She folds her arms. “Who on earth thinks giving two housing estates the same name is a good idea? I mean—”
I decide to cut her off before the rant escalates. “Anyway, the woman who lives at the same address as ours—26 Oakpark—is called Savannah Holmes. I get her packages sometimes and she gets mine.”
Greta’s eyebrows arch. “Eh, how often is this happening? I’ve had maybe two packages that went to the other Oakpark in the last three years.”
“Yeah, I’d say Savannah and I have similar online shopping hobbies…”
Greta tsks. As the anti-fast-fashion member of the family, she has never understood my weakness for shopping.
“It’s mostly stuff for Bella,” I say, faux defensiveness masking actual defensiveness. “Babygros and bibs.”
“And what does Savannah buy?” She nods toward the package.
“ME+EM, Sézane, Reiss, and one time I opened a parcel by accident and it was a Marc Jacobs tote bag. I googled it and they’re, like,three hundred euros. Imagine.”
Greta, who’s had the same black leather bag for twenty years, shakes her head.
“So yeah, Savannah lives quite a different life to me.” I look down at my outfit. Ancient denim shorts, a tank top I got in Oasis before the shops closed down, and a muslin cloth over my shoulder.
“Maybe she’s sitting in the other Oakpark right now with a baby on her knee, as her Marc Jacobs bag gathers dust.” Greta is nothing if not loyal.
“Nope. Here, look.” I tap into Instagram and type Savannah’s name. This is definitely more appealing than worrying about my screenshot drama. “See? She’s roughly the same age as me, but no kids. She works in banking and lives on her own. She spends a lot of time at the gym, takes luxury all-inclusive holidays, loves clothes, eats out a lot, and has an allergy she posts about to raise awareness.”
A thoughtful expression settles across Greta’s face. “You got all that from Instagram?”
“Yep. There aren’t many Savannahs around, even in South Dublin. And shelookslike a Savannah.” I turn my phone again to show her. Like me, Savannah has dark, shoulder-length hair, but where mine is usually shoved in a ponytail, hers is glossy, highlighted and well maintained. And while I stick on some CC cream before facing the world, Savannah has the skills of a professional makeup artist—contouring and dotting like she’s Charlotte Tilbury herself. Yes, I know far too much about this person.
“She’s very pretty,” Greta says. “Why is she doing her makeup on Instagram?”
“She just does the occasional get-ready-with-me post.”
“And you’re watching all of this?” She’s shaking her head, but she’s also searching for Savannah’s account on her phone.
“Eh, pot, kettle?” I point at her screen. “And speaking of kettles…tea?”
“Yeah, go on, thanks.”
I make green tea for her and a coffee for me, all one-handed with Bella on my shoulder.
Greta is still scrolling Savannah’s page. She stops on a makeup reel.
I lean in to see. “It’s a great account to follow for product recs.”
Greta looks up at me.
“I tried the retinol she recommends in this,” I add, “but weirdly, it’s disappeared. I’m waiting for a new one.”
Greta shakes her head.
“Stop judging!” I punch her shoulder lightly. “Anyway, following Savannah is genuinely educational—she posts a lot about her tree-nut allergy and one of the girls in my tutor class has a tree-nut allergy. So I’m not just here for the makeup.”
Greta looks unconvinced.
“I’mserious! You wouldn’t believe how many things contain nuts—Oh.” I go cold as it hits me. “Actually, it’s Nika Geary who has the allergy. Celeste’s daughter.” “Bratty” daughter. “God, that bloody message. I’m such an idiot.”
Greta puts her phone down. “Yeah, there’s something else about Nika Geary you should know…”
“Oh no, what now?”
