Page 8 of Rich Little Liars

‘Kelly.’

‘Kelly.’ She smiled, and it was a nice smile, warm and genuine. ‘Thank you for this. Most people wouldn’t have let me in.’

‘It’s fine. Really.’

We sat in silence for a moment, her drinking coffee, me deciding whether I should stay in the kitchen or leave her alone or offer something to eat. She solved the problem by speaking first.

‘Do you live here with someone?’ She then glanced at the wedding photo on the windowsill, me and Daniel on a beach in Costa Rica, grinning like idiots. That photo was from our honeymoon, five years ago, when we still touched each other without thinking about it first.

‘My husband,’ I said. ‘Daniel. He’s at work.’

‘He’s handsome.’

‘Thank you.’

Another pause. She set down her mug and looked around the kitchen again, taking in the pale cabinets, the gleaming countertops, the little details that made it a home rather than just a house. The herbs growing in pots on the windowsill. The cookbooks arranged by spine colour.

‘I’m between places at the moment,’ she said, unprompted. ‘Staying with friends, looking for work. It’s been hard. Everything’s hard right now, you know?’

I did know. Or I thought I did. Though my problems – Daniel’s long hours, the quiet tension that had started creeping into our marriage, the sense that we were drifting – felt insignificant compared to what she seemed to be describing.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘That sounds difficult.’

‘It is what it is.’ She picked up her mug again, took a sip. ‘But meeting kind people like you makes it easier. Reminds you there’s good in the world.’

Something about the phrasing felt off. Too neat. Too performed. But she looked sincere, and maybe I was being paranoid, and I had no reason to doubt her.

We talked while she waited. She asked about the house, the area, how long we’d lived here. I gave vague answers, nothing specific, but she seemed genuinely interested. She told me about herself – bits and pieces, nothing that quite connected into a full story. She’d grown up down south. She’d worked retail, hospitality, whatever she could find. She’d had a relationship that ended badly. She was trying to start fresh.

It all sounded plausible. It all sounded true. But there was something in the way she told it – a smoothness, like she’d rehearsed the story so many times it had worn down into something that no longer quite fit the shape of real life.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘What do you do?’

‘Freelance copywriting. Nothing exciting.’

‘But you work from home?’

‘Mostly.’

‘That must be lonely sometimes.’

I hadn’t expected that. Most people said things like ‘how nice’ or ‘I wish I could work from home’. But she’d gone straight to the truth of it – the isolation, the long hours trapped in my own thoughts.

‘Sometimes,’ I admitted. ‘But it’s fine. I’m used to it.’

She nodded like she understood.

Like she’d been lonely too and knew exactly what shape it took.

When the breakdown service finally called to say they were on their way, she stood and washed her mug in the sink without being asked. The gesture felt too familiar, too comfortable, like she’d been in this kitchen a hundred times before.

‘You’ve been so kind,’ she said. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

‘It was nothing. I hope your car’s not too expensive to fix.’

‘Me too.’ She paused at the kitchen door, then turned back. ‘Kelly, I know this is strange, and you don’t know me, but if you ever need anything – a friend, or help with something, or just someone to talk to – I’d like to repay the favour.’

She pulled out her phone – now mysteriously charged, I noticed – and we exchanged numbers. Then she left, disappearing down the lane towards where her car was supposedly waiting.