Jennie blinked. Turned her back on me pointedly. ‘I think that’s a brilliant idea, Hope. We’ll all read that for next week, then.’

‘And I could get a few notes from the Internet, perhaps? Circulate them, if you like, to help us along?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. As you can see, we didn’t need notes for this one!’ Angie trilled. She turned. ‘Everyone!’ She clapped her jewelled hands prettily into the party atmosphere that had naturally ensued – flooded in, more like, when given the chance. Angus was already florid and booming; Luke had his hand on Sue’s arm as he told an anecdote, just emphasizing a point, but still; and the volume was high. ‘Um, everyone! Listen up! Hope’s made a marvellous suggestion for next week. We’re going to read Ulysses, which is a lovely book, apparently. I’m sure you’ll all adore it. It’s by –’ Angie turned to Hope expectantly.

Hope looked startled then collected herself. ‘Oh, OK. James Joyce.’

‘James Joyce, and it’s about …’ Angie tinkled, cocking her head to one side, liking this double act.

‘Well, not so much about anything as a stream of consciousness. One day in the life of. I guess if it does have a central theme it’s … well, it’s –’ Hope puckered her pretty brow; looked momentarily flummoxed.

‘It’s about death,’ Peggy interjected softly, from over by the window.

We all turned to look at her. Her face, in profile to us, was sad and mournful. She blew a thin blue line of cigarette smoke at the pane of glass and thence to the darkened fields beyond.




15

‘Saintly Sue and Luke seemed to be getting on rather well last night, didn’t they?’ Jennie said casually.

I was on my way back from the shop. Jennie was on her hands and knees in her front garden, messing around with a trowel, the second time I’d found her thus in two weeks. Generally she expressed the opinion that plastic flowers were the way forward, so authentic were they nowadays, and soil-tilling just another extension of a housewife’s shackles, only we got to rattle them in the fresh air.

I paused at her gate. ‘Yes, they did, didn’t they?’

‘You don’t mind?’ She straightened up anxiously.

‘Not in the least.’

I didn’t, really. Well, OK, I might have been a bit piqued that he’d spent so much time flirting and amusing her, but no more than that. ‘I’m seeing him on Tuesday, anyway,’ I assured her. I hated disappointing my friends.

‘Are you?’ She brightened, as I knew she would. ‘Oh, good. Oh, I am pleased.’

‘You sound like someone’s mother, Jennie.’

‘I am someone’s mother.’

‘Yes, but not mine.’ I smiled.

‘Fair comment.’ She paused. ‘Probably just humouring Sue last night, then?’

‘Most probably,’ I conceded, although privately I thought the giggling I’d heard behind the azalea bush in Angie’s front garden as I’d left the party might have been more than humouring.

‘Simon was on good form,’ I said conversationally, but not without a parrying thrust. A touch of touché.

‘Yes, he was, wasn’t he?’ she said lightly. ‘Although not with me.’

‘He was busy catching up with the Armitages, Jennie,’ I said, instantly regretting the parry.

‘You don’t have to placate me, Poppy. I’m married, remember? I’ve got my Toad.’ She grinned. ‘My life is complete. You’re the one that needs a man.’

She knelt and resumed her digging, humming to herself, which she didn’t do. I mean, years ago we all did; sing, even, but not recently. There was a strange contentment to her too, as she chivvied those weeds, which was as alien as the horticulture. I went distractedly up my path with the children. Something about Jennie and Simon’s behaviour last night had alerted me; the way they rather pointedly didn’t linger in each other’s company. It was as if, in private time, some modus operandi had been arrived at. As if they were beyond seeking each another out at a party and having tongues wag. Had some decision been made, I wondered nervously? I wasn’t sure. One thing I did know, though, was that the more I encountered Simon, the more I liked him. We’d had a good chat at Angie’s, and amongst other things he’d said how outrageous it was that the bus route from the village was in danger, and that for some old people it was their only independent way into town; they didn’t want to rely on lifts. Said it was the first thing he was going to tackle if he was elected, that and the threatened closure of the post office, which he was tackling anyway, elected or not. He was taking a petition round all the villages affected. Yes, a decent man. A sensible one too. Which Dan wasn’t always, I thought uncomfortably.

‘Where are you going, anyway?’ I heard her voice as I put my key in my door.

I turned. ‘Inside.’

‘No, with Luke?’

‘Oh. The King’s Head.’

Jennie looked astonished. Then delighted. She sat back on her heels on the grass. ‘Oh! How lovely!’

