‘Hello, Mrs Laithwaite,’ called Amy as she let herself in to the big barn conversion where she was working the next morning. Olivia Laithwaite liked things to be on a formal footing – no chumminess between employer and employee. She listened for a response. Olivia was on more committees than most of the residents of Little Woodford knew even existed and, consequently, was rarely home – or, at least, rarely for someone who didn’t have a nine-to-five job.

There was a muffled thump from upstairs. ‘Coo-ee.’ Olivia Laithwaite’s voice floated over the banisters of the humungous house. Amy gazed up to the vast beamed ceiling thirty feet above her head.

‘What do you want done today, Mrs Laithwaite?’

‘Hang on...’

Amy took her coat off and waited patiently. If Olivia kept her waiting, it was time she’d get paid for while not having to graft. No skin off her nose. A couple of minutes later Olivia Laithwaite appeared at the top of the stairs. She was wearing what Amy always thought of as Olivia’s councillor-kit: a tartan skirt, smart blouse and jacket. Give her her due, she always looked smart, although never fashionable, and she was always well-groomed. Amy thought she’d rather die than go out without lippy on. She reckoned her boss had been quite pretty in her youth because she was what people called ‘handsome’ now – which Amy translated as quite attractive in a run-of-the-mill kind of way – or she would be if she cracked a smile. Given that she was married to a guy who made a mint of money she ought to be a blooming sight happier than she was; she always seemed to have something she was bitching about. Mind you, thought Amy, having Zac for a son was enough to spoil anyone’s day because, in her opinion, he was spoilt, sulky and obnoxious; going to a public school had turned him into an arrogant snob. Not that she’d ever say that to Olivia. The kid hadn’t been too bad while he’d been at primary school and Amy had seen quite a lot of Zac back then because her own son, Ashley, and he had been great mates. They still were mates but they were drifting apart and it was probably only a shared interest in skateboards that provided sufficient glue to keep the friendship tottering on.

‘Off out? Council meeting?’ she said.

‘At this time of day? No, I’ve got a meeting about the church fête, then a council meeting tonight. Busy, busy, busy.’

Busybody, more like, thought Amy. ‘Where do you want me to start, Mrs Laithwaite?’

‘Just the usual. Next time you come though I’d like you to clean the windows – well, the ones you can reach.’

Amy looked at the vast window that stretched floor to ceiling and filled about a third of the long wall that looked over the back garden. It was a spectacular feature but there was no way anyone could clean the upper section without a cherry-picker at the very least. Not for the first time Amy wondered how the hell the top panes got cleaned. Still, not her problem.

While Olivia fussed around finding a notebook and her handbag, Amy went into the kitchen and got out her box of cleaning materials and set to work. Sometimes, she thought, as she started moving items off the counter tops so she could clean them down, she almost felt sorry for Olivia; almost... but not quite. She did so much round the town but from what she could see, Nigel – her husband – was a bit of a bastard and her son was awful. If Ash ever talked to her like Zac did to his mother she’d give him a clip round his ear.

Amy supposed Olivia had friends but she never seemed to be with other people unless it was at some committee meeting or other. Certainly, some of Amy’s pals, the people who lived on the same estate as her and her mum, thought Olivia Laithwaite was a bit of a laughing stock. But, if having a finger in every pie in town made Olivia happy – because in Amy’s opinion not much else could – then it was nobody’s business but her own.

*

‘Your money is on the coffee table, Amy,’ said Olivia a couple of minutes later as she took her keys off the hook in the kitchen. ‘Don’t forget to lock up when you go.’

‘No, Mrs Laithwaite.’

‘Good. Goodbye then, Amy.’ Olivia swept out, slamming the front door behind her. She noticed as she went that the grass needed cutting. She’d have to get Nigel to cut it soon. She just hoped it didn’t cause a row like last time. Maybe she ought to bite the bullet and buy a cheap hover mower that she could manage, unlike that brute of a petrol mower. Doing that, however, was just as likely to anger him as asking him to cut it. Damned either way. And yes, she appreciated he had a tough commute to work each day, that he worked long hours, and that he liked a pint at the pub at the weekend, but was it too much to ask that he got the mower out once a week? After all, she did the rest of the garden.

