‘Oh dear God,’ Jennie breathed, as we both leaped out of the car.

‘Hello, darling,’ said Dan, with the faintest of smiles and terrified eyes.

‘Why are you wearing my jumper like that, Dan? Don’t tell me you’re a fucking transvestite as well?’

‘There’s a very simple explanation, love.’

‘Don’t call me love. Are you a transvestite? Just tell me now, please.’

‘Ah, so it is your jumper, is it, madam?’ interjected the policeman.

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘And he is your husband?’

‘Even more sadly.’

‘In that case, sir, I imagine your story holds water. Just checking,’ he assured Jennie, as he turned back to her. ‘Only, we can’t be too careful. We had a couple of complaints from people on the train; they rang in, so we had to check it out. Had to meet him off the train and ensure he wasn’t … well, you know. A danger.’

‘Oh, he’s a danger all right,’ she said grimly.

‘Thank you, officer,’ I said quickly. The policeman seemed to be rather enjoying this now, his mouth twitching. ‘I’m sure we’ll be fine now. So sorry to have troubled you.’

‘No trouble at all,’ he said, giving Jennie a nod. As he turned to go he grinned and gave Dan a huge wink. ‘Good luck, mate!’

‘Right, mate,’ snapped Jennie when he was out of earshot. ‘What exactly is your story?’

‘It’s very simple, love.’

‘Don’t –’ she shut her eyes for a long moment – ‘call me love.’

‘I had a rather hot vindaloo at lunchtime in Leeds, and perhaps a few too many beers with Ken from marketing – you know how he overdoes it – and then, on the way home, I experienced a spot of turbulence.’

‘Trains don’t do turbulence, Dan. You’re not on a bloody jumbo.’

‘No, I meant internally.’

His wife stared, uncomprehending.

‘I had an overconfident fart and soiled myself.’

There was an appalled silence.

‘Yes, so I went to the lavatory,’ Dan ploughed on heroically, ‘to sort myself out, and since my trousers and pants were beyond the pale, I threw them out of the window, sensibly having brought my overnight case in with me; except when I opened it, I realized I’d brought your case instead. Happily, though, you’d left an old jumper inside. Wasn’t that lucky? Otherwise I’d have been in real trouble.’

‘There’s nothing lucky about you, Dan, and trouble barely covers it.’ She seethed, fists clenched, simmering with rage. ‘You stupid, stupid man. Look at you, trussed up like a bloody fairy, and all because you can’t be bothered to check you’ve got the right case in the morning. Too busy lying in bed leaving everything to the last minute. Why are you such a git, Dan? Why? You’re like my fourth bloody child; it’s pathetic. And why d’you have to have a drink every lunchtime, hm? Why is that such an imperative? Why do you find it completely and utterly impossible to walk past a hostelry without –’ Suddenly she froze. ‘Get in,’ she said through gritted teeth, lips frozen like a ventriloquist’s. ‘Mrs Mason’s watching. Get in Poppy’s car now.’

Dan’s head swivelled, then, needing no further prompting, he leaped in my car, where Clemmie and Archie sat in the back, mute for once, eyes like saucers. Mrs Mason, from Apple Tree Cottage, a wizened, tortoise-like woman, here to collect Mr Mason from the six twenty-five and ferry him back home for his liver and bacon, was indeed staring incredulously from her Polo window, her own eyes round like the children’s, but more the size of dinner plates. Jennie, looking fit to be tied, gave her a tight little smile then turned on her heel and stalked, with dignity, in the opposite direction, towards the station car park, and the other car.

‘Shit. Keys.’ Dan leaped out of my passenger seat and sprinted after her, pink sweater bunched in his hand to stop it falling. He waved the car keys. ‘Darling … darling, you’ll be wanting these –’

Jennie turned and thrust a bunch of keys in his face. ‘I’ve got the spare keys, Dan. I thought of that before I left the house. Now stop running around the station like a girl and get back in that car, now.’

‘Righto.’ He sprinted back to me. By now I was choking into the steering wheel as he got in beside me.

‘Thanks, Poppy.’ He sighed.

‘My pleasure,’ I gurgled.

‘These things happen, don’t they?’

‘They certainly seem to. To you, at least.’

‘Not my finest hour.’

‘Nope,’ I agreed cheerfully.

He leaned his head back wearily on the rest as we pulled away, pink legs akimbo. Then he cocked his head in my direction, his blue eyes resigned. ‘Divorce? D’you think? This time?’

‘Oh, undoubtedly, Dan,’ I assured him with a grin as we sped off home and the sodden fields flashed past. ‘This time, undoubtedly.’




