It was gone six o’clock by the time I realised that Number 8 was right next door. It shouldn’t have been that difficult, as there were only ten houses on either side of the road, and one at the top of the hill, but I’d been too busy admiring the displays, distracted by inflatable Santas, prancing reindeers, and a galaxy of fairy lights to look for numbers.

I finally worked it out by a process of elimination.

‘Well done, Sherlock,’ I muttered, blinking at the dazzling assault on my eyeballs. My neighbour’s was the gaudiest, most haphazardly decorated house in the street. It was as if he’d run amok in a Christmas decoration warehouse and bought every light, ornament and inflatable he could find and blindly flung them up. I remembered the owner, creeping up his garden path a month earlier, and thought I recognised the reindeer, now inflated and prancing in a bush.

I hesitated, knowing the meeting would have started, then marched past a row of illuminated angels and, after moving aside a winking Father Christmas on the step, and almost dislodging a flashing wreath on the door, gave a determined knock.

The woman who answered beamed a greeting as she stepped aside to let me in. She was fiftyish, and generously proportioned, with brass-coloured curls around a doughy face.

‘They’ve already started, love, but go on through,’ she said, as I entered a cluttered hallway, hung with coats and scarves.

As she pushed the front door closed, I was hit by a blast of heat from a radiator. On the other side of the wall, voices rose and fell, and I was reminded of a film I’d seen with Mum, about an elite society whose secret meetings had turned out to be orgy-filled nightmares.

Dismissing the image, I held out a frozen hand. ‘Lily Ambrose.’

‘Sheelagh Lambert.’ Her grip was warm and vice-like. ‘It’s spelt the Irish way, which is a nuisance because I’m always having to spell it,’ she said, with an extravagant eye-roll. ‘At one point, I thought about changing it to the Aussie version.’ She adopted a jaunty pose and boomed, ‘G’day, Sheila!’ before reverting to her Dorset lilt. ‘But then I thought, why should I? I’m half Irish on my mother’s side and proud of it. Two-thirds German, thanks to my great-grandfather, and a quarter Italian, courtesy of my dad’s side, but slice me in half and I’m a West Country gal through and through.’

Brain reeling from the confusing introduction, and Sheelagh’s terrible maths, I adopted what I hoped was an engaging smile. ‘I’ve just moved in next door—’

‘I know, love,’ she said, tweaking her snowflake-patterned cardigan across her torpedo-like bosoms. ‘We watched you from our bedroom window, me and Barry.’ Her off-white teeth and raspberry-coloured lipstick made me think of a scone, bursting with jam and cream. ‘We were thrilled to see a pair of young ladies moving in. We’re very modern, Barry and me, and have nothing against same-sex marriage.’ She lifted her chins. ‘I kissed a lady myself many years ago, before I met my husband.’

‘That’s… good.’ I swallowed an unexpected giggle, half tempted to play along. ‘The other lady was actually my mother,’ I said, deciding I’d better not. ‘She was helping me move in.’

‘Well, I’m sorry about that.’ Sorry for assuming I had an older, female partner (Mum would be delighted to have been mistaken for a young lady), or sorry I wasn’t gay? It didn’t feel right to ask. ‘Oh well, never mind,’ she said, leaning past me and opening a door into a lamp-lit dining room, where several people were sitting round a table laden with food, talking over the top of one another.

As my eyes zigzagged around, trying to take it all in, they met the chilly stare of a coal-black cat on the windowsill, and I was prompted to ask its name.

‘That’s my darling boy, Marmite.’ Sheelagh patted my arm with ring-crowded fingers. ‘He’s lovely, unless you get on the wrong side of him.’ I wondered how you got on the wrong side of a cat. Steal its food? ‘He can be a bit moody,’ she added. ‘Tends to divide opinion, hence his name. I love him, but Barry’s lukewarm. He stands in front of the TV whenever he watches Most Haunted, and shredded his favourite pants. Marmite, that is, not Barry!’ Her laugh was like a klaxon, and the heated conversation at the table stopped, as several pairs of eyes swivelled to greet us.

