I should have been elated, but I felt oddly nervous. Organising a visit for a Christmas festival was one thing – I’d hosted events for school in the past that had gone without a hitch – but being responsible for a celebrity for nearly a week?

It was the filming that bothered me. I had a sneaking suspicion the residents wouldn’t like it, but Erin assured me there wouldn’t be a crew, just a single cameraman, and the focus would be mostly on Ollie. No residents would appear on screen unless they’d given their permission, and she’d get clearance from the local authority for filming outdoors.

‘I’m afraid it’s that or the ventriloquist,’ she said, when my silence stretched too far, ‘and Ollie seemed really keen. He’s convinced it’ll be the fresh start he needs.’

I knew all about needing a fresh start, but didn’t like that he’d only agreed on his own terms. ‘You’d better tell him yes,’ I said brightly, not wanting to sound ungrateful. ‘What about payment?’

‘He’s self-funding the “project”.’ Erin put quote marks around the word with her voice. ‘Like I said, money’s not a problem.’

‘Brilliant!’ In danger of alerting her to my doubts, I asked her to email the details once they’d been sorted out.

‘I’m on it,’ she said, sounding chipper, as if she hadn’t labelled Ollie Matheson a tosser less than two hours ago. ‘I actually think this could benefit everyone.’

I doubted Ollie Matheson was thinking of anyone but himself, but reminded myself it would be good for Erin if her client got more work on the back of this ‘one-off’ show, and at least his appearance in Shipley meant I wouldn’t be cast out by my neighbours. Hopefully.

Optimism bouncing back, I navigated my purchases in the hallway and headed up to the back bedroom, where I logged in to my email account. It was far too soon for Erin to have any details, but as the signal appeared to be working I googled Ollie Matheson and read a couple of articles about him being fired from Players. He’d declined to comment, but another cast member was quoted as saying ‘good riddance’ and that the show was better off without him. It didn’t bode well. If the neighbours had heard of him, and knew he’d been fired, they probably wouldn’t be welcoming him with open arms.

I scoured his Wikipedia page for more information. His family sounded impressive: his father had earned his money in the diamond-mining business, his mother was a barrister, his younger sister a respected concert pianist. He’d been Eton educated – no surprises there – had a degree in languages, played the trumpet, loved powerboat racing, and, apart from fronting the Snugz campaign, had designed a range of sunglasses, appeared in a low-budget vampire movie, and thrice been featured as one of Tatler’s ‘eligible young bachelors’.

Great. He might as well be from Mars for all he had in common with me and my neighbours. And where was he supposed to stay?

I studied a head-and-shoulders shot of him on the Stars For You website, where he was smirking at the camera. He wasn’t my type – not that I really had one. In my late teens and early twenties I’d been attracted to bad-boys with tattoos and attitude, who’d ultimately preferred their guitars or motorbikes to girls. ‘Lovely Dan’ had looked like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, while Max was the brooding type: all floppy hair, intense eyes, and poetic gestures.

Ollie Matheson looked too… polished. He was clean-shaven, his even features set off by a tea-coloured tan, topped with a smooth thatch of honey-coloured hair. I could see him wielding a cricket bat, a sweater slung around his shoulders, or at the prow of a boat, gazing out to sea.

I considered watching an episode of Players online, but couldn’t summon the enthusiasm. Everyone knew shows like that weren’t real.

I closed the page and opened my novel document, determined not to get diverted. After re-reading what I’d written yesterday, I cringed and deleted it all. I couldn’t carry off writing erotica, even if Jane had declared a rather unhealthy interest.

I remembered what Marnie had said about historical fiction set in Victorian London, and the words ‘gothic mystery’ bounced into my head, alongside an image of a moustache-twirling villain.

I flexed my fingers and typed: Georgina rushed across the shadowy yard, her billowing cloak blending into the darkness, and entered the stable. Albert, the stallion, whinnied a greeting. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Oops. It sounded as though the horse could talk. There was a movement, and Georgina smelt tobacco. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ It was Lord Gruffalo…’ Gruffalo? Imagining the fictional monster, I swallowed a bubble of mirth. Placing the Gruffalo in a Victorian mystery would certainly spice things up, but wasn’t exactly credible – not to mention I’d be plagiarising a much-loved children’s story.

