Page 44 of The Lucky Winners

The early-evening air is thick with the kind of sticky warmth that clings to my skin, making even the lightest fabric feel heavy.

I fan myself with a paper napkin, watching golden light spill across the terrace.

It’s so peaceful out here, the calm before the storm when everyone arrives.

But it doesn’t feel peaceful to me. It’s tainted with thoughts.

Dev is upstairs just finishing off getting ready while I’m out here listening to the low drone of insects, and a wood pigeon cooing lazily somewhere nearby.

After taking a shower and styling my hair, I stand in front of the mirror, holding the dress I’ve chosen.

It’s simple, navy blue with a soft drape that flatters without looking like I’m trying too hard.

But, still, I hesitate. I don’t want to look too formal for what’s supposed to be a relaxed evening.

Tilda will look classier than all of us put together, but that’s her signature look.

I want to look as if I’ve tried but not feel uncomfortable during what’s bound to be a stressful evening.

Maybe I’m just over-analysing. I pull the dress over my head and smooth it down.

It feels cool and fluid against my skin.

Next I turn my attention to my hair. I decide against trying anything new, or elaborate curls that would take ages to do.

In the end, I twist it back into a low chignon and secure it with discreet pins.

A few tendrils escape around my face, but I leave them – better a little softness than too severe.

I’m not skilled at applying make-up to the best effect, but I dab on a light foundation then sweep a soft pink blush over my cheeks for a hint of colour.

I give my eyes a bit more attention: a smudge of charcoal liner, carefully blended, and a sweep of mascara that lengthens my lashes without clumping.

A touch of lipstick – subtle, barely there – completes the look.

I step back, catching my reflection in the mirror, and take a steadying breath. The woman staring back at me seems calm and composed. Even though my heart rate tells a completely different story.

I’m wearing a dress that probably cost more than half my entire wardrobe before we moved here. My hair is styled in a new way that takes quite a bit of effort compared to the bobble and grips I used to employ.

But my eyes give me away. There’s hollowness in them now, something sharp and restless that wasn’t there before the money, before the house. Before all of this .

I want to belong here. I want to believe I deserve this life. But my own eyes tell me I have a long, long way to go before that feels like the truth.

The nibbles from M&S are already in the oven – tiny cheese tartlets, stuffed peppers, all the overpriced, over-packaged stuff they’d labelled ‘effortless entertaining’ had gone into my basket. Do I feel organized and ready for the evening ahead? No. I’m not sure if I’m prepared at all.

I’m glad Dev suggested an informal setting of low tables and mismatched chairs pulled out onto the terrace.

I’ve set out a few tea-light lanterns that I’ll light at dusk, and we have blankets and a patio heater in the unlikely event it turns chilly later.

We’ll go inside if the forecast storm arrives.

In the kitchen, I’ve laid out platters and bowls of the finger food I bought at the deli to keep it out of the glare of the sun: olives, platters of charred halloumi with orange and mint, the Italian meats, bread, and a big dish of roasted peppers glistening with olive oil.

The gate bell chimes just as I’m adjusting a plate of bruschetta, and my heart lurches against my ribs. This is it. Time to put our plan into action.

Too soon. I don’t feel ready.

But Dev is at the door, buzzing them through the gate, his laugh trailing behind him as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

Sarah and Jack are first, stepping out onto the terrace with hesitant smiles. Sarah’s in a simple Boden-style dress that skims her slim figure. She looks fresh and cool with her shiny short hair and minimal make-up.

‘Merri! Thanks so much for asking us over.’ She greets me with a small bunch of wild flowers and a kiss. She looks so happy to be here.

But I could swear there’s something in the way she looks out across the terrace, almost as if she’s mentally taking stock of everything. Or maybe it’s just me imagining stuff that’s not there.

Jack looks freshly scrubbed and modern in beige combat shorts, boat shoes and an olive-green polo shirt. Seems funny to see him dressed in something other than his navy overalls. But he, too, greets me with a kiss, and a compliment about how I look.