I’d never felt more like a stranger, my usual confidence – from years of dealing with pushy parents at school – trickling away in this over-heated room, where the leaf-patterned walls were hung with those photos of babies in flowerpots that used to be fashionable.

‘Let me take your coat,’ said Sheelagh, yanking it off, almost taking my arms with it. ‘I’ll go and fetch you some tea. Or maybe you prefer coffee?’ She said it as though coffee was an illegal substance.

‘Tea will be fine, thank you,’ I said.

She nodded, apparently satisfied, then cleared her throat extravagantly. ‘This is Lily, our new neighbour,’ she announced grandly. ‘Be gentle with her, folks!’

The cat shot past with a furious glare, as if I’d upset his plans, and I nervously approached the table to a chorus of, ‘Hello, Lily’, ‘Welcome to the neighbourhood’, and, ‘Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?’

‘Come and sit here,’ said a woman who’d been discreetly buffing the edge of the table with a lacy handkerchief, which – along with her neat, greyish-blonde bob – was a clue to her age. Apart from James Bond, no one under sixty carried a hankie these days.

‘Thanks,’ I said, easing towards the dining chair she’d pulled out. The padded seat still held the imprint of someone’s sizeable bottom. ‘Wasn’t somebody…?’

‘Sheelagh won’t mind. She’ll fetch herself a stool from the kitchen,’ said the woman, shifting slightly to give me a piercing look as I perched on the still-warm seat. ‘I’m Doris Day.’

‘Oh, you left the muffins,’ I said, aware that everyone was listening, and that my London accent sounded more pronounced. ‘Thank you so much.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I thought I’d put blueberries in them, but later realised I’d used some chopped-up beetroot by mistake.’

So that’s what the weird taste had been. ‘That’s OK, don’t worry.’ I was practically gushing, in an effort to put her at ease. ‘It was a lovely gesture.’

‘I wasn’t worried, because beetroot’s very good for you, but I got distracted after putting a leg in the oven,’ Doris said. ‘My Eric loves his lamb, but a leg can be tough without the bone in, and I wasn’t sure I’d got the temperature right. I had to consult Delia.’ She chuckled. ‘Good old Delia, what would we do without her?’

‘Indeed,’ was all I could manage.

‘She means Delia Smith, the chef,’ explained the woman on Doris’s right, a cheerful smile crinkling her pale blue eyes, which looked tiny behind her glasses. She had frizzy brown hair, exploding from under a pink woolly hat with a pom-pom. ‘I’m Jane, her next-door-neighbour,’ she said, nudging Doris so hard she tilted towards me. ‘I work on the flower stall in the square, if you get chance to have a look, and that’s my husband, Dennis.’

She jabbed her finger at a broad-faced man sitting opposite, examining a chicken drumstick. ‘If you want any shelves putting up, he’s your man.’ She gave him a love-struck smile. ‘Hands off, though, he’s mine.’ She let rip an earthy cackle. ‘Just joking,’ she said, as if there was any doubt. Despite his friendly smile, Dennis was at least fifty-five, with a greying beard that was more dishevelled than hipster. ‘My very own Christian Grey,’ Jane continued, causing a pained expression to cross Doris’s powdered face, and Dennis’s ears to redden.

Unperturbed, Jane went on to introduce everyone at the table. I was good at remembering names – vital for a teacher – but it was hard to focus, what with the heat, and the weight of so many eyes on me.

‘That’s Mr Flannery, he owns the newsagent’s in the square, and next to him is Marnie Appleton, and she runs the sweet shop along the parade.’ I vaguely remembered visiting a sweet shop in Shipley on holiday, and sharing a bag of chocolate mice with my brother.

‘Hi,’ said Marnie, giving me a sympathetic smile, as if she understood how overwhelming it was to be thrust into a room of strangers. She was about my age, with a smooth curtain of brown hair I instantly envied. ‘I’m only here because my grandmother, Celia, has a dog-training session today, and wanted me to represent her,’ she said. ‘I actually live in Wareham with my fiancé.’ She pushed over a tray of pink and white coconut ice, just like my grandmother used to make. ‘These are mine, if you’d like one.’

