A Rural Affair

14

‘I can’t believe it.’ Angie’s mouth, painted fuchsia pink, dropped open in disbelief. She left it there for dramatic emphasis.

‘I know. Neither can I. Well, no, I can, actually,’ I said miserably.

‘But what sort of man does that?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Ropes his entire family into his extramarital affair and asks them to conspire against his wife!’

‘Phil,’ I said quietly. ‘A Phil sort of man.’

‘And – and what sort of family,’ she blinked, ‘agrees! Colludes with their son? And his mistress? Gives the relationship their seal of approval!’

I squirmed. ‘Marjorie and Cecilia,’ I said mechanically, noticing Jennie wasn’t saying anything.

She had her back to us. Strapped into a long white pinny at her Aga, she was stirring a vast vat of boeuf bourguignon ready to be put into Tupperware dishes and thence local freezers. Angie and I were at her kitchen table. Angie had popped in to retrieve a pashmina she’d lent and wanted to wear to a charity luncheon. She’d found me, pale, hunched and in mid-flow to Jennie. Naturally the story had to be retold. And I would, of course, have told Angie eventually, but there was a definite hierarchy. I might have waited until I was more poised. No chance of that now. And Angie’s incredulity was hard to bear, reflecting, as I felt it did ineluctably, on me. Jennie too had been shocked, but she could believe it. She knew Phil, and she knew Marjorie and Cecilia.

‘Phil could do no wrong in their eyes,’ I explained wearily, wondering if I’d have to explain these Shillings for ever. Wondering if I was going to make a career of it.

‘They clearly don’t know the difference between right and wrong!’ Angie exploded. ‘And this – this Emma chit – I thought she came to see you? Said she didn’t want anything?’

‘She did. But now the will’s been published she’s realized Phil was probably on the verge of making provision for her, as he was for Marjorie and Cecilia.’ I shrugged. ‘I suppose she feels entitled.’

‘Entitled, my arse!’ Angie stormed. She’d got up from the table and strutted angrily to the window, arms folded. Her eyes were bright, her face suffused with indignation. A few months ago Angie’s beautiful face had been terribly drawn, terribly wretched. There was at least some light to it now. Was it a relief, I wondered, not to be quite so firmly in the eye of the storm? For the baton to have passed to me? Not to be the one everyone felt sorry for? Not that she’d relish my misfortune – Angie was a sweet girl – but nobody wanted to be the unlucky one for ever. The one who had the worst time of it.

‘Don’t give her a penny,’ she warned, turning on her four-inch heel to face me abruptly. ‘Not a penny.’

I nodded, mute.

‘And what sort of a man is that bloody organized?’ she asked. ‘Starts to tie up his estate like that, in his thirties?’

‘The sort of man who has already bagged his spot in the churchyard,’ said Jennie without turning, still stirring. Then she did glance back. ‘He would have made it his business, wouldn’t he, Poppy? Not to leave any loose ends.’

I nodded again. It was all so embarrassing. So … demeaning. ‘I can’t believe I made such a catastrophic mistake in marrying him,’ I said softly. I wanted to go on to say, ‘Such a lack of judgement,’ but knew my voice would wobble. Had I been all there, I wondered, six years ago?

Angie studied her nails, which were long and red, and Jennie kindly resumed her inspection of her casserole, which she’d done for some time.

‘I was thinking that today, at the solicitor’s,’ I said, half aloud and half to myself, when I was sure my voice wouldn’t falter. ‘Thinking: what must he think of me, marrying a man like that?’

‘Who cares what your bloody solicitor thinks!’ snorted Angie. ‘The important thing is not to give those grasping witches a penny. It’s all yours, Poppy, all of it.’

‘And if fighting for money goes against the grain,’ added Jennie, waving her wooden spoon at me, knowing I had a lot of Dad in me, ‘do it for Clemmie and Archie.’

Yes, that helped. For them. I’d already told myself that was the way forward. That might propel me. But sustaining the momentum would be nip and tuck. I wondered what I’d think if I was Emma. If the man I’d loved for four years had provided for me, would I want it? Feel entitled? Perhaps I would.

‘But she’s young, for heaven’s sake,’ pointed out Jennie, reading my thoughts. ‘She’s earning, she has no children. You don’t work.’

