.’ I feel the urge to move the spotlight off myself. ‘Although you can never be sure. Just between us, Jack told Dev the other day he thinks Sarah is having an affair.’

She stares at me. ‘With whom?’

‘He said he doesn’t know.’ I stir my lemonade with the straw. ‘I don’t believe it. Sarah’s lovely.’

‘Being a nice person is irrelevant to whether someone would shag a lover behind their spouse’s back.’

‘Blimey.’ I’m slightly shocked at Tilda’s venomous reply but I try to cover it by sipping my drink. ‘I’d like to think Dev and I wouldn’t do that to each other.’

‘My advice is, never trust your husband. Always keep your wits about you. That’s my motto.’

Tilda’s intense expression relaxes a little. But she’s unnerved me, and when I eventually leave to walk back to Lakeview House, I find myself wondering if Simon really is at fault in their marriage or whether, as he hinted, Tilda’s jealousy is out of control.

For now, I can’t shake the idea that Tilda knows I’m hiding something, too.

Which, of course, I am.