Impressed, I helped myself to a cube. ‘It’s delicious,’ I said, as the flavour hit my taste buds, bringing back more happy memories.

‘Marnie makes the sweets herself,’ Doris said, dabbing the corners of her mouth. ‘She had to really, after that woman’s campaign.’

The air around the table grew chilly.

‘Campaign?’ I recalled Alfie mentioning the sweet shop being threatened with closure, and it being something to do with the previous owner of my cottage. My cottage. I hadn’t got used to saying it, yet.

‘Isabel bloody Sinclair.’ Jane had adopted a doom-laden voice, and a disapproving murmur ran around the group. ‘Thought she was a cut above us right from the start.’

‘She’s the lady who lived next door?’ I made my voice extra warm, as if compensating for the awfulness of Isabel Sinclair.

‘That’s right.’ The voice from the head of the table belonged to Barry Lambert, still wearing a bandana over his collar-length grey hair, like an ageing punk. He’d been silent since his wife left the room, but I sensed his impatience to get back to the important business of the day. ‘She had a dog called Pollywollydoodle.’ He said it with a lip curl, leaving no room for doubt about his opinion of the dog. ‘It dug up our garden, the little… mutt.’

He cast me a baleful look through heavy-lidded eyes, as though it was all my fault.

‘Well, I don’t have a dog, and I’m definitely not planning to close down anyone’s business,’ I chirped, widening my smile until my cheeks hurt. ‘And I can assure you I’m very normal and down-to-earth.’ I inwardly cringed. People who were genuine didn’t need to announce it. And was it normal to move somewhere new on a whim? Alone?

‘Of course you are,’ murmured Doris, surreptitiously scribbling something in a notebook. I caught a question mark next to my name, and the words whereabouts in London?

‘East Finchley, born and bred,’ I whispered.

Colour shot to her cheeks and she snapped her notebook shut. ‘Just taking the minutes,’ she said.

‘So, what do you do, Lily?’ asked Marnie, delicately.

I flashed her a grateful look. ‘Well, I…’ I took a breath, wishing I’d invented a cover story for why I was in Shipley that didn’t sound like something from a soap. ‘I was a primary school teacher…’ I stopped, as a ripple of interest shot round the table.

‘Isn’t that strange, when we were talking earlier about Miss Anderson leaving school at the end of term?’ said Sheelagh, returning with a mug of brick-coloured tea, which she placed in front of me, before moving to place her hands on Barry’s shoulders.

‘It must be a sign,’ said Jane, with a delighted nod at the woman sitting next to Dennis.

‘Jill Edwards,’ she said, with a brisk but friendly nod. She looked to be in her forties, with solid features, and thick blonde hair cut just below her ears. ‘I’m head teacher at Nightingale Primary School.’ She’d been absently picking at a sausage roll, but now fixed me with a determined gleam. ‘You should come for an interview, Miss Ambrose.’ I smiled, recognising the unconscious teacher-habit of formally referring to adults. ‘I expect you’ve got references?’

‘Actually, I’m not teaching any more.’ I was keen to put a stop to this line of conversation, unwilling to relate the story of my humiliating classroom confrontation with Max’s wife, which had lodged itself so firmly in my mind it was as if a shutter slammed down whenever I thought about stepping in a classroom again. ‘I’m writing a novel.’

‘Ooh, how exciting!’ squeaked Jane, and I dragged my gaze from Jill Edwards’s thwarted frown. ‘What sort of novel?’

‘Well…’ Hellfire. ‘It’s… I… I haven’t quite decided yet.’

‘My grandmother’s always got her head in a thriller,’ Marnie said, sweeping her fringe to one side. ‘And my friend got me into historical fiction. She’s mad about Victorian London.’

‘Sounds great,’ I said. Historical. I hadn’t thought about that.