‘Don’t do anything,’ I said, feeling slightly panicky. Except, I thought, take my late husband’s money: the money of a man who didn’t love me.

‘None of us worked while the children were young,’ argued Angie. ‘God, I don’t work now!’

There was an uncomfortable pause. Then: ‘Exactly,’ Jennie said quickly.

If truth be told, we’d both quietly wondered why Angie hadn’t done something to contribute to the family coffers, now that she could. Jennie had once witnessed Tom coming in tired from work in his suit, standing opening bills in the kitchen and muttering about Angie’s spiralling Harvey Nichols account, to which Angie had airily said, ‘Have you thought about getting a Saturday job?’ Tom couldn’t speak for a moment. When he’d found his tongue he’d acidly asked whether she’d prefer him to have a paper round or be on the till at Tesco’s? Angie had angrily enjoined him to take a joke, for heaven’s sake, and Jennie had downed her wine and crept away.

‘Having two small children is hugely labour-intensive,’ Angie told me hotly. ‘Don’t you go feeling guilty about not working, Poppy. We’re the unsung flaming heroes.’

I sighed. I knew they were trying to make me feel better but, actually, I felt worse. Like a scrounger. Here I was, in the middle of the morning, having coffee yet again with my girlfriends, before going back to the house that Phil had paid for, and which, evidently, he’d have preferred to have lived in with Emma. Before I’d popped round here, a ridiculously simple riffle through the phone book had revealed that Emma Harding lived locally, up the road in Wessington. Meadow Bank Cottage. I can’t tell you how that had shaken me. How I’d almost got under the kitchen table in fright. Somehow I’d assumed that because she worked in London she must live in London, but she didn’t; she was moments away. Must have driven past my house countless times, thinking: that’s where I should be, with him, where we could be together. Perhaps she should have it now? Suddenly Dad’s life, held together with bits of binder twine, appealed. I wondered if he’d got a spare shed. And Clemmie and Archie could go to the local school, not the expensive village Montessori.

‘Well, we’ll see,’ I said wearily. ‘Sam said let’s wait and see. See if they follow it up. He said they may just be full of hot air.’

‘Sam’s the solicitor?’ asked Angie, and for some reason I bent my head to pull up my sock under my jeans.

‘Yup.’

‘Well, I hope he’s good. Who’s he with?’

‘A small firm in town. Private practice. But he was with a big outfit in London,’ I added, knowing Angie would be impressed by that.

‘Oh, OK. Well, listen, Poppy, April McLean at Freshfields may be expensive but she goes for the jugular. Let me know if you want to meet her. I came out of her office thinking I could rule the world.’

‘No, no, I’m very happy.’ I tried to imagine Sam going for the jugular. It was in the neck, wasn’t it? Baring his fangs across the Old Bailey at Marjorie. I wondered where he went after work. Where he lived now he was divorced. A rented flat in town? Or did he stay with friends, all guys together, meeting them for a pint after work? I couldn’t imagine that, somehow.

‘Anyway, thanks, you two. Good to share and all that. I’ve got to go and get Clemmie. She finishes at lunchtime today.’

When they’d murmured their goodbyes, with staunch messages of support, and kissed me, Angie nearly breaking my cheekbones, I took my leave. Went slowly up the hill. Archie, who’d just learned the words to Postman Pat, was kicking his legs in his buggy, singing his little heart out, but mine was heavy. How much was Angie asking for, I wondered. Half of Tom’s wealth? More? The house? Well, why not? She’d brought the children up there; it was their home. It just didn’t feel quite right. And not because Angie had never worked – oh, she pulled her weight in the community, sat on committees, chaired the council. It wasn’t that. It was just … I wasn’t sure I wanted to join that band of women who took their husbands for all they could. Because they’d been betrayed.

I’d overheard her talking to Tom the other day on her mobile in the street. I’d come up behind her, been about to greet her, when I realized she was on the phone: ‘Yes, Clarissa did meet some boy in London and she probably met him on an Internet site, probably didn’t even know him, but what d’you expect with the example you set? I’m surprised she’s not pregnant!’ There’d been a silence, then: ‘Oh, piss off, Tom!’

