Rosie Thomas 4-Book Collection: Other People’s Marriages, Every Woman Knows a Secret, If My Father Loved Me, A Simple Life. Rosie Thomas
is.’
‘Spook costumes are not obligatory. But come, won’t you? Janice’ll like to meet you.’
‘Thank you. I’m not sure … I’ll try.’
‘Who do you know in Grafton these days?’ He was looking at her with his head on one side.
‘Not a soul.’
‘Then you must come. No argument.’ He reached out and shook her hand, concluding a deal. ‘Thursday.’
Nina would have prevaricated, but he was already walking away towards the cathedral. She went back to her desk and bent over her tiger painting with renewed attention.
She had not intended to go. She had thought that when Thursday came she would telephone Andrew’s office and leave an apology with his secretary. But when the morning and half the afternoon passed and she had still not made the call, she recognized with surprise that her real intention must be the opposite.
Nina finished her painting and carefully masked it with an overlay before placing it with the others in a drawer of the plan chest. She was pleased with the work she had done so far. The new studio suited her, and she was making faster progress than she and the publishers had estimated. She would go to the Frosts’ party, because there was no reason for not doing so. Quickly, as if to forestall her own second thoughts, she looked in the telephone directory for the number of a minicab company and ordered a car to collect her at eight-thirty.
*
Marcelle Wickham was a professional cook, and she was spending the afternoon at Janice’s to help her to make the food for the party. The two of them worked comfortably, to a background murmur of radio music.
Janice admired the rows of tiny golden croustades as they came out of the oven, taking one hot and popping it into her mouth.
‘Delicious. You are a doll to do this, Mar, do you know that?’
‘Pass me the piping bag.’ Marcelle wiped her hands on her apron. The logo of the cookery school at which she worked as a demonstrator was printed on the bib.
‘I like doing it. I like the’ – she gestured in the air with her fingers – ‘the pinching and the peeling, all the textures, mixing them together.’ Her face relaxed into a smile, elastic, like dough. ‘I love it, really. I always have, from when I was a little girl. And I love seeing the finished thing, and the pleasure it gives.’
Janice sighed. ‘You’re lucky.’
Marcelle filled the piping bag with aubergine purée and began to squeeze immaculate rosettes into pastry shells.
‘I read somewhere that cooking is one of the three human activities that occupy the exact middle ground between nature and art.’
‘What are the others?’
‘Gardening.’
‘Ha.’ Janice glanced out of her kitchen window. Her large, unkempt garden functioned mainly as a football ground for her two boys.
‘And sex.’
‘Ha, ha!’
They glanced at one another over the baking sheets. There was the wry, unspoken acknowledgement, of the kind familiar to long-married women who know each other well, of the humdrum realities of tired husbands, demanding children and sex that becomes a matter of domestic habit rather than passion. They also silently affirmed that within their own bodies, and notwithstanding everything else that might contradict them, they still felt like girls, springy and full of sap.
‘Perhaps I’ll concentrate on flower arranging,’ Janice said, and they both laughed.
‘So exactly who is coming tonight?’
‘The usual faces. Roses, Cleggs, Ransomes.’
These, with the Frosts and the Wickhams, were the five families. They ate and relaxed and gossiped in each other’s houses, and made weekend arrangements for their children to play together because all of them, except for the Roses, had young children and in various permutations they made up pairs or groups for games and sport, and went on summer holidays together. There were other couples and other families amongst their friends, of course, and Janice listed some of their names now, but these five were the inner circle.
‘Five points of a glittering star in the Grafton firmament,’ Darcy Clegg had called them once, half-drunk and half-serious, as he surveyed them gathered around his dining table. They had drunk a toast to themselves and to the Grafton Star in Darcy’s good wine.
‘That’s about fifty altogether, isn’t it? No one you don’t know, I think,’ Janice concluded. ‘Except some woman Andrew was at school with, who he bumped into on the green the other day.’
‘Oh well, there’s always Jimmy.’
Again there was the flicker of amused acknowledgement between them. All the wives liked Jimmy Rose. He danced with them, and flirted at parties. It was his special talent to make each of them feel that whilst he paid an obligatory amount of attention to the others, she was the special one, the one who really interested him.
‘What are you wearing?’
Janice made a face. ‘My best black. It’s witchy enough. And I’ve got too fat for anything else. Oh, God. Look at the time. They’ll be in in half an hour.’
The children arrived at four o’clock. Vicky Ransome, the wife of Andrew’s partner, had offered to do the school run even though it was not her day and she was eight and a half months pregnant. Janice’s boys ran yelling into the kitchen with Vicky and Marcelle’s children following behind them. The Frost boys were eleven and nine. They were large, sturdy children with their father’s fair hair and square chin. The elder one, Toby, whipped a Hallowe’en mask from inside his school blazer and covered his face with it. He turned on Marcelle’s seven-year-old with a banshee wail, and the little girl screamed and ran to hide behind her mother.
‘Don’t be such a baby, Daisy,’ Marcelle ordered. ‘It’s only Toby. Hello, Vicky.’
The boys ran out again, taking Marcelle’s son with them. Daisy and Vicky’s daughter clung around the mothers, weepily sheltering from the boys. Vicky’s second daughter, only four, was asleep outside in the car.
Vicky leaned wearily against the worktop. ‘They fought all the way home, girls against boys, boys definitely winning.’
Janice lifted a stool behind her. ‘You poor thing. Here. And there’s some tea.’
The boys thundered back again, clamouring for food. Janice dispensed drinks, bread and honey, slices of chocolate cake. The noise and skirmishing temporarily subsided and the mothers’ conversation went on in its practised way over the children’s heads.
‘How are you feeling?’ Marcelle asked Vicky.
‘Like John Hurt in Alien, if you really want to know.’
‘Oh, gross,’ Toby Frost shouted from across the kitchen table.
Vicky shifted her weight uncomfortably on the stool. She spread the palms of her hands on either side of her stomach and massaged her bulk. Her hair was clipped back from her face with a barrette, and her cheeks were shiny and pink. With one hand she reached out for a slice of the chocolate cake and went on rubbing with the other.
‘And I can’t stop eating. Crisps, chocolate, Jaffa cakes. Rice pudding out of a tin. I’m huge. It wasn’t like this with either of the others.’
‘Not much longer,’ Janice consoled her.
‘And never again, amen,’ Vicky prayed.
The relative peace of the tea interval did not last long. Once the food had been demolished there was a clamour of demands for help with pumpkin lanterns and ghost costumes. William Frost had already spiked his hair up into green points with luminous gel, and Daisy Wickham, her fears momentarily forgotten, was squirming into a skeleton suit. Andrew had