I too had been surprised when Luke had rung that morning, to change the venue.

‘Um, I know I said lunch in London, Poppy, but I’ve been thinking. What about dinner instead? At the King’s Head?’

The King’s Head was a fearfully expensive restaurant down by the river on the other side of the vale. It was very much London prices and fancied itself hugely; in fact it may even have been equipped with some Michelin stars. It was quite a number and not what I’d been expecting. On the other hand, I didn’t have to trek to London and pretend I’d been having a lovely time in Sloane Street, shimmying in and out of outfits, which, in my present mood, I was secretly dreading. I dreaded a lot at the moment. Wasn’t sure I had the heart any for any of this. Luke must have felt me hesitate.

‘I’d so love it if you said yes, Poppy. Please come,’ he said urgently.

It was a long time since anyone had insisted on a date with me, urgently or otherwise, and the King’s Head was a treat. I’d only been there once, on Phil’s birthday, and yes, obviously his mother and sister had come too. I rallied and agreed.

Tuesday night at eight, then, with Felicity, Angie’s daughter home for half term, babysitting, I made my way down the lanes across country, having elected to drive myself and maintain some independence. The hedgerows shivered darkly in the breeze, shaking themselves dry after the rain, the fields behind them damp and browned off for the winter. It was a beautiful soft autumn evening and I was tempted to just drive on up to the Beacon and sit in the car, watch the stars gather over the wide flat valley floor below, such a treat it was to be out of the house at night, no children. I knew the rules, though, and dutifully turned left where the lane plunged through the wood to Cumpton, then swung round the corner and under the arch of the pretty white inn, clad in dazzling red Virginia creeper, to the car park.

Luke was already in the dining room when I arrived: a good sign, I felt. I’d relied a lot on signs recently. I crossed the room to his table in the corner, remembering to hold my tummy in.

‘Poppy!’ He stood up, one hand holding the bottom of his tie. ‘How lovely. You look amazing.’ We exchanged a peck.

I didn’t really. I looked OK. I had on my usual Jigsaw black, which had seen better days, and a bit of make-up, but I hadn’t made a huge effort. Not because I didn’t like Luke, but because I was flat inside. Odd.

These last few days, instead of rallying a bit after Sam’s revelation, getting angry even, I’d dipped. Dived, perhaps. Yesterday I’d even found myself mechanically going through the motions. Of living. Having been there once before, I was terrified. My hands froze on the tin of beans I was opening. Second tin that day. I ran upstairs, riffled through my drawers and found the old bottle, which was empty, of course, because I’d flushed the pills away. But then I rang the nice GP and she prescribed some more, surprised I’d stopped taking them so soon. We had a bit of a chat over the phone and I assured her I was fine really, just feeling a bit low. But I’d come off the phone exhausted. At the effort of sounding fine. Had to sit on the side of the bed for a few minutes, holding my knees.

Yet now, here I was, cranking up a smile in this softly lit, plushly carpeted dining room, taking my chair opposite Luke, who looked for all the world as if Angelina Jolie had sat down to join him.

‘I thought we’d have champagne.’ He indicated a bottle already chilling in a bucket beside him. ‘Is that OK with you?’

‘Perfect,’ I assured him.

Within moments, a suave sommelier had glided noiselessly across to pour some for me, purring, ‘Madame,’ as he did. The King’s Head was a bit like that: gliding waiters, melba toast, elaborately arranged pink napkins, puddings from the trolley. Expensive, but old-fashioned and parochial. The sort of place where, if you had the right parents, you might easily have been taken as a child. All quite easy to mock these days but, having not had the parents, I rather liked it, I decided, as the waiter slid away as if on roller skates. Luke raised his glass.

‘To a lovely evening,’ he murmured, smouldering over his glass, eyebrows waggling.

Relieved he was playing it for laughs, I raised mine back in mock salute. ‘A lovely evening,’ I agreed with a grin.

‘Isn’t that what we’re supposed to say in this sort of joint?’ Luke’s eyes roved around incredulously, taking in the flickering candlelight, the napkins in the shape of swans, the throne-like chairs, the well-heeled couples chatting politely over aperitifs. He leaned in. ‘Then you’re supposed to ask me if I had a good day at the office,’ he hissed, ‘and I ask you how your day has gone. If you got the ironing done.’ He grinned and popped a large chunk of bread roll in his mouth, chewing hard. ‘How was it, anyway?’ he asked out of the side of his mouth, amidst a few crumbs.