As she realized I was there, she’d turned, a look of pure hatred disfiguring her face. ‘Wretched man,’ she said, pocketing her phone. ‘Getting all parental at this late stage. It was only Hugo, incidentally,’ she muttered, ‘who Clarissa met.’

Hugo was Angus and Sylvia’s grandson. He was a lovely boy, who’d just left school and worked occasionally in the pub. I wondered why Angie hadn’t told Tom. I didn’t want to be like that. Vengeful. Spiteful. Taking my ex to the cleaners. You’re not, I told myself, as Clemmie let loose her teacher’s hand at the gate and ran towards me. Because for one thing he’s not an ex, he’s a deceased; and you’re not taking him to the cleaners, you’re preventing his mistress taking you. Do get a grip.

I hugged my daughter hard as she embraced my knees. But on the way home, Clemmie chattering beside me, an egg-box alligator swinging from her hand, I decided that the moment Archie was in nursery, I’d get a job. Go back to work. OK, my PR agency in London were unlikely to take me after such an absence, however sorry they’d been to see me go, and particularly for only a few mornings a week, but might they give me some freelance work? They had rung once, offered, but Archie had been only a few weeks old, and Phil so busy, I’d turned it down. So stupid, I thought angrily. Everyone knew you had to keep your hand in. But maybe it wasn’t too late? And maybe I could bang on some doors locally as well? I wasn’t naive enough to think it would be easy, but I’d inherited Dad’s breezy optimistic gene that said anything was possible. I just had to find it.

Angie had been right about one thing, though, I thought, as I paused to let Clemmie feed the ducks by the pond with some bread I’d brought for her. Child care was hard work, and very much unsung. I remembered last Christmas, when Marjorie and Cecilia had come to stay for four days. And how, with two tiny children, I’d produced one meal after another whilst they barely lifted a finger. They’d sat 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. Fuck.

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 suburban relief our ties and high heels.

‘Hope! Chad!’ Angie got to her feet with a bit of a swoon, manufacturing the impression she’d just come out of a literary trance, so engrossed had she been in the narrative. ‘How lovely to see you. Now I know you’ve met Jennie and Poppy before, but this is Angus, Peggy, Sue – I won’t do surnames,’ she fluttered with a tinkly laugh. Everyone stood up: some in a rush so their books fell on the floor; some with a bit more ease, like Luke; and some, like Passion-fuelled Pete, even giving a little bow as he shook Chad’s hand.

Chad, looking even more Adonis-like close up, displayed impeccable manners and some perfectly straight white teeth as he smiled. He smiled a lot and intoned ‘Chad Armitage’ every time he was introduced, making his way around the circle and looking right into everyone’s eyes. He was followed by Hope, whose tiny little hand as she extended it seemed as fragile as a bird’s wing. She really was awfully pretty, I thought, as I drank in more perfect teeth and silky hair. We all beamed as she greeted everyone warmly. Only Peggy’s smile was more amused, and she declined to stand, politely offering her hand and muttering to me that at her age she only stood for royalty and the over-seventies. Certainly not for a man. What did Angie think she was doing?

Angie, who’d once met Camilla Parker-Bowles and never quite got over it, was indeed becoming more and more lady-in-waiting-like as she proffered the two remaining chairs. Then she decided they were too ropey for the Armitages and made Luke and Jennie swap, in order to give Chad and Hope more acceptable ones.

‘So!’ said Chad, rubbing his hands and looking huge on the chair Angie had finally deemed suitable, a tiny gilt rococo number she’d bought at Sotheby’s. His voice was thrillingly transatlantic. ‘What are you guys reading, then? Hope and I are so excited about this, incidentally. We did a lot of reading groups back home and got so much out of it.’

Angie cleared her throat. ‘Well, this week we’re all reading The Ghost by Robert Harris. It’s not a frightfully intellectual book,’ she hurried on, ‘and of course we will read something more challenging later on, but it’s a rattling good read with a terrific plot. A good starter book, we thought.’

‘Oh, OK, good idea,’ Chad agreed. He took the book from Pete beside him, who offered it. ‘Hey, I like the sound of this,’ he said, reading the blurb on the back. ‘Makes a change from Philip Roth, doesn’t it, Honey?’

