Chapter 1Party of OneI have a feeling something is off the day I move in. Nothing big, nothing that can quite be vocalized, the kind of feeling that you ignore and chalk up to first-day nerves, because change is scary, and a new life will always feel off-kilter until you settle into it. It’s easy, at first, to attribute that yawning sense of something not quite right, the one in your gut, in your bones, to the jitters.
The pastel-hued frontages of this exclusive enclave of North London lie pristine in facing rows, beautifully crafted and ready to be enjoyed, like bright cakes in a French patisserie, like pick-a-mix in Marie Antoinette’s dressing rooms, a plethora of possibility, each perfectly made, decorated, and presented, each different, but all luxurious, every one with a thrilling center yet to be discovered.
It would be mad to trust that first-day nagging feeling, after all of the logistics that got you here: the endless house viewings, the offers and counteroffers, the stamp duty and agreements on fixtures and fittings and the packing and movers and paperwork: changes of address, driver’s license amendments, new-doctor registration forms. Imagine turning on your heels after all that work because of a tiny feeling, because of some tiny little something that you found unsettling.
So you tell yourself: Don’t be silly—you’re tired, you’re stressed. And in my case: Remember, your life took a nosedive fourteen months ago—nothing will ever be the same—obviously you’re inclined to feel that something is off.
So I decided to see if things would resolve.
Don’t say you wouldn’t do the same. You would, you have. Or, I guess, you’re someone who’s constantly running away from things on the basis of vibes, in which case, my condolences on missing half the joy of life. Because sometimes you’re projecting, sometimes the red flags are the ones you have brought with you from home. This is what I assumed when I moved to 18 Northcroft Road.
Who you are, they say, is the amalgamation of the six people you spend the most time with. Does it count if the people you spend the most time with don’t know you’re spending time with them? Does it count if you don’t even know their names?
But I’m skipping ahead. We need to go back to the first day, the day I moved in, the day I got the feeling something wasn’t quite right.
The movers shift the final piece of furniture into the hall, and I press hard against the newly rendered Farrow & Ball paneling to let them pass. I paid a little more for the premium service: I watch them carefully maneuver, edges protected, everything done just so. It’s reassuring, as if I, too, am bubble-wrapped and being carried gently into the rooms, the furniture getting more love than I have for a long time. I watch the men disappear up the stairs and reappear with arms full of discarded wrapping, leaving with goodbyes and good-lucks thrown back over shoulders.
I am in. The house mine, finally: my turnkey, fully refurbished, two-bedroom Georgian terrace in London’s exclusive De Beauvoir area. Just mine, box-fresh and full of hope for the future. I watch the movers pack up and throw the last of the balled-up packing materials into the truck bed before rattling down the shutters and slamming the doors. Then a final, casual thumbs-up through the driver’s window, and they pull away.
The street is so quiet once their rumble subsides. Odd to miss them—I barely spoke to them—but you get so caught up in the energy of a group endeavor and now the party’s moved on. It’s just me, party of one.
I take in my new neighborhood—the immaculate stone frontages standing sentinel, running either side of the street, a protective tunnel of affluence.
I shiver at how beautiful it is here, my heart tripping a beat with sudden joy, and disbelief that this is my new home. I get to live here, in a place like this.
It’s early morning, the street is still as I take it in from the doorway, not a soul yet up to catch my moment of bliss. A cool morning breeze ruffles my hair and lifts the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle from nearby. I cast my eyes over the well-tended frontages: all this, no doubt, kept up by armies of gardeners, cleaners, nannies, and housekeepers. In this area, the larger houses easily break the three-million-pound mark.
I need to stop staring. I am one of these people now, too. I need to relax into this, or they’ll sense my awe and turn on me with their sterling-silver pitchforks.
I shut my glossy cherry-red front door and let the still of the house settle on me, the smell of wood polish and fresh carpet evidence of a completely clean slate. I wander, eyes still surprised by the soaring ceilings, the intricate swirls of Victorian cornicing, cool-to-the-touch marble fireplaces, and the luxurious interior-designed fixtures and fittings that I requested the sellers incorporate into the sale.
My own possessions stand like islands in each room, boxed, the chaos inside them still contained. The larger pieces of furniture have been carefully unwrapped and positioned, the extra service worth it but also necessary; now that I’m single again, I have to pay people to help me carry the things I can’t manage.
But I can manage—new life, new rules: I can do this. Anything is possible, with the right amount of planning.
I was incredibly lucky to find the house so quickly after the divorce. The estate agent called me before it was even listed. The owners, overseas, apparently, were eager to sell. Precarious economic climate and all that.
And as soon as I saw it, it was love. It felt like coming home, like being homesick for a place I’d never seen.
I made an offer on sight and after a short, brutal bidding war, I won the keys. It’s the only remaining two-bed on the street, thus gloriously skimming under the one-million-pound bracket and making me the least financially qualified homeowner living here. If it hadn’t been for the very mixed blessing of redundancy and its consolation prize of shares and a quite frankly life-changing work payout postdivorce, then I would still be in a soulless rental in Ben’s hometown in the Cotswolds.
But the universe conspired to simultaneously kick me when I was down and offer me a lifeline in one go, in the form of a U.S. company buying out the company I helped to build, from the ground up, for fifteen years, a prize boutique agency with a few blue-chip clients on our list, now acquired, subsumed, and relocated, almost everyone given marching orders, shares, and a golden parachute into unknown territory.
Divorce and then redundancy. I am either incredibly lucky, or not at all. I still can’t quite figure it out. I suppose it depends who’s asking.
Either way, solo, I could just about afford this house, with a very large deposit and a blessedly low monthly mortgage, given my current position.
And I am fortunate, too, I’m told, because most buyers of my age have families, and families need more space than Number 18 possesses, so I will have gotten a bargain there, too. I almost had a family, almost—three times almost. But it’s inappropriate to tell people that in passing.
The linen blinds that block the lower half of the living room’s front windows leave only the top floors of the facing houses visible. Passersby at street level can’t see in, or be seen, but the houses opposite would have a wonderful view, if they cared to look.
I let my eyes wander greedily over their windows, trying to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond the reflecting glass: the top edge of an abstract painting, something shipped straight from a gallery, no doubt; then, in another, a showstopping, fresh floral display partly obscuring the double bed beyond, its plump and neat bed linens thick and softly inviting. High in another window: an expansive sculptural glass light fixture caught in the early-morning sun, refracting dancing beams back up onto the high ceiling. The sheer wealth manifest in this area, in its immaculate aesthetic, is oddly and profoundly reassuring. Life here, it telegraphs, is good.
I wonder whether I am good enough to live here.
I want to be. It took only one text message to destroy my old life. A life that required eighteen years to build.
But that was the past: my laptop crashed, and when I couldn’t restart it, I went into our spare room and started using Ben’s desktop. It only took me two attempts to work out the password was his mother’s birthday. There are a million versions of my life where I didn’t see the pop-up on the desktop. It came and went so fast: a text message notification, in the corner of his screen, there and gone in a second. But I saw the name on it: Hannah.
We didn’t know a Hannah. I clicked, and I read. The invisible glue that held my marriage together dissolved.
I sat there and read their yearlong chain, from nervous beginnings to indelible connection, my stomach flipping with every increment between, hot tears and the harsh wipes of my wool sleeve scraping my cheeks raw.
Copyright © 2026 by Catherine Steadman. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
