The Neighbour

TWO

Anastasia.🌷🌷

I clear the last of my boxes away, somewhat impressed by my hard work. I've managed to unpack all my belongings, which—sadly—isn't a lot. Over the years, I've accumulated very little. Josh monitored what I bought and insisted I ran everything by him. In the end, I stopped. Not because I was scared (which I was) but because I no longer found joy in treating myself. I wasn't worth nice clothes or cute jewellery. I didn't deserve the expensive lipstick. Josh didn't just control my spending habits; he controlled my every thought. He controlled how I saw myself. How I still see myself. That's that part I'm finding hardest to swallow. I left him a month ago and he still has such a strong hold over me. He's still influencing my every decision.

"I like this," informs Nan, holding up a plant pot.

Catherine Mason—AKA my nan—is the most wonderful person in the world and without her, I wouldn't be here. She raised me after Mum died and for the longest time, it was only the two of us. She lost her husband (my grandpops) three years before I was born. I didn't know the man, but I feel as though I do with the endless stories she tells. Her hilarious tales keeps his spirit alive. Mum's too.

"It's a snake plant," I explain. "It's supposed to purify the air at night."

"We should grow marijuana!"

Oh my God!

"NAN!!"

"Helen has it all the time. Says it's good for her joints."

Helen—Nan's ride or die—is the definition of rebellious. As a kid, I remember wanting to be just like her. Carefree and adventurous. The pair of them together are—quite frankly—a fucking disaster. Neither one of them owns a shred of responsibility between them and rely purely on charm to get them out of certain situations. And believe me, they're known for getting themselves into certain situations. Like Nan, Helen's husband died many years ago. Unlike Nan, she doesn't talk about him.

"Helen is sixty-seven and doesn't suffer with joint pain," I chastise.

Nan smirks.

"Besides, we can't. I live next door to a police officer."

This piques her interest.

"Do you really?"

"Yes."

"Is he hot?"

I both love and hate how that was her first question.

"Very."

She grins.

"But I'm mad at him right now."

"Why?" she asks, positioning my plant on the windowsill.

Although her frown lines are deep, Nan doesn't have one wrinkle on her face. She's taken great care of herself over the years and still has regular trips to the hairdressers. She only ever puts the 'good stuff' on her face and is a bit of a snob when it comes to beauty products. When I was thirteen and told her I wanted to experiment with makeup, she took me to Chanel.

Fucking Chanel!

"He kept me up all night," I explain, decorating my coffee table by placing a scented candle on it.

I don't usually bother with candles, but Natasha from work got me it as a move-in gift.

"Doing what?" asks Nan, flattening the three cardboard boxes by her feet.

I contemplate lying, unsure if I can trust her with such information.

"Having sex with his girlfriend."