Neighbourly Concern

"In a small town, fences aren't for privacy. They're just somewhere for people to stand while they watch you fall apart."

The house looked wrong before I'd even turned off the engine.

Not wrong in any way I could immediately identify—the windows were intact, the door was closed, nothing obviously disturbed. But there was a quality to it that made my stomach tighten, a stillness that felt less like peace and more like held breath. Like something waiting.

I sat in the driveway for a moment, keys in my hand, staring at the place I'd lived for twelve years. Paul's car wasn't there. Of course it wasn't—I'd known it wouldn't be, had known since I'd woken this morning that he wasn't coming back today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not this week. But some small, stupid part of me had hoped anyway. Had imagined pulling in to find his car in its usual spot, had rehearsed the conversation we'd have, the apologies and explanations that would make everything make sense again.

The driveway was empty except for my car. The house stared back at me, giving nothing away.

I got out, gathered my bag, walked to the front door. The key slid into the lock, the familiar resistance and then give as the mechanism turned. I was about to push through when the voice came from behind me.

"Claire!"

I closed my eyes. Just for a second, just long enough to compose my face into something that wouldn't betray how much I didn't want to have this conversation. Then I turned the key back, withdrew it, and pretended I hadn't heard.

"Claire! Yoo-hoo!"

The voice was closer now, more insistent. Gertrude Thompson, of course. Who else would it be? The woman had some kind of sixth sense for when her neighbours were trying to avoid her—appeared at the fence line like a spectre the moment anyone set foot in their own driveway.

I kept my hand on the door handle, my back to her, willing her to give up and go away.

"I know you can hear me, dear."

The words carried a sweetness that didn't match their content. I exhaled slowly, arranged my features into something approximating pleasant, and turned.

Gertrude was standing at the fence that divided our properties, her thin fingers wrapped around the top rail, her face arranged in an expression of neighbourly concern that didn't quite mask the avid interest beneath it. She was wearing one of her faded floral dresses—the kind that looked like they'd been washed a thousand times and would survive a thousand more—and her white hair was pulled back in that tight bun that made her look like a disapproving headmistress.

"Gertrude." I made myself smile. "Sorry, I didn't hear you."

"Of course you didn't, dear." Her eyes moved over me—my face, my clothes, my posture—cataloguing details with the precision of someone who'd spent a lifetime watching. "You looked miles away."

"Long day."

"I can imagine."

Something in the way she said it made my skin prickle. But her face remained pleasant, her tone sympathetic, and I told myself I was imagining things.

"Was there something you needed?" I asked, keeping my voice light.

"I wanted to talk to you about Charlie."

"What about her?"

"Well." Gertrude's fingers tightened slightly on the fence rail. "She was in quite a state this morning, poor thing. Barking and carrying on for hours. I thought something terrible must have happened."

"She's fine."

"She is now." A pause, weighted with meaning. "I gave her some of my leftover mince. And filled up her water bowl—it was bone dry, Claire. In this cold."

"It's hardly freezing, Gertrude."

"It is for a dog left out all night without proper water." The words were gentle, but they landed where they were meant to. I felt my jaw tighten, felt the heat rising in my cheeks, and forced myself to keep smiling.

"That was very kind of you, Gertrude. But unnecessary. I was just about to—"

"She'd been out there all night, from what I could tell." Gertrude's head tilted slightly, her blue eyes sharp beneath their hooded lids. "I heard her whimpering around midnight. And then again at dawn. I almost came over to check, but I didn't want to intrude."

Didn't want to intrude. The woman who spent her entire life intruding, who knew everyone's business before they knew it themselves, who watched from behind her bushes like some kind of suburban surveillance system—she didn't want to intrude.

"Charlie's an outside dog," I said, keeping my voice even. "She's perfectly happy in the yard."

"Is she?" Gertrude's eyebrows rose slightly. "Paul always seemed to think she preferred being inside. I've seen him letting her in and out, making sure she's comfortable. He's very attentive with her."

Paul. Of course she'd mention Paul. Of course she'd find a way to work him into the conversation, to remind me that she'd been watching, that she knew things, that nothing in my life escaped her notice.

"Paul spoils her," I said. "Dogs don't need to be coddled. They're animals."

"Mmm." Gertrude made a sound that might have been agreement but felt like something else entirely. "Speaking of Paul—I haven't seen his car today. Or yesterday, come to think of it. Is he away?"

The question hung in the air between us, innocent on the surface but laden with undercurrents I couldn't quite read. Did she know something? Had she seen something? Or was this just Gertrude being Gertrude, fishing for information the way she always did?

"Work trip," I said. The lie came easily now, worn smooth by repetition. "He's been in and out a lot lately."

"Has he." It wasn't a question. "I thought I heard some... commotion, the other night. Yesterday, was it? Quite late."

My heart stuttered. Monday night. The night Paul had climbed out the window. The night everything had fallen apart.

"I wouldn't know," I said. "I'm a heavy sleeper."

Gertrude's eyes held mine for a long moment. There was something in them—knowledge, or suspicion, or the particular satisfaction of someone who's caught you in a lie and is deciding whether to say so.

"It must have been after midnight," she continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "I have trouble sleeping these days—George's side of the bed still feels so empty, even after all these years. So I was up, looking out the window. Thought I saw headlights."