His easy grin stays firmly in place as he grabs a beer from the ice bucket without waiting to be offered. It’s nice he feels at home enough to do that, but as I’m viewing everything through a different filter tonight, I wonder if he’s acting too relaxed.

‘The house looks amazing. Especially the kitchen wall.’ Sarah grins cheekily, as her eyes skate across the hillside and settle on the lake shimmering in the heat.

I smile. ‘You’ve done a great job,’ I say. ‘We both love it.’

Tilda and Simon arrive minutes later. Dev buzzes them in and they walk on to the terrace as if they’ve stepped out of a magazine shoot.

Tilda, rubbing Dev’s back affectionately as they arrive at the terrace, is wearing a tailored ivory shift dress and tan-coloured Hermès sliders.

Her hair is swept into a loose chignon that somehow manages to look casual and impossibly chic.

She walks over, handing me an elaborate hand-tied bouquet of lilies and eucalyptus wrapped in brown paper.

‘Thank you, these are beautiful,’ I murmur, my fingers brushing against hers. She smiles, warm and polished as always. Her smile falters slightly when she sets eyes on Sarah, standing barefoot and diminutive, smiling as Simon walks across, his hand outstretched to introduce himself.

She comes over to admire Tilda’s bouquet. ‘Wow,’ she says softly. ‘That’s some arrangement.’

‘It’s from Stem, the new flower boutique in Storr,’ Tilda says airily. ‘Very nice, but be warned, they do charge by the stem.’ As she looks up, Sarah raises an eyebrow at Simon and Tilda visibly bristles.

Dev makes the introductions and proposes a toast with glasses of fizz.

‘To new friends!’ We raise our glasses, but Tilda’s eyes narrow when Simon moves to my side.

I watch as Jack slyly abandons his fizz after a sip and slips his beer bottle back into his hand. I think about him scrambling over our gates to gain access when we first moved in and then lying about it. He’s a dark horse.

It turns out that Simon and Jack know each other, which is hardly surprising given how small the area is. ‘Jack took down a tree for us when we first moved here,’ Tilda says, a little stiffly.

Simon talks a bit about how Jack helped to get the front garden into shape. I take in his casually rolled-up sleeves, the top buttons of his crisp white shirt undone just enough to hint at a tan. He’s all charm, leaning in as he tops up my glass, his breath warm against my ear.

Over his shoulder, I catch Tilda watching, her neutral expression carefully maintained.

We all drift into easy conversation – or, at least, it’s supposed to be easy. Dev’s pouring drinks, keeping the wine flowing, while I pretend to fuss over the food.

But I’m watching. Always watching.

That’s how I notice Simon inching progressively closer to Sarah as the evening wears on, his voice low and conspiratorial as they laugh over some comedy they’ve both seen on TV.

I see Jack glance their way, his jaw tightening before he looks away, taking a long pull from his beer. Tilda’s irked gaze settles on them too, a brief flash of irritation in her eyes before she redirects her attention to me, her smile a little too bright.

I can feel emotions, including my own, bubbling just beneath the surface. My mind is racing. Sarah’s laugh is just a touch too loud, and Jack’s relaxed facade slips when he thinks no one’s looking.

Simon’s hand brushes Sarah’s arm, lingering just a second too long. And Tilda can’t stop her eyes narrowing, even as her lips curl into another practised smile.

The air feels heavier now, thick with more than heat. The shadows from the trees on the hillside stretch longer, darker, and I can’t shake the feeling that we’re not alone. That someone – something – is watching from beyond the garden.

‘It must be so nice,’ Sarah says suddenly, her voice cutting through the hum of conversation, ‘having all this space, all this privacy.’

Her words hang there, clumsy and deliberate, and the world narrows to just her face. Is that a strange thing for someone to say?

Tilda’s laughter bubbles up, pulling the attention back to her, but I can’t unhear Sarah’s words. Dev’s still chatting, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling all around us.

But something’s not right between the six of us. I can feel it.