‘You could do another Fifty Shades.’ Jane leaned over, colour staining her cheeks. ‘Something steamy, maybe set in Texas. I’ve always had a soft spot for Texans. And cowboys.’

Dennis’s eyebrows quivered, as if it was the first he’d heard of it.

‘You know what they say about men in big hats.’ Jane gave a lascivious wink and shoved Doris again.

‘I think you mean big hands,’ Doris said.

She turned crimson when the newsagent, Mr Flannery, said with a smirk, ‘You’re a dark horse, Doris. I take it Roger was handy with his truncheon, back in the day?’

‘Awful man,’ Doris said in an undertone, which the newsagent clearly heard as his already thin lips tightened further.

‘Ex-cuse me.’ Barry’s hand slapped the table, making everyone jump.

I picked up my mug and gulped some tea as Barry’s meaty hands bunched into fists. ‘Can we please get back to the agenda?’

‘Everything was decided at the last meeting,’ said Doris, flipping to a previous page in her notepad, and reading from it. ‘All decisions approved by the council. The school choir, licences for the market stalls, PA system, stage and canopy organised, and the event’s been advertised via local press, posters, newsletter, Facebook and Twitter—’

‘Yes, yes, but we still haven’t found anyone to switch on the Christmas tree lights and announce the winner of the best house display.’ Barry looked about to explode with frustration.

‘Isn’t it a bit late for turning on the tree lights?’ I ventured. ‘I mean, the ones near where I used to live were switched on in November.’

‘Therein lies a story,’ said Doris, arching her slender eyebrows.

Barry gave a heavy exhalation, as if the thought of explaining was too much. ‘It’s a long-held tradition that the tree lights are switched on on the thirteenth of December,’ he began, but was interrupted by Jane.

‘For decades, a tree was donated every year by a long-standing Shipley resident called Harold Fletcher, who would turn on the lights himself on the last day of November at the Christmas Festival, as it was called then.’ She spoke in the manner of someone reading an exciting story to a small child. ‘But, one year, the lights mysteriously went out on the thirteenth of December at five o’clock on the dot. Poof!’ She flicked her fingers to demonstrate. ‘No reason that anyone could discover, and no one could get them to come back on.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Turned out Harold Fletcher died in his bed at the very moment the lights went out, and as a mark of respect they get switched on by a VIP at the exact same time, every year.’

‘Amazing,’ I said, as Jane sat back with the satisfaction of a tale well told. I suspected a dodgy power connection had been to blame – and guessed Doris did too, from the sceptical way she was tapping her pad with her pen – but there was no denying it made a good story.

‘I was just admiring the displays outside,’ I said, into the contemplative silence that had fallen. ‘Are you all taking part?’

‘Not all,’ said Barry. ‘Just me, him’ – he gave Mr Flannery a glowering stare – ‘the Jensens…’

‘That’s the Frozen house,’ said Jane, her tone admiring. ‘So clever.’

‘…but they’ve got high-powered jobs in Poole, so probably won’t be at the ceremony, again,’ Barry continued, ‘and them two.’ He nodded to a harassed-looking couple, each cradling a baby.

‘Ours is the gingerbread house,’ said the woman, who looked like she hadn’t slept for months, let alone had the energy to create a themed Christmas display. ‘Twins,’ she added, seeing me looking. ‘This is Jules.’ She tipped the swaddled bundle so I could see a thatch of black hair.

‘She’s lovely,’ I said, banishing an image of Max stroking my hair one evening, talking about how he’d like us to have children of our own one day.

‘It’s a boy,’ she said, apologetically. ‘Julius, after my grandfather.’

‘Oh, sorry.’ Heat rushed to my cheeks.

‘And this is Robbie.’ The harassed man, who also had dark circles under his eyes, tilted his twin forward, revealing a small curled fist.

‘He’s gorgeous,’ I said.

‘She’s a girl.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘Roberta, after my grandmother.’

‘Anyway,’ said Barry, stretching the word out. ‘There’ll be no point having a stage and a PA system if there’s no one to switch on the flipping lights and announce who’s won the best house display.’

