The House Next Door By Rosanna Ley

She hadn’t noticed the noisy guests when she still had Josh. But now, she’d had enough…

Sally sipped her white wine. Delicious. She loved these relaxing summer evenings just sitting on her decking, watching the sun go down.

A shriek of laughter disturbed the calm. Sally groaned. Followed by a splash of water and a loud guffaw. She’d hoped for a few blessed minutes of tranquillity. But the guests in the holiday cottage next door clearly had other ideas.

There was a hot tub in next door’s garden – Sally had made cups of tea for the men who’d installed it six months ago. And if this summer had proved anything to Sally, it was that no one could sit in it quietly.

Determined not to let the evening be spoiled, Sally took another sip of wine and gazed out at the setting sun, dipping towards the navy ocean in a delicious mist of red and grey. Stunning…

She tried to ignore the racket from next door. After all, she was lucky to be living in such a gorgeous location and of course, everyone had as much right to enjoy it as she…

When Sally and Josh had first moved to Dorset five years ago, they’d hardly registered the house next door; they were too busy enjoying their own sea view, the one they’d always dreamed of. They didn’t care about the stream of visitors occupying the holiday let throughout the summer months. They had their own space, and they were perfectly content.

Sally’s gaze drifted over towards next door’s garden. It was different now.

She winced as a strident male voice cut into the soft, early evening air. There was a shrill response. More laughter. More splashing. She looked out towards the ocean where a few people still lingered on the beach, enjoying the sunset and the waves.

“More drinks, anyone?” someone yelled from the house.

Sally decided to go inside.

Two and a half years ago, she’d lost Josh to cancer.

“I won’t stay here when you’re gone,” she’d told him in those last days.

“Don’t rush into anything, Sal,” he’d whispered. “Give it time. This place could give you the bit of peace you need.”

Sally picked up her wine glass and opened the French doors that led to her living room. He’d been right. This house had given her the solace she required after losing him.

She stood looking out to sea as the light faded. Walking the cliffs, tending to her rugged sea-garden, scouring the beach for treasures she could use in her driftwood art… These things had all helped her to heal. She missed Josh, she’d always miss him. But gradually, she’d got better at coping without him.

She flung open the door. He stepped back in alarm, knocking over her favourite rock rose in a terracotta pot

The following day, the guests departed in a flurry of shouted goodbyes and the brash revving of car engines.

Sally breathed a sigh of relief. She was sitting in her window seat working on a small driftwood sculpture of a trapeze artist, formed from pieces of sea-worn wood she’d collected from the beach. She’d moulded the wood more finely with her chisel and found the right way to put them together.

Sometimes, she could see immediately what the pieces of driftwood might become – a knot in the wood could be a shark’s eye, a sharply angled joint a human ankle, a finely-webbed sheet a yacht’s sail. It might be weeks before she located the companions needed to complete the piece.

In her work, she had to be patient.

It all took time.

After lunch, the owner of the holiday let turned up. In the early days, Sally and Josh had never seen him, just the manager of the letting agency and troops of maintenance men and cleaners. But in the past months he’d visited more often. Sally was certain he was the owner, mainly because of the big set of keys he pulled out of his pocket on arrival, frowning as he tried to locate the right ones. It always made her smile.

Not today, though. Today, she was tempted to give him a piece of her mind. Enough was enough.

She watched him getting out of his car (an old VW, nothing flash, which was something, she supposed). He was about her age and wore faded blue jeans and a linen shirt. His hair was gingery blond and a bit of a mess, to be honest.

He finally located the keys. Sally clicked her tongue. You’d think he’d be more organised, but he didn’t seem the organised type.

His mobile rang. He answered it and began gesticulating wildly, every so often tearing his fingers through his hair until it looked even madder than before.

Sally chuckled. She was aware that when Josh was alive, she hadn’t bothered with watching the neighbours. That was another thing that was different now.

No doubt he lived in London. That was the sad thing about the houses around here. Neighbours came and went because most places were holiday homes, unlivedin during the winter months, making the Bay something of a ghost town – Oh,mygoodness.