10

‘Forster,’ Angie was saying importantly, pencil poised over her notepad. Her skinny knees in black opaque tights were crossed and protruding from a very short grey skirt. She pulled her skirt down a bit.

‘Who?’ asked Peggy.

‘You know, E. M. Forster.’

‘Is that Foster in a posh voice?’

‘No, it’s got an r in it. Something like Howards End.’

‘Sounds promising,’ mused Peggy. ‘Who was Howard? And what was so special about his end?’

‘It’s a house, Peggy. That’s the name of the book.’

‘Oh, a house. Oh no, I don’t think so, do you? We might as well read Ideal Home. Tell me, how long have you been a farrier?’ She turned and bestowed a dazzling smile on a burly and impossibly handsome flaxen-haired young man beside her, who was blushing furiously and spilling out of a tiny button-backed armchair which struggled to contain him.

We were an improbable gathering assembled in Peggy’s sitting room that evening: Jennie, Angie, myself, Saintly Sue, Angus, Luke, Passion-fuelled Pete and Simon Devereux, a dashing and debonair porcelain expert from Christie’s, with hooded eyes and a fine line in Savile Row suits. We’d been astonished when Peggy had announced the guest list, but Peggy had remained unmoved.

‘Why? What’s so surprising?’

‘Well, Simon Devereux, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t think you were serious, Peggy. And Pete! What on earth did you say? You don’t even know him; you’ve never met him!’ Angie spluttered.

‘No, but his number’s in the book under farrier, so I simply rang him. Explained I was a friend of yours, and asked if he’d like to join our book club. What d’you think I said?’

Angie was speechless. ‘But he must have thought it so odd!’

‘Well, if he did, he didn’t say so. And he wouldn’t be coming if he did, would he? But he is. Said he’d like to read more and didn’t get the chance to do much in his line of work.’

‘Oh, he clearly thinks I fancy him and put you up to it!’ Angie stormed.

Peggy’s eyes widened. ‘He’s coming to read books, Angie, not have a sleepover. Do get a grip.’

‘And what did you say to Simon Devereux?’ Jennie said, taut-faced and pale. ‘Did you ring him as well?’

‘No.’ Peggy sighed patiently. ‘If you must know I sat next to him at dinner at the Holland-Hibberts last Saturday. Oh, he was itching to come. Couldn’t say yes quickly enough. Don’t forget, he’s desperate to get elected as our local parliamentary candidate and at the moment he doesn’t even live in the constituency. Just darts in at weekends from his pad in Chelsea. He keeps saying he wants to get more integrated in village life and he’s joined the hunt and all that, but being a member of a local book club will give him huge brownie points. He’s jolly nice, actually, and, to be fair, he grew up here. We had a really good chat. He’s adamant he won’t let the post office in the village shut if he gets in. I don’t know why you’re all so outraged. This was the plan, wasn’t it? A bit of new blood? Some of it hot?’ She lit a cigarette and blew out smoke in a thin blue line.

That had rather silenced us.

So now, here we all were, in a rather therapy-like circle in Peggy’s creamy sitting room, splashes of modern art squeezed between the beams, the drizzle outside spattering the darkened window panes, while we passed a bowl of Doritos like children playing pass the parcel. I snuck a look at Simon Devereux opposite. Urbane, handsome and sophisticated in an immaculate suit with patterned silk tie, fresh from the auction rooms of South Ken, he looked faintly amused, I thought, as he passed the crisps. I wondered how long he’d last. This was manifestly parochial for him and once he’d ticked it off his list of Things to Do we surely wouldn’t see him for dust. I wondered why Peggy had asked him. Beside him sat Angus, his craggy distinguished face wreathed in smiles, pleased as punch to be out and already on his second glass of Muscadet. Next to him was Angie in her very short skirt, and beside her Pete, who, as I say, looked self-conscious but gorgeous, and beside him Luke, who, with freshly washed blond hair, was looking disarmingly handsome himself, actually. Much better now than in church, I decided. Better when he wasn’t shutting his eyes and making ecstatic faces at his organ, which I found faintly giggle-making. But of course it could be a piano, I realized suddenly. Surely if you played one you played the other? That could be promising. I had a quick vision of us in a pretty cottage somewhere, Luke playing Chopin, glancing over his shoulder to smile and gauge my reaction as I sat sewing by the fire. Hm. Perhaps not the sewing. And was an organist in the same league as a cyclist? A bit … nerdy? Well, presumably he didn’t do it full-time. Presumably he had a day job. What was it, I wondered. I had a feeling Angie had said, but I couldn’t remember. I shook my head. So much to learn. Still, I would be careful this time. I must curb my predilection to leap and snatch; I would be circumspect and slow. Oh yes, this time I would crawl.