‘He’s in a paddy, because he’s hoping it’ll be him,’ said Mr Flannery, darkly. ‘He’s got no chance.’

‘What’s the prize?’ I said quickly, as Barry turned furious eyes on him.

‘A Christmas hamper, a fifty pound donation to a charity of the winner’s choice by our sponsors, Blake’s Estate Agents, and a weekend away at a Hudson Country House Hotel,’ Mr Flannery reeled off.

‘Nice,’ I said.

‘Bit of a palaver last year,’ Doris said to me. ‘Rumour has it Mr Flannery knew the judge and bribed him with a promise of free Mars bars for a year.’

‘That’s not true.’ Mr Flannery’s pale cheeks reddened. ‘Reverend George is a man of the cloth and not open to bribery. And, anyway, he prefers KitKats.’

‘Maybe you should have online voting instead,’ I suggested. ‘You could all send in a photo to the local paper, which they could upload onto their website. The public could pick their favourite and whoever’s switching on the lights could announce the winner.’

The Trappist silence that fell was broken by a burp from one of the twins.

‘Pardon me,’ whispered his harassed mum.

‘It’s a good idea, but apparently it wouldn’t be traditional,’ said Jill Edwards, making quote marks, and I guessed she’d suggested it before. ‘All this silliness is why I’m not participating this year.’

‘Well, I’m not taking part in the competition either,’ said Jane, ‘but we still enjoy it, don’t we, Dennis?’ Her husband swallowed his mouthful of chicken drumstick and nodded.

‘It’s a shame Mr Hudson pulled out at the last minute,’ she added. ‘He’s a fair man, as well as being very good-looking.’

‘Who’s Mr Hudson?’ I whispered to Doris.

‘The local hotel owner who donates the winning voucher,’ she whispered back. ‘He decided to go on a cruise, but forgot to let us know until about a week ago.’

‘Donal Kerrigan would have done it, if he hadn’t had other commitments,’ Sheelagh volunteered. She was by the dresser, rearranging some ivy-patterned crockery, clearly not as invested in the topic as her husband was.

‘Donal Kerrigan from Morning, Sunshine!? I said.

‘Oh, yes.’ Marnie gave a sweet smile. ‘He’s got a soft spot for Shipley, but his daughter’s getting married next week, in Ireland.’

‘We don’t need a celebrity,’ said Barry. ‘Just someone impartial.’ He glared at Mr Flannery as if he’d like to bump him off. ‘Someone who can’t be bribed.’

‘You’re just a sore loser.’

‘I won the year before,’ Barry said, pushing out his chest.

‘Only because I had a power cut,’ growled Mr Flannery. ‘There’ll be no chance of that this year. I’ve got a back-up generator.’

‘Here we go again,’ said Jill, sitting back with a sigh. ‘I can’t believe I gave up an hour of my time for this.’

‘Isn’t it very expensive to run all these lights?’ I chimed, hoping to distract them.

‘LED,’ Barry said, still glowering at Mr Flannery. ‘You can run a thousand lights for the price of a hundred watt bulb.’

‘Wow.’

A flurry of voices broke out.

‘They still cost a lot to buy though.’

‘All that flashing’s enough to bring on a migraine.’

‘I heard the Jensens paid someone to do their Frozen theme.’

‘Let’s face it, they can afford it with their high-powered jobs.’

‘Annabel Williams, from Number 11, wanted to get a petition to cancel the competition, but no one would sign it.’

The voices grew louder, and as Sheelagh moved around the table, refilling everyone’s mug from a giant teapot, an idea crept into my head.

‘I have a friend who works for a talent agency in London,’ I said, employing the voice I used to use when dealing with pushy-tiger mothers. ‘I could see if we could get a proper celebrity to switch on the lights and judge the house displays.’

A hush fell over the room, as if I’d summoned a spirit.

‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ Barry gave me an aggrieved stare. ‘Go and give her a call, and tell her it’s urgent.’