The People at Number 9: a gripping novel of jealousy and betrayal among friends. Felicity Everett
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amplifier. Then he summoned a high-pitched, tuneful wail from his upper chest and started to thrum and sing the opening bars of a tango. Sara felt a shudder of embarrassment as Lou and Gavin flung their arms out at shoulder level, intertwined their wrists and began to dance. As the virtuosity of the guitarist and the commitment of the dancers became apparent, however, she found herself spellbound. Lou and Gavin circled the improvised dance floor, their ankles weaving intricately in and out of one another’s path, Lou’s slinky red dress flowing around Gav’s thighs, as they embraced and parted, attracted and repelled one another. The crowd clapped along, not in a spirit of solidarity but of daring; an egging on of something dangerous and illicit. Despite lacking the polish and timing of professional dancers, Gavin and Lou had something even more compelling – a quality that utterly faced down any ambivalence or awkwardness in the watching crowd – they really meant it. As they glanced off each other, brought their cheeks together and their thighs together, closed their eyes and jutted their chins, the sexual chemistry between them was flagrant. It was like watching a cataclysm; a slow-motion car crash with pulverised metal and shattered bone and rending flesh, and knowing that one shouldn’t be watching, but being unable to tear one’s gaze away. Sara could feel it undermining her, as she stood there, cutting away the ground beneath her feet.
The dance finished, one of Lou’s legs high on Gavin’s hip, the other trailing, her posture limp in surrender, and the audience erupted, clapping and whistling their appreciation. Laughing now, Lou hitched her other leg around Gavin’s waist and he spun her round, a gleeful child where moments ago had been a femme fatale. Sara clapped too and smiled, but she felt upset.
She went in search of a drink and found Neil, reclining on a beanbag inside the gazebo; he hauled himself guiltily to his feet when he saw her coming.
“That was awesome, wasn’t it?” He was grinning, in a slack-jawed foolish way. She realised he was stoned.
“Yes. Very impressive,” she said.
“Did you see that guy? Fucking amazing. His fingers were just a blur.”
“You must have been the only one watching the guitarist.”
“I might ask him if he could give Caleb a couple of lessons.”
“He won’t want to teach Caleb. He probably doesn’t even speak English.’
“Well I’m gonna see if he’s got a CD we can buy anyway. He’s gotta have a CD. Talent like that.”
“Don’t,” she said.
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
He looked a bit hurt, so she slipped her hand into his. His palm felt clammy.
The music had started up again.
“Dance with me,” said Neil. He pulled her in towards him and nuzzled her neck.
“I thought you wanted to get back,” she said.
“Just one dance.”
It wasn’t a good track; neither fast enough to pick up a beat and move, nor quite slow enough for a neck-encircling smooch. They revolved self-consciously on the spot, his hands holding her hips limply, hers clasping first his shoulders, then his elbows, in an effort to encourage him into some kind of rhythm. Fortunately, most people had gone back to refill their glasses, so their only companions on the lawn were a pixie-ish woman who danced with a strange wrist-flicking action, and a little girl wearing fairy wings over her pyjamas.
The track came to an end and Sara kissed Neil lightly on the lips and lifted his hands off her hips.
“Right then,” he said, looking around in a daze, “shall we say our goodbyes?”
“I’ll catch you up,” she said.
Sara stayed at the party for another hour or so, but she felt like a spectator. Lots of people smiled at her goofily, but no one offered her any drugs. She danced on the periphery of some other guests, who politely broadened out their circle to include her; one man even wiggled his shoulders at her in an “I will if you will” invitation to freak out to Steely Dan, but despite having consumed a whole bottle of wine over the course of the evening, she found she couldn’t commit to it, and drifted off to the kitchen. Here she stood by the table, absent-mindedly feeding herself parcels of home-made roti, dipped in lime pickle, until it dawned on her that Lou and Gavin had retired for the night, and she might as well go home.
Sara stood at the bedroom window watching the neighbourhood wake. She saw the man from the pebble-dashed semi walk his scary dog as far as the house with the plantation blinds and allow it to cock its leg on their potted bay tree before heading back home. She saw Marlene from number twelve, ease her ample behind into her Ford Ka and head, suitably coiffed and hatted, for Kingdom Hall. She saw a bleary-eyed man bump a double buggy down the steps of the new conversion and set off towards the park. She saw Carol’s front door open…
“Where’s she off to,” she murmured. A faint groan came from under the duvet.
Sara watched her friend cross the road carrying an envelope.
“Oh, my God, she’s not… She is! She’s sending them a thank-you note.”
Neil hauled himself up to a semi-recumbent position.
“Can you believe that?” She turned towards him with an incredulous grin.
“Christ yeah, good manners.” He shuddered.
“Oh come on,” Sara protested, “they didn’t even enjoy themselves, you said.”
With the pillows piled up behind him, wearing an expression of lofty tolerance, Neil’s profile might have been carved into Mount Rushmore.
“Maybe it’s something else.”
“What else could it be?” Sara eyed him sharply.
“A birthday card?” Neil shrugged and picked up his phone.
“Don’t be daft, they’ve only just met.”
All the same, she didn’t like the idea of Carol stealing a march on her. She was the one on the fast-track. Everything Carol knew about Lou and Gavin, she knew because Sara had told her. Their children’s ages and genders; the family’s recent migration from Spain; the medium in which Gavin worked; these nuggets she had doled out, with more than a frisson of satisfaction, keeping the confidences – the trout and the tears – to herself. The idea that the two women might have established their own rapport was ridiculous. They had nothing in common.
“What happened, anyway, after I left?” Neil didn’t lift his eyes from the phone, nor did his lightness of tone betray much curiosity, and yet he was eager to know, she could tell.
“Not much,” she said, returning to bed and yanking the duvet towards her. “Gavin and Lou disappeared. I talked to a couple of people, had a dance. Came home.”
“Disappeared where?” Neil said.
“To bed, one imagines,” said Sara, sounding a little prudish, even to her own ears.
“What,” Neil said, “bed bed?”
“You saw them,” she said, “that dance looked like foreplay to me.”
“Really?” Neil looked appalled and delighted, like a randy schoolboy.
“Bit much, don’t you think, at their own party?” she muttered.
Neil shrugged.
“Maybe they couldn’t help themselves.”
They lay there for a while in silence. The cacophony of kids’ TV from downstairs competed with the buzz of a hedge trimmer outside. Neil returned to his phone, but the theme of sex hung in the air between them. Sunday morning was their regular slot and she guessed