This, to Hope, who, if she was surprised by the popular nature of the novel, was hiding it beautifully. ‘It certainly does. In fact it looks wonderful,’ she said, turning it over in her hands as he passed it to her. ‘And what did you all make of it?’ She glanced around, smiling.

‘Oh, it’s tremendous!’ boomed Angus. ‘Absolutely first class.’

‘Really? That’s great.’ She smiled at Angus, perhaps waiting to be further illuminated. If she was, she was disappointed. He beamed back. ‘What about you, Pete?’ She turned kindly to her neighbour, having remembered his name. The blood surged up Pete’s neck and into his cheeks.

‘Oh, um … I thought it was very good too.’

‘Good, good.’

This didn’t give us a great deal to build on. And although Hope could have asked someone else, it would have thrust her into a dominant role, so she sensibly refrained. Instead she smiled encouragingly at Pete, hoping for more. Pete eyed the door as if he might make a run for it.

In the deafening silence that followed, Angie shot me a pleading glance. ‘Poppy, what about you?’

Sadly I hadn’t read it. I’d had too much on my plate this week. Although, actually, come to think of it, I was pretty sure I had read it, years ago.

‘I thought it was gripping.’ Angie’s eyes demanded more. Much more. ‘And … and I particularly liked the bit where the guy hangs from the cable car, in the snow,’ I said wildly. ‘Really exciting.’

‘That’s Where Eagles Dare,’ said Jennie, rather disloyally, I thought.

Everyone cast their eyes down to their book. ‘Anyone else got any thoughts?’ Angie said brightly. ‘Who didn’t enjoy it?’

Lots of shocked murmuring, head shaking and pursed lips at this. But no concrete ideas.

‘So … everyone enjoyed it.’

More enthusiastic agreement. But then something of a hiatus again. And don’t forget we were all in a circle, so it was a bit like Show and Tell at Clemmie’s school. A mistake, I felt. Too intimidating. We were also missing Simon, who surely would have had some erudite, eloquent remarks on the matter. Angie, Jennie and I looked despairingly at one another. We hadn’t thought this through. Did this need chairing? In which case, who was going to do it? Were there too many of us? Too few? How did it work? What was a book club?

‘Did anyone have any thoughts on characterization?’ suggested Luke, and I could have kissed him. Angie looked as if she really might clasp his head in her hands and plant a smacker on his lips. Of course. Characterization. We all glanced surreptitiously at the Americans to see if they’d clocked this bon mot. Hope was smiling, nodding. Unfortunately, though, no one did. Why were we all so tongue-tied?

‘I thought the characterization was good,’ said Jennie desperately. ‘Particularly that of Adam Lang, the hero.’

‘I agree,’ said Angus staunchly. ‘Best character in the book.’

‘And I particularly liked the way he was depicted as tough, yet tender,’ broke in Saintly Sue. We all turned to her gratefully. She went very pink. Opened her book to where a piece of notepaper lay within. She cleared her throat and read: ‘It seemed to me he emphatically fulfilled the role of romantic hero in the classical sense, much as Chaucer’s Troilus did in Troilus and Criseyde, adhering to the conventions of courtly love and the literature to which it gave rise in the Middle Ages, which emphatically supplied the first of several historical bases to underlie any adequate interpretation of the principal characters, and any situations in which Troilus – and therefore Adam Lang – emphatically coexist today.’ She slowly closed her book, eyes down, lips pursed.

‘Well,’ said Jennie faintly, after a pause. ‘Yes. Quite. Thank you, Sue.’

‘More wine, anyone?’ said Peggy wearily. ‘That is, if no one’s got anything emphatic to add?’

She got to her feet, and everyone, apart from the Americans, eagerly got to theirs, agreeing that was a jolly good idea.

‘Shall we pass round the food now, Angie?’ someone asked. They did so, anyway.

Bemused, the Armitages stood to join us.

‘A real page-turner,’ Angus assured Chad, pressing the book into his hands. ‘Go on, take mine. You’ll love it. Be up all night.’

‘Thank you,’ Chad said. ‘Although, I should probably read next week’s book, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, next week’s,’ agreed Angie, with a note of panic, looking at me.

