Standing in his bedroom on the first floor of Woodlands, Roderick Browne had heard the entire exchange between May Winslow and Lynda Kenworthy. It was a warm summer morning in early June and the window was open. If he had leaned out, he would have been able to see them, albeit at an oblique angle, but he would never have considered doing such a thing. Lynda Kenworthy made him feel nervous. She reminded him of the matron at the prep school where he had spent five unhappy years, racked by a sense of inferiority and relentlessly teased by the other boys. Unlike Brenda Forbes (who had exhibited a textbook case of diastema, an unsightly gap between her two front teeth – an open invitation to plaque and quite possibly an indication of serious gum disease), Lynda had a perfect smile. But the two women were equally menacing, one patrolling the corridors after lights out, the other casting a malign presence over day-to-day life in Riverview Close.
May Winslow and Phyllis Moore were quite different. Although twice its size, Roderick’s house was attached to theirs, the two front doors only a few steps apart, so they encountered each other often. They had a friendly, smiling, easy relationship, although they weren’t what he would have called friends. The only time he ever went into The Gables was when something was wrong: once when all the lights had inexplicably fused, once to help relight the Aga, and again to remove a quite remarkably large spider from their bath. On all these occasions, the ladies had reciprocated with homemade jars of lemon curd or jam, paperback novels and crime-related souvenirs, left on his doorstep with a ribbon and a handwritten thank-you card.
It wasn’t just that they were so much older than him. They seemed to be quite nervous of the outside world. Roderick couldn’t help noticing that they seldom received any post and what letters did come their way, he suspected, were bills or circulars. He had never seen any visitors arrive at their door. He knew that they ran their weird little bookshop in Richmond, although he had never shopped there. He had no interest in crime fiction and tried not to eat sugar or carbohydrates, since why would he want to give Treponema denticola or Streptococcus mutans a free lunch? There were occasions, however, when he had picked up the two ladies in his Skoda Octavia because it was raining, pausing at the bus stop and taking them where they wanted to go.
He had tried to learn a little more about them on these brief journeys, but, as grateful as they were, they were also quite reluctant to talk too much about themselves. He knew they had both been married, that they weren’t related, that May had a son living in the USA and that Phyllis was childless. May had grown up less than half a mile away. Phyllis had come from Stourbridge, on the edge of Birmingham. The most remarkable thing about them was that they had both taken holy orders, which was how they had met. They had been Franciscan sisters in the Convent of St Clare in Leeds but had left when May inherited money from a distant relative. That was when they had moved to Riverview Close. The Gables had been the first house to be sold.
Riverview Lodge had been the last to change hands. Making sure he couldn’t be seen from the other side of the glass, Roderick Browne watched Lynda Kenworthy disappear through her front door, then he stepped away and continued getting dressed. He always wore a suit to work, even though he would change into white scrubs as soon as he arrived at the clinic in Cadogan Square. He owned the practice and it was important to make a good impression on his staff: the two receptionists, the oral hygienists, the assistant dentists. He was, after all, ‘the Dentist to the Stars’. That was what he had been called in the Evening Standard diary and he still liked to play the part. He did indeed have several well-known actors, a major pop singer and two bestselling authors among his clients, and although many people might not find anything particularly glamorous about dental medicine, he strongly disagreed. He loved his work, helping people and making them healthier. It was all he had ever wanted to do.
He picked out a wide, patterned Versace silk tie and tightened it around his neck. The tie was pink and worked very well against the pale blue Gieves & Hawkes suit. Looking at himself in the mirror, Roderick was not ashamed by what he saw. For a man approaching fifty, he was in good shape, with a head of hair that was still thick and lustrous even if it had already turned white, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks and, of course, superb teeth. He had put on a little weight recently. He would have to watch that. He tilted his head, wondering if the flesh around his neck was beginning to sag – or was it just the line of his collar? The trouble was, it had been years since he had played squash or tennis, and he had stopped jogging too.
No. It was the collar. He looked fine.
Everything in their lives had changed shortly after they had moved into the close. If Roderick had been a philosophical man, he might have considered more seriously the randomness of what had happened, the toss of a coin or the throw of a dice that could derail two careers, two lifestyles, a successful marriage. Felicity had been a senior associate in a leading firm of chartered accountants, on the edge of becoming a partner, but then she had become ill. It had started with tiredness. She couldn’t sleep. Then there had been the lack of focus, the memory loss, the headaches, more and more days spent in bed. Glandular fever, hormone imbalance, anaemia . . . all of these had been suggested by the various doctors they had consulted. In a strange way, the real diagnosis, which was much worse, had almost come as a relief. At least they both knew what they had to fight.
Myalgic encephalomyelitis. ME for short. A condition whose main symptom was chronic fatigue.
In truth, there was no fight to be had. Painkillers and antidepressants helped a little, but the doctors could offer no hope of a cure. Felicity seldom left the house now. Sometimes, when the weather was warm, Roderick might persuade her to come out into the garden, but she found the stairs a challenge and too much sunlight hurt her eyes. She listened to books as it was easier than reading. She also liked classical music, opera, choirs. Roderick had adapted the largest bedroom, making it comfortable for her. French windows on the side of the house opened onto a narrow balcony with a view over the garden of Riverview Lodge, a blazing magnolia tree and a lawn running down all the way to the strip of woodland after which the Brownes’ own home had been named.
