Page 31 of The Reno
“Nothing.”
“Want another one?” Jack asked, getting out of his seat.
I beamed up at Jack. “Sure. Thanks.”
Later, I piled into an Uber. Things were too hazy, and I was too lazy to walk. Plus, I used the excuse of the persistent drizzle that had sprinkled down all evening, glossing the roads and the trees like the Lancôme juicy tubes I had coveted as a kid.
I spotted something new attached to my door when I got to the house. A new shiny silver lock was neatly screwed into the wood. While the door was knackered, the new lock shone in the porch light.
A key was Sellotaped to the frame, with a note which read:
No more strange men ‘committing domestic burglary’. I’ll be in touch. — L
NINE
Kat's To-Do List
Find the old to-do list
Thank-you card for Liam? Is that weird?
Call LiamWait for Liam to text
I hated waiting. I’d always hated waiting. As a kid, it was the queue at the ice-cream van. As a teenager, it had been waiting for the DVD release of my favourite films so I could rewatch them again and again. As an adult, it was waiting for the latest season ofGrey’s Anatomyto come onto Prime Video, even when I promised myself not to watch yetanotherseason. Impatience should be my middle name instead of Jane.
So, it wasn’t surprising that I spent the days after the social club with shaking legs, praying for Liam’s text to come through. But he took his sweet time, and I was sure he was doing it on purpose just to torture me. It was only Liam being evasive.After Sandra’s social club announcement, I’d had numerous visits from locals.
The day after the social club, Davide and John knocked. They were a gay couple with matching bright white teeth. They brought over homemade pastel de natal and asked about the renovation progress. I showed them around the house, and they ummed and ahhed over my plans.
Davide patted my arm maternally. “We were doing up our Victorian house last year. I had to do all the design myself. It was a nightmare. I’d never had so much—what did you call it, darling?”
“Decision paralysis,” John chirped up.
“Yes. Decision paralysis. An interior designer is like gold dust around here; we don’t have anyone local.” He leaned in. “And some of the Cheshire ones are a bitReal Housewives, if you catch my drift,” he added with a wink.
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” John said, the more strait-laced of the two. “Pat said Kat is a designer.”
“Oh,” Davide said, his palms coming to his cheeks. “I’m so sorry—”
“No, no.” I laughed. “I’m a graphic designer, not an interior designer.”
Davide waved his hand. “You will have a natural eye for these things.”
On the second day, I was mid-shower when the doorbell rang again. Rita and Jamal were an older couple. Jamal was shorter with a receding hairline and Rita had perfectly quaffed greying hair and a cashmere jumper.
Coastal grandma jumped to mind.
