at the table, straight-backed and prim, Cecilia wearing the blue cashmere cardigan I’d bought her, waiting for me to run in with the plates as if they were in a restaurant. Phil, carefully decanting the one and only bottle of wine we were to have. And I thought of every Christmas when they’d stayed in my spare room, in the sheets I’d changed for them, drinking the tea I’d made for them, all the time knowing about Miss Harding. The Shillings had a terrible tradition whereby we all sat on Marjorie’s bed on Christmas morning to open presents, whilst she sat like the queen in her quilted bed jacket, in my spare room, in my house. And all the time, life was not as I imagined. Earth-shattering betrayal was being played out around me. Part of me had been eager for family traditions, I’ll admit; eager for normality, a different sort of upbringing than my own for my children. I was ready to accept a great deal, not having a lot to hang my own hat on. I’d gone along with the present-opening scene with good grace. I’d even gone along with being led in a little prayer by Marjorie after the last one had been opened, bending my head and giving thanks to God. Jesus.
The scale of their treachery suddenly threatened to overwhelm me. I felt so exposed. Had they all been laughing at me? I tightened my grip on the pushchair; felt my head swim. Breathe, I told myself, breathe. Because … perhaps they hadn’t known for years? Sam hadn’t said when. Perhaps they only became aware of Emma’s existence in the last year or so? Last few months? Yes, I preferred to believe that, I decided, waiting for my heart rate to come down as Clemmie told me about Damien, Mummy, who’s got a verruca. Preferred to believe no one could be quite so wicked.
The book club met at Angie’s that evening, Angie having the most beautiful house. And Jennie did the food. Oh, yes, food, not nibbles. No bumper-sized bags of assorted crisps were to be hastily shaken into bowls this week. Instead, bite-sized blinis were piled with cream cheese and caviar, asparagus and Parmesan cheese slivers rolled in Parma ham, and tiny baked potatoes topped with sour cream and chives. And we assembled, not in the kitchen, but in the vast drawing room. A roaring fire had been lit under the marble mantle and Angie’s clever decor – heavy linen curtains, creamy sofas, antique tables topped with enormous stone lamps, fabulous oil paintings on the walls – was softly lit by scented candles everywhere. And I mean, everywhere. Angie’s taste, generally impeccable, had a habit of lurching off-piste when confronted by a shop full of scented candles. Nevertheless the effect was beautiful.
‘If a little sacrificial,’ Jennie muttered, surreptitiously blowing out one or two as she hurried in with a plate of delicate choux pastry puffs filled with salmon mousse.
Everyone was in their finery too; no jeans and sweaters this week. Indeed most people looked as if they were going to a cocktail party. The men were in jackets, the women coiffed, baubled and made-up, and a general air of expectancy prevailed. Angus was dapper in a tweed jacket, MCC tie and reeking of Trumpers aftershave. He exuded boyish excitement, rocking back on his heels as he guffawed at something Luke said, thrilled to bits at having been allowed out – no doubt equipped with a notebook or perhaps even a tape recorder in his lapel. Saintly Sue was in white trousers and an extraordinary floaty top, pale blue with embroidery around the plunging neckline, which might just have been in fashion five years ago. Jennie was in very tight black trousers and had a great deal of lipstick on her teeth. Only Peggy was resolutely in jeans, an old polo neck and her trademark suede pixie boots. She was also the only one not standing up and buzzing animatedly. She glanced impatiently at her oversized man’s watch.
‘Come on, what are we waiting for? Let’s get cracking,’ she said, perched as she was in the circle of chairs Angie had set out at the far end of the room, by the fire.
‘Oh, I think we’ll give them a few more minutes, don’t you? It’s only just seven-thirty.’ Angie patted her hair, her gaze roving out of the window which gave onto the gravel drive.
‘Why? They can just join in when they arrive, surely?’
‘Except that might look a bit rude, Peggy. Seeing as it’s their first night.’
Peggy snorted and muttered something about the people in this village not getting out enough if they were sent into a frenzy by having a couple of Americans amongst them, when suddenly, headlights illuminated the room from without.
‘They’re here!’ squeaked Angie. Jennie leaped to rearrange her asparagus rolls. ‘And d’you know, I think Peggy’s right. Maybe we would look a bit more serious and literary if we were all sitting with our books? What d’you think?’
There was a general consensual murmur at this and everyone dived for a seat as if the music had stopped in a game of musical chairs. Peggy rolled her eyes. By the time Chad and Hope pushed through the front door, which Angie had left conveniently ajar, we were all sitting in a circle, a bit pink and overexcited but, hopefully, with intelligent looks on our faces. Our books were open, although unfortunately on different pages. Angie’s was upside down.
Chad was as handsome as I remembered: tall, slightly burly, square-jawed and wearing chinos and a shirt, no jacket. Hope, beautiful, tiny and dark, was effortlessly casual in a grey cashmere jumper, sweat pants and pumps, instantly throwing into