Sally put down her sculpture and shrank back in her window seat. He was walking up her garden path, rolling his shirt sleeves up as he did so, clearly oblivious that his shirt wasn’t buttoned correctly. OK then. She’d confront him now, she decided.

She flung open the door before he had the chance to ring the bell and he stepped back in alarm, knocking over a terracotta

pot containing her favourite rock rose.

She righted it, folded her arms and glared at him in anticipation.

“Sorry.” He frowned. His green eyes were flecked with amber, she noticed. Could she help having an artist’s instinct for detail? Josh always used to tell her that she noticed everything.

“It’ll survive,” she said tartly. Which was more than she could say for herself, having every peaceful summer’s day spoilt by noisy guests next door. “But since you’re here…”

Wealthy second-home owners like him needed to know how their holiday lets were affecting the locals. Not that Sally was originally a local – they’d moved here from Surrey – but…

“I came to apologise for the last lot of guests,” he said. “Judging by the state of the garden I think they were a bit rowdy.” He pulled an expressive face.

“Yes, they were,” said Sally. She wasn’t about to soften now. “But your guests usually are.”

He put his head to one side and she felt his scrutiny. For a moment she regretted wearing her shapeless grey artist’s smock and not putting any make-up on today.

“Right,” he said.

Sally warmed to her theme.

“And putting in a hot tub has made it even worse,” she added.

“Hm.” He nodded. “I’m afraid the letting agents persuaded her,” he said. “Her?” she queried.

“My mum.”

Ah. “So, it’s your mother’s second home, here, is it?”

“First, actually. She let the house out to pay her fees for the nursing home.” Sally blinked. “Oh, I see.”

Suddenly he looked very sad and her heart went out to him.

He gave a little wave as he turned to go. “Apologies again,” he said.

Sally felt awful. She’d made not only one wrong assumption, but several.

He was in the garden all afternoon, presumably clearing up the debris. When everything went quiet, she tiptoed to the fuschia hedge and peered over.

He’d done a good job. Everything was clean and tidy and the lawn mown. Readyforthenextinvasion, she thought.

“Hello, again.” He got up from where he’d been weeding the flower bed and Sally jumped back, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” she said. “I wondered how you were getting on.”

He quirked an eyebrow.

“Not bad, thanks.”

“That’s what happens when you’re on your own, you see,” she said. “You’re far too interested in what your neighbours are up to.”

To her relief, he laughed.

“When are the next lot due?”

“They’re not,” he said. “Mum died six months ago. We had to fulfil the bookings, but now…”

“I’m so sorry.” Sally felt even worse. That was why he’d looked so sad. He was still trying to cope with the loss.

“It’s OK.” He shrugged. “Mum had a good life. She was ninety-four.”

“Wow.” They both paused to marvel at this achievement.

“So, you’ll be selling the house, I suppose?” Sally asked. No doubt someone from London would buy it and it would be rented out again, hot tub and all.

He shook his head. “Actually, I’m moving in,” he said.

“Moving in? With your family, you mean?”

Now that Sally was confronted with the possibility of a permanent neighbour, she wasn’t sure she wanted one.

“I live on my own,” he told her. “And I promise not to behave too raucously.”

“What about your job in London?” He gave her a strange look.

“I’ve been living in Winchester but I’m self-employed. This is a chance to get back to my roots.”

“Your roots?” Sally’s voice was weak. “I was born here,” he said. “How about you?”

Sally looked out to sea. It had always been comforting. “It’s a long story.”

“Why not come over for a beer?” he said. “It should be a decent sunset. And you can tell me about it.”

Sally hesitated. Since Josh died, she’d made an effort to improve her social life. But it didn’t always come easy.

He lifted his hands and grinned.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be getting rid of the hot tub.”

Sally liked that smile.

“Don’t rush into it,” she advised as she climbed through the gap in the hedge. It might be good fun to have a permanent neighbour after all, she thought.

Especially someone so deliciously disorganised with amber-flecked green eyes and such a nice smile.

FromVeniceWithLove by Rosanna Ley, Quercus, PB, £7.99. The perfect summer escape, this enthralling book will transport you to Lisbon, Prague and Venice as Joanna seeks to discover the truth behind a pile of love letters she discovers in the attic of her family home, Mulberry

Farm Cottage.