not remotely related to what I’m supposed to be doing, I now have a pair of binoculars in my sweaty little hands. I should have bought a pair from home, really, what was I thinking leaving them behind for a whole month. A bit of an extravagance—tourist prices—but I couldn’t not have them.
As soon as Ben gave me their Wi-Fi password I spent the whole day gorging on the internet, feasting as if I’ve been starved and unsure when I might eat again. Then, finally sated, I continued ghosting The Beast and indulging in my favorite, semi-professional pastime: people watching. But for the past couple of days, for reasons unknown to me and possibly part of why I felt the binoculars were justified, Ben and Tabitha haven’t been as visible. I’ve had to go back to the westside neighbors, the dark-haired family, to get my fix.
With a slight adjustment to the desk in the nook, I can see part of their living room and a decent portion of their porch which wraps around half of the house. Over the last 36 hours, I’ve noticed the woman I recognize but still haven’t placed—it’s almost as if she’s keeping her face hidden from me on purpose—likes to sit out in the little spot on the corner. It’s the bit just before the porch opens up at the front and has a view of the water but is kind of shielded by the house. Hidden, almost. And I’m pretty sure that by sitting there, the woman is able to avoid something inside. This, of course, piqued my curiosity. Who is she hiding from? Vacation sex with boring but horny packhorse Patrick? (I named him Patrick because yesterday I saw him in speedos and he is packing.) Right now, mid-afternoon, she’s there with her legs drawn to her chest and a book balanced on her knees as she stares out at the lake, deep in thought. Is she regretting the vacation? The whole relationship?
Abruptly, she turns in my direction. Immediately, I shrink back. Can she see me from here? I thought I was shielded, protected. No. She’s openly staring and she wouldn’t do that if she knew I’m staring back.
“Can we show Daphne?” a young girl’s voice rings out. A moment later she appears on the porch, dragging her father behind her.
The woman flinches and shrinks down in her seat.
“She’ll love it,” he replies, ruffling his daughter’s head before straightening and calling out, “Daph? Are you out here?”
I watch as the woman—clearly Daphne—remains quiet.
“Daphne?” He takes a few steps forward and looks out at the water, as if she might be swimming.
“Where is she, Dad?” the girl says sulkily.
“I think she went for a walk. We can show her later.”
The girl tilts her head, as if deciding whether this is acceptable or not, then scowls. “She’s a liar,” she announces.
“Gina,” he admonishes, crouching down.
A-ha, two more names. I already knew the middle kid is called Ryan because the teenaged girl screeches it. A lot. Ryan doesn’t respect personal space, it seems.
“Don’t say that,” Patrick/Dad continues. “It’s not nice. Daphne is not a liar.” He peers into her face. “Sweetie. Do you remember the promise you made to me last year?”
She nods.
“Good. Now, promise you won’t say that about Daphne again.”
Gina makes no such promise.
“Sweetheart, Daphne is a lovely lady who wants to be your friend.”
“I don’t like your friends.”
“Honey.” He takes a breath. “I know it’s hard, but you have to try. Remember what happened last year?”
Gina nods.
“That was… bad. You said you understood and it wouldn’t happen again.”
Gina nods again but seems even less interested in promising anything.
“We pinky promised, remember? You said you’d be better next time. Please be nice.”
But Gina, in a kind of badass move, still refuses, instead turning and running into the house. Her father follows.
I’m starting to like Gina. Kids can be interesting.
Daphne, now they’ve gone, seems to relax and resumes gazing at the water. I watch her for a moment, pleased I’ve figured something out. Gina is the thing Daphne is trying to avoid.
Daphne doesn’t do anything else except finally return to her book, so I stand up and drift into the kitchen. I get out a packet of instant ramen, put two eggs on to boil and fill the kettle. As I wait, I slip past the writing nook as if my laptop might grow arms and grab me, and wander around the living room, taking in the not-very-inspired décor and eyeing up the crappy art on the walls. Did a child draw that? I hope so because it’s terrible. My eyes land on a wide-angle shot of a collection of people out front with the lake behind them. I inspect the photo, frowning. Where’s Slater? Where are his parents, his mother? (I’ve had coffee with her; she’s intimidating but actually very nice.) I study the faces on display until it hits me. This cottage must belong to his ex-wife because she’s in almost all the photos. Younger in some of them and always looking relaxed and tanned. Here she is with her arms slung around the shoulders of two people who must be her siblings.
I only met her once. She wasn’t what I expected and she doesn’t match Slater at all. IMO. But maybe that’s what went wrong. They were college sweethearts who, in a plot twist that everyone saw coming, grew apart. But I know nothing about marriage (or relationships, really), so maybe I’m buying into a cliché. It’s not as if I have a swath of married friends who dish all the dirt. Or even many friends who serve it up. Is that why I’m like this? Watching from the outside instead of asking people directly? I have to watch because I’m disconnected? Or did I disconnect in order to watch? I ponder this for a moment, then shrug. I have no plans to overhaul my life so why bother wondering. I’m into anthropology, not psychology and we generally leave the introspection to them.
I resume inspecting photographs and finally find one of Slater. He’s standing next to the ex with a forced smile. It’s from about four years ago, right before divorce proceedings began. I can pinpoint the date because Slater entertained a moustache for about three months at the end of my masters and they got divorced at the start of my PhD. Unrelated, of course. To both my PhD studies and the moustache. I stop and think about this for a moment. I can’t make that assumption about the tache, I realize. Maybe that band of hair broke the camel’s back.
A giggle cuts through the air. I glance out the window and smile. My original muses are back doing their thing, dancing on the dock in front of their cottage. I hurry over to the stove to turn off the eggs—no way am I going to burn down this place—then grab my binoculars and edge my butt onto the windowsill where I have a good enough view.
