For days after they move in, Max and I take turns to spy on them, swallowing our envy in little sips. On Monday, it’s my turn: she’s back from the salon, Barbie-blonde, her animal-print jumpsuit silken over her tanned shoulders. On Tuesday, Max tells me, he parks his Range Rover in the drive, home from fishing, or camping, or something, with two explosively healthy children in tow, shrieking Daddy!Look at me! On Wednesday, I bake a strawberry pavlova and we wonder if we should invite them or not. Definitely not, we decide. Think of the Q&A session, could we bear to tell them the truth? Hello, we’re Mr and Mrs Boring, so pleased to meet you. And this is Baby Boring. Have some more cake. On Thursday, Max says she comes home earlier than usual, looking quite glamorous. What does glamorous mean? I ask. Oh, you know, he says, all dressed-up, in high heels and, well, sort of, stunning. On Friday, I watch him doing push-ups in their home gym. How old could he possibly be? I ask Max. Thirty-five? Forty? Does he watch us, I wonder, is he stunned by me? I decide to talk to him over the hedge, the next day, or the day after that. Max doesn’t mention her again, but I’m sure he’s thinking about her. I’m thinking about her, too. What does it take to stun someone? That’s the first question I plan to ask her during the Q& A. But of course, she might feign ignorance and ask: “Stun? Who knows? Why do you ask?” On Saturday, the rain falls endlessly, and so hard that we very sensibly and cautiously stay in. We don’t want Baby to catch a cold, do we? Max is standing by the window, watching the rain. Or is he? On Sunday, I’m asking myself too many questions, then the doorbell rings and Max rushes to the door. There she is, in our dry living room, apologising for her wet hair, clinging dress and wet feet but she’s locked herself out, and Adam has taken the children camping. Could she – could we – I’m so sorry to impose on you like this, but – Max says It’s quite alright, what are neighbours for? as eagerly and pathetically as a schoolboy. I’m Max and this is my wife Pauline. She looks at me, then at Max, then at the soggy pavlova on the dining room table. It’s wonderful to meet you, she says, her smile wide and pearly. And when her phone rings and it’s Adam, she explains what’s happened: I’m at our nice neighbours’ house. They’re so nice. They’ve been so…nice. She’s had to get out of her wet clothes. I’ve had to lend her a dressing gown and a pair of slippers. She’s now sitting on my sofa, wearing my clothes, holding Baby Boring. A better version of me.