She got out her bike from the garage, put her bag in the basket and rode down the hill to the main street. Olivia felt very strongly that she should set an example to other residents regarding car use. There was nowhere in Little Woodford that wasn’t within easy walking or biking distance and given that parking was a perennial problem she refused to take her car into town unless it was absolutely unavoidable. It saddened her, though, that despite her example precious few of the town’s residents followed her lead.

As she pedalled she passed The Beeches. She really ought to call in at some stage and welcome the new family to the area. She turned down the road that led to the cricket pitch and the community centre. Heather Simmonds had called a meeting about the church fête which was due to be held later in the year and Olivia liked to think she and her ideas were essential to the smooth running of the annual fund-raiser.

The community centre was, in essence, a glorified shed set on land to the side of the cricket ground. It was quite large and reasonably attractive as sheds go but it was still a building made of clapboard with a pitched roof covered in tarred felt. In the summer it could be unbearably hot – even with all the windows open wide – and in the winter, the heating struggled to keep the interior temperature vaguely comfortable. Olivia let herself in and unbuttoned her coat.

‘Hello, Jack, Miriam,’ she said to the couple who had arrived before her.

‘Hello, Olivia,’ chorused the Browns. They did everything together, always looking at each other for confirmation before they did the least thing. They even walked through the town holding hands, which Olivia found faintly ridiculous. At their age. And no Heather, she noticed. As the chair of the committee she really ought to be amongst the first to arrive.

‘Who are we waiting for,’ she asked, ‘apart from Heather?’ although she had a pretty good idea.

Miriam reeled off a list of names. Olivia checked her watch. In another five minutes they’d be late. Actually, as far as she was concerned they were already late – by the time they all got here, got their coats off, sat down, got settled and had generally faffed about, the meeting would be late starting. There was a flurry as more of the committee members came in and the hubbub of chit-chat filled the echoey space.

Olivia cleared her throat. ‘Ahem,’ she added loudly when she realised that she’d been ignored. ‘Don’t you think we ought to make a start?’

‘Heather isn’t here yet,’ said Miriam, nervously.

‘She’s late,’ replied Olivia. ‘We’ll start and she’ll have to catch up with anything she’s missed afterwards. And, until she gets here, I’ll take the chair. Anyone got a problem with that?’

Miriam looked at Jack for reassurance. ‘No...’ chorused the group.

‘Right.’ Olivia took her seat at the head of the long table that had been set up in the middle of the room. She shuffled her papers and then put her glasses on. ‘Welcome, everyone. Glad you could all make it. Now, we’ve not had any apologies... we’ll see if Heather turns up. So, I trust you’ve all read the minutes of the last meeting.’

She was interrupted from proceeding further by the door to the community centre slamming open and Heather scooting in at full tilt.

‘Sorry, sorry I’m late. I got held up.’

‘Obviously,’ snapped Olivia. ‘We’ve started, so if you’d like...’

‘I got held up by Ted Burrows. He was telling me something fascinating.’ Olivia held her hand up to silence Heather, but she was completely ignored. ‘He was telling me that old man McGregor – you know, he’s got the ramshackle farm next door to Ted’s? – well, Ted said that McGregor has had men in high-vis jackets and with all sorts of equipment all over that tatty old meadow by the ring road; you know, the one by the bridge...?’ Heather looked at her small audience to gauge if they were following her, which they were to judge by their nods of understanding. ‘Ted reckons he’s selling it for housing.’

‘Housing?’ Olivia was shocked. ‘He can’t.’

‘It’s his land,’ said Heather, not unreasonably. ‘And it’s not a site of special scientific interest and the area of outstanding natural beauty finishes ten miles from here. And – and this is what Ted said – McGregor used to have a load of farm buildings on the piece that was being surveyed so it might make it brown field land not green belt.’

Olivia was horrified. ‘But the last thing this town needs is another housing estate. The council gave the go-ahead to the one on the old railway yard because we had to – the county council gave us no choice – but enough is enough. Besides, it’d be outside the town envelope. Little Woodford mustn’t be allowed to sprawl.’

Heather looked taken aback. ‘I don’t think a few houses on a scruffy old bit of land constitutes urban sprawl.’

‘It’s the thin end of the wedge,’ countered Olivia.