Lord Gruffley, I retyped, his eyes like marbles in the gloom, his nostrils flaring…’ Would she see his nostrils flaring in the darkness? Maybe Georgina should have a torch. No, not a torch, an oil lamp or… candle?

I plundered my brain, which was feeling increasingly flabby. I’d loved storing away fascinating snippets for my mini-students and often, in the evenings, I’d dream up interesting art projects, or ways to make spelling and number tests more fun, but now there was no need to do any of this, my brain had apparently seized up.

What if I never had an original or clever thought again?

Panicky, I leaned back in Dad’s chair and looked out of the window to see it had started snowing. I remembered last year, when snow had carpeted the playground, and we’d rushed outside to build a snowman.

I got up and moved closer, pressing my forehead to the glass, wishing I had someone to share the moment with. Not this again. Was I incapable of enjoying things on my own?

Glancing at the square of garden, which looked like it had been sprinkled with icing sugar, I tried to imagine my heroine, Georgina – she would be a plucky seductress, I decided – in the stable with Lord Gruffly, but instead remembered I’d promised to return Doris’s basket this afternoon.

I rushed downstairs, bundled my coat and boots back on, and wound a pumpkin-coloured scarf round my neck. Then I made my way down the hill with the basket, sticking my tongue out to catch snowflakes, like I’d loved to do as a child.

I was suddenly enveloped with a sense of well-being, half planning a walk on the beach afterwards, to think about my novel, so it came as a shock when Doris yanked open her door before I’d touched the knocker, and beckoned me inside.

‘I’m glad you got my gist, earlier,’ she said, fixing me with a meaningful look as I stepped into my second unfamiliar hallway in twenty-four hours.

‘Gist?’ I tried to glance round, but her gaze had gripped mine so hard I couldn’t look away. I had a fleeting impression of extreme tidiness, and a scent of polish mingled with bleach that made my nostrils itch. ‘I’ve brought your basket back, like you asked.’

‘Thanks.’ In one nimble movement, she took it from me and placed it on the bottom stair without breaking eye contact. ‘Have you seen any unusual activity next door, since moving in?’

‘Next door?’ I wanted to unwind my scarf, shake out my hair, and have a normal ‘getting-to-know-you-better’ conversation; perhaps talk about the snow – which I was ridiculously excited about – but it was obvious from the glint in her eyes that Doris had an agenda.

‘Barry and Sheelagh,’ she said slowly, as though I was slow on the uptake. She lifted her chin, and I was reminded of Mum preparing for one of her acting roles. ‘Goings on,’ she added, arching her eyebrows.

‘Goings on?’ I was echoing her, in the hope things would make more sense. ‘What do you mean, “goings on”?’

She looked from side to side, as if someone might be listening behind the open living-room door, affording me the opportunity to peer inside. I’d no sooner glimpsed an army of ornaments behind gleaming glass cabinet doors, and a photo of a baby with golden curls, than she said, ‘I think he’s having affairs.’

My head whipped round. ‘What?’ She looked so serious, I let out a laugh, only for it to die when Doris’s whole face stiffened. ‘Sorry,’ I said, dipping my hands in my coat pockets. She clearly had no intention of getting cosy over a cup of tea. ‘Affairs? Don’t you mean “affair”?’

‘There’s more than one woman, from what I can gather,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘I’ve been trying to study his movements, but he’s clever.’ She smoothed her neat little bob. ‘I’m amazed any woman would want him, let alone more than one. He’s a grumpy bugger, and not good-looking like my Roger was, God rest his soul.’

I was starting to feel a bit sorry for Barry, who couldn’t really help his looks – or lack of them. ‘Just because he’s a bit’ – I chose my word carefully – ‘blunt, doesn’t mean he’s running around with other women.’

‘If he was running around, we’d know,’ Doris pointed out. ‘He’s being cunning, and I don’t like a cunning man.’ Her eyes slid to a framed photograph on the wall, and following her gaze I saw a well-muscled man with a thick shag of black hair, sporting a seventies-porn-star moustache. He was dressed in tennis whites, wielding a racket as if it was a truncheon, a ball gripped in his other hand. ‘My Roger had to be cunning, it was the nature of his job, to catch criminals, but outside work he was a scholar and a gentleman.’