This was where Roderick left her every morning. His own life had been heavily circumscribed by the need to look after his wife. When he had first come to Richmond, he had enjoyed sports. He had regularly played bridge with Andrew and Iris Pennington in Well House. He had been a keen member of the Royal Mid-Surrey Golf Club, the Richmond Bridge Boat Club and the London School of Archery, the last of these a hangover from his university days. They were all behind him now, and the garage, tucked away behind his house, contained a sad collection of his forgotten pursuits: sagging golf clubs, dusty tennis rackets, a useless life jacket, the Barnett Wildcat crossbow he had been given by his parents as a graduation present, back in the eighties.
He made one last adjustment to his tie, then left the room and crossed the landing to what had originally been the master bedroom, which Felicity now occupied alone. She was lying in bed, gazing out of the window.
‘I’m just leaving,’ he said.
‘Did you see?’ Felicity could have been somewhere else. ‘There are so many parakeets today.’
‘I haven’t looked . . .’
‘They’re everywhere.’
The bright green parakeets were all over Richmond. Nobody was quite sure how they had arrived. Some said that Humphrey Bogart was responsible, that they had escaped from a film he was shooting at Isleworth Studios. Others had claimed it was the American guitarist Jimi Hendrix who had released the first pair deliberately. Historians insisted that they had been around for hundreds of years, originally kept in a menagerie belonging to King Henry VIII. Whatever their origins, Roderick knew they had become a source of comfort to his wife and he was grateful to them.
‘I won’t be home late,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got a meeting over at The Stables.’
‘You never told me that.’
He had told her the evening before. ‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d mentioned it. We’re just having a general chat about things in the close.’
‘Would you like me to come?’
‘Well, let’s see how you’re feeling.’
It was often Felicity’s way. She would suggest joining him for a cup of tea in the kitchen, a walk around the garden or even a drink at the Fox and Duck, but when the time came, she would usually change her mind.
Roderick heard the front door opening. ‘Damien’s here,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you want?’
‘I can ask him when he comes up.’
‘I’ll see you tonight.’ He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. She smiled at him but in the same way that she might have smiled at a memory.
He went downstairs just as Damien was closing the door behind him. A tall, slender young man with black, curly hair, he was dressed in jeans and a lilac polo shirt with a Whole Foods tote bag over his arm. He had been Felicity’s carer for two years now, coming in three days a week, and although Roderick was paying him – or rather, his agency – a fortune, it was money well spent. Damien was reliable and endlessly cheerful. Felicity felt comfortable when he was there. It was impossible to imagine life without him.
‘Good morning, Roderick!’ Damien had been informal from the very start.
‘Hello, Damien.’
‘I got some of that soft cheese Felicity likes.’ He raised the arm with the tote bag, then reached in and took something out. ‘And this was on the doormat.’
He handed over an official-looking brown envelope, addressed to the owners of Woodlands. Roderick tore it open with his thumb and took out a letter, which he saw at once had come from Richmond Council. His first thought was that it was probably a change to the rubbish collection. Or perhaps they were finally going to do something about the traffic on the Petersham Road. But glancing at the single sheet of paper, he saw the headline and the details that followed.
NOTICE OF APPLICATION
Town and County Planning (Development Management Procedure) (England) Order 2010
Town and Country Planning Act 1990
Planning (Listed Buildings and Conservation Areas Act) 1990
Riverview Lodge, Riverview Close, Petersham Road, Richmond, Surrey.
Ref No: J. 05/041955/RIV – Outline Planning Permission
FOR: Residential development of a swimming pool and pavilion and the creation of a new patio area on the eastern lawn of the property . . .
‘What is it?’ Damien asked.
He sounded concerned and Roderick realised that he hadn’t spoken for some time. Nor had he taken a breath. The letter seemed to have broken into different pieces in front of his eyes and it took an effort of concentration to put it back together again. In fact, it was simple. Giles and Lynda Kenworthy had applied to build a swimming pool and some sort of changing area, bar and Jacuzzi in their garden. The eastern lawn. That was the strip of land that ran towards his own house, directly in front of Felicity’s bedroom. Roderick read the application a second time and then a third.
The Kenworthys wanted to take away the one thing that still mattered to Felicity. They were going to replace the lawn and the magnolia tree, the flower beds and the simple, uncluttered view with . . .
A swimming pool! A Jacuzzi!
Standing in the hallway, Roderick heard the screams of children, the splash of water, the chatter of the invited guests, the explosion of champagne corks. He saw steam billowing out of the hot tub and smelled the chlorine in the air. And this changing room! The application didn’t say how tall it was or in what style it was going to be built. It could be anything from a Scandinavian log cabin to a Japanese pagoda! What was he supposed to do? Could he move Felicity to another part of the house? Why should he?
They wouldn’t get away with it. They couldn’t. Richmond Council was famous when it came to planning applications like this. They would do anything to preserve the historical and environmental value of the area. Roderick would protest. Everyone in the close would do the same. There was no way this was going through.
But even as he stood there, crumpling the single page in his hand, with Damien staring at him and asking him questions he couldn’t hear, he knew that the first volley in a war had just been fired. Giles Kenworthy would have lawyers. He might have friends in the council. He was the sort of man who always got what he wanted and he wouldn’t have applied for planning permission if he didn’t think there was a good chance of success. But Roderick was going to stop him.
He remembered the meeting at The Stables. It couldn’t have been better timed. Everyone in Riverview Close would have received the same letter.
It was a fight to the death and it was starting now.