A Reluctant Wife. CATHY WILLIAMS
was right, of course. Sophie knew that, but it didn’t help. She could see a group of people entering the stately house, their figures silhouetted against the outside lights—black coats, lots of jewellery, upswept hair. Lots of kisses as they entered, laughing and talking among themselves. More were bringing up the rear, similarly clad, and, from the looks of it, in similar high humour. There was the distant sound of music, a live band, drifting out on the cold air. The trees were all bedecked with hundreds of white lights.
It was all very festive, but Sophie didn’t feel festive. She wished that she was back in her own home, curled up on the sofa with Jade half-asleep next to her, reading a book, listening to her daughter and vaguely watching television all at the same time.
‘Well?’ Kat asked, with her hand on the doorknob. ‘Ready?’
‘I suppose so,’ Sophie said glumly, getting out of the car and dragging her feet as they approached the house.
Annabel’s mother was waiting by the door, a short, plump woman who was incongruously and expensively attired in a long, sequinned, vivid blue evening dress. She hugged Katherine, whom she had known since the year dot, and then turned to Sophie with a smile.
‘I’m so glad you could come, Sophie,’ she said warmly. ‘We don’t see enough of you.’
Actually, Sophie saw Sheila Simpson quite a bit in and around the village and frequently at the charity events that Sophie organised. Not quite the same, though, she admitted to herself.
‘Thank you, Mrs Simpson,’ Sophie said, bending so that the older woman could brush her cheek with a kiss. ‘How is your husband?’
‘Recovering nicely, my dear.’ She ushered them in and chatted about Charles, who had recently had a heart attack. ‘Of course, he simply loathes taking it easy.’
The older woman’s eyes flitted across the massive hall and the moving mass of people, going from one room to another with drinks in their hands. Sophie recognised some of the younger faces as belonging to Annabel’s London set. She occasionally saw them around in the village and knew some from years back when Annabel used to bring them to Ashdown during the school holidays when she was back from boarding school.
‘Darlings, I must leave you.’ She patted Sophie’s hand in the manner of someone being kind to an invalid. ‘You know your way around, both of you, don’t you?’
‘Sure, Mrs Simpson,’ Kat said, her eyes gleaming. ‘We’ll just get stuck in.’
‘Annabel’s somewhere around…’ Mrs Simpson’s arms waved about in a vague gesture, but her attention was already on another group of people who were entering.
Kat pulled Sophie away out of the hall. A cloakroom was in operation in one of the downstairs bathrooms, an ornate Victorian affair which was large enough to accommodate three temporary coat rails.
‘OK, let’s see who’s here.’
Sophie nodded. Now that she was here it was ridiculous to droop, and as soon as she saw someone with a tray of champagne she helped herself to a glass and drank it very quickly, which relaxed her slightly—enough so that she could circulate with Kat with at least some semblance of brightness. By the time they stumbled upon Annabel, Caroline and half a dozen of their smart friends she was feeling merry enough to indulge in light-hearted conversation, without her nerves getting too much in her way.
She towered over the other women in the group, as she’d known she would in her heels, but after three glasses of champagne she didn’t feel gauche about it. One of the men, a tall, blond man with spectacles and hair that didn’t appear to have much of an acquaintance with a comb, was, she acknowledged with a surprising flush of pleasure, more than a little impressed with whatever she was saying.
‘Why on earth hasn’t Annabel produced you before?’ he was asking her, drinking his champagne but with his eyes glued to her face.
‘Because, John, darling…’ Annabel broke off from what she was saying to Kat and the rest of her entourage ‘…Sophie hides herself away like a little mole.’
‘What an adorable trait,’ John said in his cultured voice. ‘I’ve always been rather fond of moles.’ That somehow led to a raucous conversation about men and their predilection for ridiculous hobbies, and after a while Kat and Sophie drifted off. They bumped into several other familiar faces, all of whom seemed to be having a roaringly good time.
Supper was served very late. There was a massive table laid with a buffet, the pinnacle of which were six poached salmon, exquisitely adorned with cherry tomatoes and mange-tout.
By this time many people were somewhat under the influence of drink. Conversations were being conducted in voices that were over-hearty and punctuated with very loud bursts of laughter. Kat had managed to disappear in the direction of the music and, after helping herself to a plate of food, Sophie made her way in that general direction.
She was standing at the back of the room, idly watching the frolics on the dance floor and awkwardly trying to manoeuvre food to her mouth with a drink clasped in one hand, when a familiar voice said from next to her, ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’
Sophie felt a shiver of excited apprehension race through her like a sudden electric shock, and she turned to look at Gregory. Thank goodness she had stopped drinking after her third glass of champagne.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
He was dressed like all the other men in the room in black suit, bow tie and white shirt, but somehow he managed to make a statement in his. He was holding a glass of champagne in his hand and looking at her very carefully and minutely, half smiling.
‘Please,’ he said with a low laugh, ‘do try and keep the delight out of your voice at seeing me.’
Sophie didn’t join him in his amusement. She had flirted lightly with some of the men she had run into in the course of the evening but her instincts warned her against flirting with this man, and her instincts were fortunately in good working order at the moment. She refocused her attention on her food.
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