The alarm went off at five-twenty in the morning, and for one still moment I lay in the dark and thought about all the more satisfying things I could do instead of what I was about to do.
I thought about them briefly, with real affection, and then I got up.
Mark was asleep beside me, which was deliberate. I had decided the night before not to tell him. This is not because my husband is unsupportive. Mark is deeply supportive, in the way of a man who genuinely believes that most conflicts between neighbors can be resolved by getting everyone together for a calm chat, which is a lovely quality and also the reason I hadn’t mentioned the plan.
I had already had six calm chats.
The seventh one was not going to be with Denise.
I pulled on yesterday’s clothes in the dark and went downstairs to the kitchen, where I opened my phone and pulled up the photographs. I had been taking them every morning for twenty-two days. Not aggressively, not dramatically, not even particularly early on most mornings. I would come downstairs, see Denise’s silver Vauxhall Corsa sitting across the end of my driveway with the tranquil confidence of a vehicle that had been told it was welcome there, and I would take a photograph. Timestamp visible. License plate visible. Driveway entrance visible. Then I would put the kettle on and try to figure out how I was getting two boys to school.
Twenty-two photographs, twenty-two timestamps, twenty-two mornings.
I’d spent the previous evening reading the local authority’s guidance on parking obstruction. Not skimming it. Reading it, twice, the way I read anything where I want to be completely certain I understand what I’m doing before I do it. I had found the enforcement line number, the criteria for what qualified as an obstruction of residential driveway access, the process for contacting the approved contractor that the council directed complaints to when the criteria were met.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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