and Irish Catholics, and groups of black teenagers who shouted and laughed in incomprehensible argot. Oliver had adopted the role of betrayed socialist, refusing to buy a place in Islington because Tony Blair had lived there. Kentish Town, he felt, was ‘more real’, although he was forever telling people how he could reach Norfolk in two hours on a Friday night.
‘Everyone seems to be having a go at Mr Garrett,’ Bryant observed, hoping to stir things up further.
‘I think he has a chip on his shoulder about being uneducated,’ said Tamsin waspishly, something she would never have done if she hadn’t drunk quite so many glasses of nerve-steadying Lambrusco before the party started.
Bryant was not famous for his socializing skills, but recognized when a woman was dying to talk. He tried to imagine what May would say in order to encourage her. ‘I suppose you’ve got the dirt on everyone here,’ he said clumsily.
‘It’s a very cosmopolitan area,’ Tamsin replied, giving no indication of having heard him. ‘We’ve Elliot the builder at number 3—he’s divorced, drinks rather too heavily, you can always find him in the George around the corner—and there’s Barbara and Charlie, they used to live at number 37, which is now Ethiopians. He drives a van and has been inside—for bigamy, if you please. She’s a nurse at the Royal Free. They moved out to Edgware, but we couldn’t not invite them because she looked after Brewer when he had pneumonia—’
‘You really do know everyone,’ Bryant goaded.
Tamsin ticked the houses off on her hand. ‘Oh yes, there’s the squat at number 45—that’s full of medical students. They’re very polite and keep to themselves, and they can juggle, which is nice, although we do have to talk to them about their music sometimes, not so much the volume as the lyrics, and everyone else is an English professional or foreign, which is always so much harder to gauge, I find. There are mixed blessings at number 4, Omar and Fatima; she’s terribly sweet, he’s—well, taciturn is too kind a word. The Ethiopians at 37 seem pleasant enough but never talk to anyone; the women wear headscarves and produce unusual cooking smells in the summer. The Aysons are at number 39, but they don’t talk to their neighbours, Jake and Aaron, because they’re devout Christians and don’t approve of the boys’ lifestyle. Kallie and Paul are our new arrivals, then there’s Heather Allen, over there in the Chanel suit, but we don’t see much of George, her husband, because he’s often away on business. Apparently she cries a lot when he’s abroad—Lauren can hear her through the grate in the party wall—they’re very much in love, but heaven knows what he gets up to in Ottawa or wherever it is. She used to be in PR but got fired for taking a backhander, thinks nobody knows.’
‘Was anyone friendly with Ruth Singh?’ asked Bryant.
‘Nobody saw anything of her because she never went out. I suppose we’re all a little to blame.’ Mrs Wilton adjusted her frills and looked suddenly tired. ‘I do want everyone to mix,’ she confided, ‘but Jake and Elliot have been huddled in the corner discussing something for the last twenty minutes, which is odd because they normally can’t stand each other. Jake won’t speak to Mark Garrett because the estate agent apparently made some derogatory remarks about gay people to his girlfriend, who promptly told Aaron, because they go to the same gym. Omar sold us our kitchen, but the drawers stick and Oliver can’t bring himself to complain because they’re friends. My husband doesn’t like to make a fuss. Mark Garrett bought Omar’s family store, and promised he’d be careful who he sold it to, but he allowed a betting shop to take over the lease. We already have four bookmakers and two saunas in the high street and there’s still no patisserie, so I had to invest in a bread-maker. It’s all so difficult. I need a drink.’
Brewer wandered in clutching a Gameboy, the headphones still in his ears. Oliver attempted to remove the device as guests made soothing sounds around them.
‘Fat, ginger and private school,’ said Garrett behind his back, ‘poor little bugger.’
‘You must be Kallie and Paul,’ Tamsin smiled. ‘That’s Brewer, and he says he’s very pleased to meet you.’
Let the kid speak for himself, thought Paul. He’s ten today.
‘I hope you’re settling into our little street. Oliver tells me you have your work cut out, getting the house back in order.’