off to enquire of my hardly-spring-chicken friends, whether, when they popped in for coffee the other day, either of them also popped upstairs to use a pregnancy test that was sitting in the bathroom cabinet.’ She snorted with derision. ‘As if.’
I shrugged. ‘I agree, it’s a long shot.’ I frowned as I helped Archie into his highchair and sat beside him. ‘Sitting in your cabinet?’
‘What?’
‘The test?’
‘Oh. Yes, it was mine. You get two in a pack these days and I’d used the other one ages ago when I’d had a nasty shock and was late. Why?’
‘I dunno. I just didn’t know that.’
She made to leave and it occurred to me, as I blew on the bit of sausage I’d speared for Archie, that I hadn’t told her about Sam. Being married to Hope. Well, there’d been so much else to divulge. But I could have slipped it in, couldn’t I? She’d have been intrigued. Why hadn’t I? I wondered if I was being protective. After all, Sam hadn’t broadcast it around the village – nor had Hope for that matter, although perhaps for more obvious reasons – so neither would I. But neither had I told her something else that was bothering me. About Luke.
Archie gave an impatient squawk, mouth wide, and I hurriedly shovelled in the sausage.
Coincidentally I ran into both of my friends later on. First Peggy, as the children and I sat on the bench by the pond feeding the ducks, and she passed on her way to the shop. She was looking pleased as punch and rather exotic too, a purple beaded velvet coat over her jeans and pixie boots, dangly silver earrings swinging.
‘I say, guess what, darling,’ she drawled, perching beside me on the bench and lighting a cigarette. She crossed her skinny legs. ‘Jennie came to ask me if I was preggers. Do admit.’ She flashed amused, sparkling eyes and puffed hard. ‘Wish I’d said yes. Wish I’d said: yes, and the father of my unborn child is Charles Dance and we’re going to keep it. Charles and I are thrilled. We just popped into your house to do the test – he kept KV downstairs – and when I shrieked down the good news, he ran up two at a time and we couldn’t resist nipping into your bedroom for another frenzied bout of love- making to celebrate. Had the most spine-shattering sex in your bed, hope you don’t mind?’
I giggled as she rolled her eyes expressively.
‘What planet is she on?’ she said incredulously.
‘She’s just being thorough, Peggy. It was my idea, anyway, to ask whoever had been in the house. She thought it was Frankie’s.’
‘Course it’s not Frankie’s; what teenage girl would do a preggy test and drop it in her mother’s waste-paper basket? Even if it is wrapped in loo paper? Do me a favour.’
‘I suppose not,’ I said feeling rather stupid. And guilty too. I’d been quick to point the finger. Poor Frankie.
‘Anyway, I’m thrilled to bits she thought it was me. That’s really put a spring in my step. Thank goodness the book club’s up and running again. You missed the last one of course; it was quite a laugh. Although I have to say, Angus abandoning ship in a vest and braces did precisely nothing for me.’ She shuddered. ‘Perhaps we’ll drop the theme element,’ she mused. ‘Why is it the thought of these men is always so much nicer than the reality?’ She narrowed her eyes into the distance and inhaled pensively on her Marlboro Light. Clemmie was staring up at her, intrigued.
‘How many do you smoke a day, Peggy?’ she asked.
‘As many as possible, darling,’ Peggy replied, smiling down. She took a bit of bread from Clemmie’s bag and tossed it to a duck.
‘I say, what about adding a bit of new blood?’ she said abruptly. ‘To the book club? There’s a rather attractive widower just moved into the rectory in the next village and I saw him browsing in Waterstones the other day. D’you think he might be up for a bit of Jodi Picault of a Tuesday?’
‘I’ve no idea. You’re still going ahead with it, then, are you? Without the Armitages?’ I said nervously.
‘Well, they can come if they like but they need to know we won’t be reading Chekhov,’ Peggy said archly. Suddenly she stiffened, her face alert. ‘Ten to ten,’ she hissed.
I frowned. ‘For the book club? Isn’t that rather late?’
‘No, attractive widower, ten to ten.’ Peggy’s late husband had been in the RAF. ‘Covert, Poppy, covert,’ she muttered as I turned to stare at a rather donnish-looking gent in a worn corduroy jacket, who’d come into view down the hill, a Jack Russell on a lead trotting beside him. They made for the shop. ‘With his dog again,’ Peggy observed, as he tied the terrier up outside, ‘which he’ll take back via the woods for a run. See you later, Poppy.’ She stubbed out her cigarette in the little ashtray she kept in her bag and snapped it shut. Her