‘But, surely, more houses must be a good thing, especially if they’re not ridiculously large executive houses.’ Olivia ignored the rather pointed reference to her own home. ‘Can’t the council,’ Heather looked at Olivia with a raised eyebrow, ‘make sure this development includes proper social housing? The sort of houses that are actually needed, not ones out to maximise the developers’ profit margins.’

‘But another council estate?’ Olivia was aghast. ‘Have I told you what I found up at the nature reserve yesterday? A drug den, that’s what.’

Heather looked bemused. ‘What’s that got to do with the council estate?’

‘Come off it, Heather, who else is likely to be snorting coke or swigging White Lightning?’

Heather glared at Olivia. ‘So you think that anyone who lives on the council estate has to be a bad lot, is that it?’

‘Not everyone, I admit, but yes, some of them.’

Heather sniffed. ‘Then we’ll have to agree to disagree, won’t we. Just because some people in this town don’t have pots of money doesn’t automatically make their children delinquents.’

‘Huh.’ Olivia glared at Heather.

Heather stared back at Olivia until she lowered her eyes.

‘This discussion isn’t getting the fête organised,’ muttered Olivia.

‘No,’ said Heather.

‘So, the minutes...’ said Olivia picking up the papers.

Heather smiled at her. ‘Actually, as chairman, shall I read them?’ and she reached across the table and filched them from Olivia’s grasp.

*

Nigel Laithwaite, Olivia’s husband, was sitting at his desk in his office, facing a bank of computer screens, dressed in a pair of pinstriped trousers, a pink shirt and a black and pink tie. He looked every inch the stockbroker he was, right down to the slight paunch, the thinning hair and the rather red nose. Years of sedentary employment and over-indulgence had taken its toll. He was looking at the barrage of information about international markets and working out if it was going to be worth selling gold and buying oil instead. There was also a TV showing the BBC’s twenty-four-hour news service but with the sound muted. A red banner trailed across the bottom of the screen with the news headlines. As a fund manager he needed to know what was going on in the world; a coup here, an election result there, could trigger a whole series of events and send the markets haywire. England collapse read the scrolling headline. Nigel went white. How could they? They were set to win. This was impossible. England all out for 152.

Nigel stood up so suddenly he knocked his chair over and crushed the Savile Row suit jacket hanging on the back. Heads turned as it crashed.

‘You all right, Nige?’ asked a co-worker.

Nigel couldn’t form words. Besides, the cricket wasn’t something he should have had his eye on. He felt bile rising in his throat. He clamped his hanky to his mouth and legged it towards the Gents.

‘Nige?’

Ten minutes later he was back at his desk. Someone had righted his chair.

‘What’s up, Nige?’

Nigel slapped on a smile. ‘Dunno. Just felt bloody awful for a mo. All right now though. Nothing to worry about.’ He grinned around the office, as if to prove how well he was.

‘Good,’ said his nearest neighbour. ‘Me and Jack were thinking of going to the Ship at close of play – a quick snifter before home time. Fancy joining us?’

‘No, better get home. Things to do...’

‘Hey,’ said someone from the other side of the office. ‘Bloody England have collapsed. I’d have put good money on them winning the match and the series.’

‘So would I,’ said Nigel, under his breath. ‘So would I.’

*

Amy finished the hoovering and put the vacuum cleaner back in the big cupboard in the utility room. While she didn’t envy Olivia’s big house – lots of rooms equalled lots of carpet to clean, in her opinion – she did envy Olivia’s kitchen; all those lovely appliances, all that space. She had a tiny utility room; not much bigger than the storage cupboard she’d put the Dyson in. Hers was more of a futility room, really. Still, at least she had a roof and, even if the money was a bit tight, she reckoned she and Ash were pretty happy. A bloody sight happier than the Laithwaites were, if she was any kind of judge. She glanced at the kitchen clock. She’d finished, with fifteen minutes to spare. That deserved a reward.

She put on her posh voice and said, ‘Fancy a snifter, Miss Pullen?’

‘Don’t mind if I do, ta very much,’ she replied to herself in her ordinary voice.

Amy went over to the sideboard, took out a glass then poured herself a large gin from one of the bottles that sat on the counter in the kitchen. She topped it up with tonic before getting the ice and lemon out of the fridge. Her drink made, she sat on the sofa, eased her shoes off, put her feet up on the cushions and switched on the TV.

‘Cheers, Mrs L,’ she said as she took a swig.