Ben and Tabitha are in front of a tripod thrusting their hips and slicing their hands through the air while sporting bright-eyed, wide-mouthed, utterly inane smiles. They make me wish I’d done my research on anthropological rites performed on social media. They’re clearly doing a TikTok dance but a kind of boring one, from where I’m sitting. Is this their thing? TikTok Dancing While Hot? Aren’t people bored of that now?
OMG. I nearly forgot about Ben’s business card. I got so excited about having the internet again I forgot to look up or follow Ben. (Did he notice? Is he mad at me?) I hurry over to the coffee table where I left his card. On the reverse side of his ‘guru’ proclamation is his cell number and various social media handles, including Instagram. I immediately follow him, I owe him one after all, then start scrolling through his posts. About half of them are him working out, a quarter are documenting his food, and the remaining quarter are dedicated to his Boo, his One True Babe Tabitha. But the nausea is worth it because now I have Tabitha’s handle.
Tabitha is, like Ben, a ‘lifestyle influencer’. Interestingly, she has three times as many followers as him. Is Ben jealous? Ben doesn’t seem like the sort of person who could be happy about a woman, no matter how hot she is and how much he likes screwing her, beating him at something that clearly matters. To him. For all his hot body confidence (small calves notwithstanding), there’s obviously an insecure guy firmly entrenched inside.
Tabitha’s account, her brand, is Total Tabitha: a mixture of good vibes and sustainable living advice. Macro this, organic that, farm to table food and not to be forgotten, her mantra: Peace Perpetual. Hilarious, Tabitha. Because apart from all the exercise she Grams, which seems to reflect reality, nothing else does. How is spending most of your time fighting then fucking ‘Zen’, Tabs? Pursuing a peaceful existence with purpose is one steaming pile.
My phone rings.
“Slater,” I answer. “What’s up?”
“Chapters.”
I roll my eyes. “Nearly there, Boss.”
“Jacqueline.”
I suck in an annoyed breath, but I started it. “It’s difficult.”
“No shit. It’s a PhD, it’s supposed to be difficult. Are you really nearly there?”
“Yeah, totally. Def.”
I lift my binoculars. Tabitha is splashing water on her crotch, trying to make that whole area more visible through her bikini bottoms, it seems. Ben is fondling himself to get a half-chub going, I think. Must be better than full wood or a completely limp dick.
“Tell me, precisely, what progress you’ve made,” Slater says. He’s starting to sound irritated and at this I smile. I imagine him taking off his glasses and running his hand through his hair with exasperation.
Slater is kind of hot and he’s hottest when he’s a bit cross. Specifically, with me. But that’s not even his sexiest ‘thing’. It’s his hands. They’re square, strong looking, just the right amount of veiny. They are masterful, capable. They can fly across the keyboard and come up with compelling, beautiful sentences. They’re just as good with pens. Flipping, twiddling, tapping. His fingers steeple and point with authority, his hands gesture and grasp and flex. They have their own personality. And when I’m taking care of business, sorting myself out, Slater’s hands are what I most often think about. I sometimes wonder if he knows about the allure of his hands. He waves them around enough and he’s not exactly stupid.
“Jack?”
“I’ve drafted the intro.”
Lies.
“And I’ve done some good work on two of those crappy chapters.”
More lies.
“Send me what you’ve got of the intro,” he says.
“How?” I say, a smile pushing at my mouth. I realized the flaw in his plan a couple of days ago and I’ve been waiting to throw it in his face. “Because in my experience, in order for email to work, you need the internet.”
He sighs. “Right. I’ll turn it on tomorrow morning from nine until twelve. I expect to receive what you’ve drafted of the intro and one of those chapters fixed. You can use that time to look up anything you need.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
Damn.
He ends the call.
I guess I’ll make good on my promise because Ben and Tabitha are now walking back up their dock, seeming to have finished their thrusting for the day. At least, their video-streamed thrusting. Outside the door they pause, their conversation becoming more intense. I keep watching. I have all night to work on those chapters.
As they take the beginnings of their argument inside I move to the bedroom where the audio and visuals are best, and wait. When Ben shuts their bedroom window I frown. Unusual, but I can still see them and they are, as expected, arguing. But this one looks different. Less like foreplay. More like actual tension and hostility. Then, in another unexpected and unprecedented move, Ben stalks back to the window and draws the blinds. I jerk back. Why does this fight, among the countless others, require privacy? An unpleasant thought hits. Have they realized I’m watching? But why would they care? Isn’t that the whole point? Match made in heaven, remember? Performers need an audience and we’re supposed to be a team.
With a sigh, I go to the kitchen, finish making my ramen, and take it to the writing nook. I look hopefully out of the side window but Neighbors #1 are all tucked up inside too. I guess The Beast is finally getting some love.
At nine, the sound of a movie—played at full volume—drifts over from next door. I ignore this because even I’m not interested in watching them watch a movie and I’m finally on a roll so I keep working. I put together the bare bones of an introduction and make some good progress tidying up one chapter. At about two a.m., my eyes tired and gritty, I turn off the lights and go to bed triumphant.
Take that, Beast. Take that, Slater. Progress.
I wake at five, blinking and confused. I rub my eyes and scratch my head. Something must have woken me. A noise from next door? I pull myself out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, not turning on the lights—still hoping I’ll go straight back to sleep because fuck me I refuse to exist on just three hours—and stand groggily in the middle of the living room.
The rumble of a car engine cuts through the quiet.
I stagger clumsily to the bathroom, limbs not yet on board with such energetic activity. The Audi is slowly and quietly reversing out of the driveway with the headlights off. Anyone else and I’d assume they’re being considerate to their neighbor since it’s so early, but Ben and Tabitha? No way.
No, the only reason for a quiet and dark exit is concealment.