"Could have been anyone."

"Could have been." She nodded slowly. "Could have been."

The silence stretched between us, thick with everything she wasn't saying. I could feel sweat prickling at my hairline, could feel my hands wanting to clench into fists, could feel the careful composure I'd maintained all day starting to crack at the edges.

"Well," I said, forcing brightness into my voice, "I should get inside. Lots to do."

"Of course, dear. You must be run off your feet, with Paul away." A pause. "The children are at your mother's for the holidays, aren't they? I saw your car coming and going at all hours. You must be missing them."

She saw. Of course she saw. She saw everything—every coming and going, every deviation from routine, every small detail that might later prove significant. The woman missed nothing.

"They love staying with Mum and Dad during the holidays," I said. "Gives me a chance to catch up on things at the studio."

"That's nice. Dawn must love having them." Gertrude's voice was warm, grandmotherly, and completely at odds with the sharpness in her eyes. "Family's so important, isn't it? Especially during difficult times."

Difficult times. The phrase seemed to vibrate with meaning, with implication, with the suggestion that Gertrude knew exactly how difficult my times had become.

"Actually," I heard myself saying, "we're planning a trip. The children and I. Going up to Queensland to visit my sister for a while."

The words came out before I'd fully decided to say them. But once they were spoken, they felt right—felt like a door closing, a chapter ending, a line being drawn between what Gertrude knew and what she would be allowed to know.

"Queensland!" Gertrude's eyebrows rose. "How lovely. When are you leaving?"

"Soon. Very soon." I was already turning back toward the door, already reaching for the handle. "I really should get on with the packing."

"Of course, dear. Don't let me keep you." But she didn't move from the fence, didn't release her grip on the rail. "Will Paul be joining you up there?"

The question stopped me with my hand on the door.

"Eventually," I said, not turning around. "He'll meet us there when his work settles down."

"Ah." A single syllable, loaded with everything she wasn't saying. "Well, that'll be nice. A proper family holiday."

"Yes. It will."

I pushed through the door and closed it behind me. Leaned against it for a moment, my breath uneven, my pulse too fast.

The hallway stretched ahead of me, dim and quiet. I didn't move. Couldn't seem to make my legs work, couldn't seem to do anything except stand there with my back against the door and my hands pressed flat against its surface, as if holding it shut against something that might try to follow me in.

Gertrude's face hung in my mind. That look she'd given me. That tone. The way she'd said difficult times like she was tasting something she enjoyed.

I needed to get out of this town.

The hallway was dim after the brightness outside. I stood there for a moment, letting my eyes adjust, letting my breathing slow.

Quiet. The house was so quiet.

I set my bag down by the hall table and pulled out my phone. The screen showed nothing new—no missed calls, no messages, no sign that Paul had remembered I existed.

I should stop checking. Should put the phone away and get on with things, stop waiting for something that clearly wasn't coming. But my thumb was already moving, already finding his contact, already pressing call before I'd made a conscious decision to do so.

The phone rang once. Then—

"Hi, you've reached Paul Smith. I can't take your call right now—"

Voicemail. Straight to voicemail.

I ended the call and kept walking, through to the kitchen, the phone still clutched in my hand. The post was still on the table. Paul's mug still in the sink. Everything exactly as it had been, as it always was, as if time had stopped the moment he'd climbed out that window and left me behind.

I exhaled sharply. Set the phone down on the bench with more force than necessary.

Through the window, I could see Charlie lying near the back fence. Quiet now. Fed and watered, thanks to Gertrude and her leftover mince and her pointed comments about bone-dry water bowls.

I watched her for a moment—this dog I'd never wanted, this dog Paul had insisted on, this dog that had become just another symbol of all the ways our marriage had been about what he wanted rather than what I wanted.

Then I opened the pantry and pulled out the bag of dog food.

The back door swung open with a creak that carried across the yard. I walked to Charlie's bowl and scooped out a generous portion. The kibble clattered against the sides, loud in the still afternoon air. I made sure of it. Made sure the sound carried, made sure anyone listening would hear that Claire Smith was feeding her dog, thank you very much, and didn't need assistance from nosy neighbours with nothing better to do.

Charlie lifted her head, watching me. After a moment she hauled herself up and padded over, nose twitching.

"There," I said, louder than necessary. "Good girl."

I filled her water bowl from the outdoor tap, the rush of water deliberately forceful. Then I stood back, hands on my hips, surveying the yard. The fence line.

I couldn't see her. Didn't mean she wasn't watching.

Let her watch. Let her see me out here, taking care of things, managing perfectly well on my own. I didn't need Paul. Didn't need my mother's worried looks or Gertrude's thinly veiled criticism or anyone else's opinions about how I was handling my life.

I was fine. The children were fine. Everything was fine.

Charlie was eating now, her tail wagging slightly, her earlier distress apparently forgotten. Dogs were simple that way. Feed them, water them, and they forgave you anything.

I went back inside, closing the door firmly behind me.

The phone was where I'd left it on the bench. Still silent. Still showing nothing new.

Tomorrow, I decided. If there was still nothing from Paul by tomorrow, I would start making proper plans. Call Amelia. Pack bags. Get the children and get out of this town before Gertrude's watching eyes and pointed questions drove me completely mad.

But tonight—tonight I would wait. Just one more night.

He might still call.