Looking at his indecently tight shorts and manic smile, I had a feeling Roger Day had been neither, but wasn’t about to say so.

‘Doris, it’s none of our business what Barry’s up to,’ I said, tearing my eyes from Doris’s former husband.

‘If he’s cheating on his wife, what does that say about him?’ Doris looked quite het up. ‘He doesn’t deserve to be head of The Christmas Lights Society for a start. I didn’t agree to him taking over after Leonard Appleton died. Barry’s only lived on Maple Hill for three years, but he just appointed himself. I could have taken over. I’d have been very good in the role, and things wouldn’t have got out of hand.’

I wasn’t sure about that. In my experience, competitions brought out the best and the worst in people, regardless of who was in charge.

‘You want to discredit him?’ I said, trying not to sound critical. ‘So you can take over?’

‘Certainly not.’ Doris looked affronted. ‘I just don’t trust him, that’s all, and think I could do a better job.’

‘R…ight.’

‘Anyway, I’d like you to keep an eye out, look for evidence, that kind of thing,’ Doris went on, as if nothing I’d said mattered. ‘Being right next door means you’re in pole position, because even with my binoculars—’

‘Binoculars? Doris, is that even legal?’

‘I’m head of Neighbourhood Watch, it’s my job,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘I like bird-watching too, as it happens. I’ve seen every kind of tit you can imagine.’

I digested that for a second. ‘So, basically, you’re asking me to spy on my neighbour.’

‘Not spy, no.’ A crease appeared between her eyebrows. ‘Just keep an eye on him, that’s all.’

‘That’s spying—’

‘He was in the army, you know.’ That didn’t surprise me, somehow. ‘My friend Ellen Partridge got that information – don’t ask, she never reveals her sources – but Barry’s a builder now and has never mentioned his military background.’ She widened her eyes. ‘See what I mean? He’s cagey.’ Her eyes grew round. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s killed people.’

‘That’s a bit much,’ I said, my mind reeling at the unexpected swerve our exchange had taken. I’d expected a welcoming heart-to-heart, perhaps a slice of cake, not wild and unfounded accusations about my next-door neighbour.

‘Have you found someone to switch on the lights?’ Abruptly switching topic, Doris’s gaze homed in on mine like a hypnotist’s, but I managed not to tell her, having promised I’d let Barry know first.

‘It’s not confirmed yet, but I’ll keep you posted,’ I managed, reaching behind me to grasp the doorknob. ‘I’d better go, I’m expecting a call any minute.’

I hurried away, trying not to slip on the snow that had settled. Certain I could still feel her eyes on my back (binoculars?) I looked round, but her door was closed. She was standing at the front window, waving a yellow duster.

‘That was weird,’ I said, letting myself into the cottage, wishing Mum was there so I could tell her about it. Great. Now I was missing my mum, like a six-year-old on a school trip.

I’d left my phone charging in the kitchen, and there was a message from Erin.

After shedding my coat and scarf, I opened up my inbox and read:

WHAT THE FLAMINGOS???? Ollie Matheson was coming to stay at MY HOUSE?

HOLY SHIRTSLEEVES!

she finished.

There was no way he was staying with me. I immediately tried to phone Erin, but it went to voicemail. She’d probably guessed my response and was avoiding my calls.

‘Dustballs!’ I wished I could swear properly, but I was too far out of the habit. ‘Figgy, pillocking dustballs.’

I thought a bit more, letting my breathing slow down. Maybe it made sense for him to stay here. It would only be for a few days, and I had the feeling that once he’d met the locals, and realised there wasn’t a nightclub in Shipley, he wouldn’t want to hang around.

And maybe it would win favour with my neighbours, having a celebrity living among them.

Providing he doesn’t punch anyone.

Forcing down a surge of misgivings, I replied:

Then I phoned the bed company to check when my new bed was arriving. I couldn’t imagine Ollie Matheson slumming it on the sofa, no matter how big and squashy it was.