But I was miles away. Organizing a plumber to fix Marjorie and Cecilia’s boiler, even though they lived sixty miles away in Ashford. But Phil was the man of the family, you see. Role-playing was important. Men were important. On one occasion, Marjorie had turned to me and asked: ‘Where are the men?’ One was in his cot, six weeks old. I’d found it diverting for days. I didn’t now.

‘Hope?’ Angie abandoned me and turned desperately to our new friends. ‘Any suggestions for next week? You must have been to loads of these things in New York,’ she gushed.

‘Oh God, too many. Twice a week sometimes,’ said Hope. ‘But we tended to decide on the next book at the end of the meeting.’

‘This is the end,’ Peggy informed her.

‘Oh, really?’ Hope blanched. ‘You mean … that’s it?’ She waved a hand at the empty chairs.

‘It’s the end of the booky bit. Not the end of the evening.’

‘No – no, it’s not the end of the booky bit,’ Angie insisted, flustered. ‘We’re all going to sit down again and – oh, look, here’s Simon. How marvellous.’

It was said with feeling, and indeed it was something of a relief to have Simon breeze in amongst us. He looked urbane and expensive in his suit, bringing something of London with him, and not just the Evening Standard. Jennie coloured up slightly but I noticed that although he greeted her warmly, he didn’t linger; he greeted everyone else then said hello to the Armitages, who he appeared to know – through mutual friends, he explained. He did some man-chat with Chad, whilst we women swarmed around his wife.

‘You must think we’re hopeless, Hope,’ said Angie. ‘Oh, that sounds dreadful – hopeless hope!’ she twittered. ‘Being so disorganized. But we’ll be much better next week.’

‘Oh no, not at all. I think it’s all going brilliantly. And Chad and I are so thrilled to be asked, anyway. We were just saying the other day that it’s high time we integrated more with the village. Really got involved in the community.’ We basked in her sweet smile and her wide blue eyes, feeling she really meant it. So lovely.

‘And we really would welcome suggestions for next week,’ Angie told her. ‘We’ve all loved this thriller, but maybe we do need something more stimulating to get the chat going a bit more. Any ideas?’

Hope lowered her voice. ‘D’you know, there are huge gaps in my literary education,’ she confided.

‘Oh, mine too!’ agreed Jennie.

‘So much I haven’t read.’

We all nodded enthusiastically. This we liked. Loved, in fact.

‘D’you want to stick to this particular genre?’

We all looked at her blankly.

‘I mean, the thriller?’

‘Oh no, we’re happy with any … genre. Tragedy, romance. I’d happily read Georgette Heyer every week!’ Jennie assured her.

‘I don’t know her.’

‘You don’t know Georgette Heyer?’ Jennie looked genuinely shocked. She clutched her heart. ‘Oh my God, I’ve got the whole lot. I’ll lend them to you. You’re in for a treat. Start with Faro’s Daughter and you’ll be hooked for life!’

‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that. And meantime,’ Hope lowered her voice again and we all had to lean in because her voice was soft. And she was tiny, so we must have looked like we were mugging her. ‘Well, meantime, if you’re really looking for suggestions, I’m ashamed to say there’s one book which I know I should have read in high school, but just never got around to. I’d love to do it now.’

‘Oh!’ we breathed. Plenty of those. Whole libraries full. ‘Yes?’

‘You’ve probably all read it.’

‘Noo, noo, not necessarily,’ Angie warbled.

‘It’s Ulysses.’

‘Ulysses!’ Jennie and Angie agreed in unison. They rocked back on their heels, glancing wildly at one another. It rang a faint bell, but not a very loud one.

‘Can you believe I’ve never read it? Must be one of the greatest novels in literary history.’

‘I’ve never read it either!’ squealed Angie, hand pressed to her heart. ‘I’ve been so ashamed of that for years!’

‘I’ve always meant to,’ Jennie chimed in. ‘Just never got round to it. Poppy, what about you?’

But I was hanging out Marjorie’s washing now, because she’d asked me to. Large white pants, huge conical bras, the cups of which a puppy could have curled up and had a nap in. Hanging them on my line, while she watched my television.

‘Poppy?’

‘Yes, I told you. I liked the cable-car bit.’

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.