resumed her place on the stool, lighting up again.
Four women.
‘Who’s he talking to?’ asked Jennie after a moment, craning her neck to peer next door. We watched as Dan tried to crack a nut which clearly wasn’t cracking.
‘Phil’s sister,’ I told them. ‘If I tell you she hasn’t laughed since 2006 you’ll know what he’s up against.’
Sour Cecilia, her plain, scrubbed face mystified, was on the receiving end of Dan’s charm offensive, a practised stream of anecdotal wit which he usually unleashed on pretty secretaries at work who’d lapse into fits of giggles.
‘I’d better rescue her,’ Jennie sighed, putting down her glass.
‘Do not,’ Peggy told her, staying her arm. ‘Do her good. She’s a pain in the tubes. I’ve already had two minutes with her. And your Dan’s going the extra mile as usual.’
It probably didn’t help Jennie that we all loved Dan.
‘And that, presumably, is the mother,’ Angie murmured, as an older, but more handsome version of Cecilia hoved into view.
‘Don’t let her see me!’ I squeaked, shrinking back behind Peggy. ‘I’ve done my bit. Hours and hours on the phone last week, and then a whole day down in Kent with the pair of them. I’m not doing any more.’
‘Good for you,’ agreed Peggy. ‘Your dad’s not one to let a mouth like a cat’s arse put him off, though, is he?’
We watched as my father, having returned from his drinks run to hand round gin and tonics with bonhomie, succumbing as ever to his urge to make a party go, sidled up to Marjorie, clearly of the opinion he’d met her somewhere before, which of course he had, at our wedding.
‘It’s Margaret, isn’t it?’ he boomed. For a small man Dad’s got a very loud voice.
‘Marjorie.’ She tensed, visibly.
‘That’s it. Weren’t you at the Gold Cup a while back? In a box with the McLeans?’
‘I was not,’ she said tightly.
He gave it some thought. ‘Didn’t we have a dance at the Fosbury-Westons’ once?’
Her mouth all but disappeared. ‘We did not. I’m Philip’s mother.’
It was pretty to watch. It all came flooding back to Dad. The wedding reception down the road at the country club where he’d greeted her jovially from the top step of that grand house, tightly upholstered as she was in purple silk, a fascinator on her head. A fascinator’s a strange little hat, and this one had a peacock perched aloft, but as he’d lunged to embrace her, the peacock’s antennae had somehow become involved in his buttonhole, which the florist had surrounded with some netted confection, so that her head became locked to his chest. A grim struggle had ensued: Marjorie silent, Dad hooting with laughter as he descended the step – which didn’t help, rendering Marjorie bent double. ‘She can’t get enough of me!’ he roared.
‘My fascinator!’ Marjorie had yelped, clutching her hat which was nailed to her head.
‘Why thank you,’ Dad had quipped back, eyebrows wagging.
Cecilia had finally rushed with nail scissors to part them and Marjorie had stood back panting and unamused, hands clenched at her sides like a boxer.
As her identity was now revealed, Dad looked desperately at Dan, but Dan had been struggling for a good ten minutes with these two and had watched helplessly as my father had flown into their web.
‘Lovely … party?’ said Dad, in despair.
‘Isn’t it?’ agreed Dan.
Marjorie and Cecilia looked aghast.
‘I mean … as these things go,’ added Dad, waving his hand lamely.
Dan gazed bleakly into his beer; my father at his feet.
The four of us lined up at the Aga viewed this little vignette with interest.
‘Those two are the only men in that room who belong to us,’ Jennie observed. ‘Take a long hard look, girls. That’s what we’ve ended up with. That’s what’s left for us in the man pool. Two men still in short pants. No offence, Poppy.’
‘None taken,’ I assured her.
‘But would you want any of the rest?’ Angie murmured.
We took a sip of wine and surveyed the throng thoughtfully. We liked this sort of question.
