The village was out in force. Kathy, the vicar, was over there, Sheila from the pub; even nervous new parents Tom and Clover, the pair always referred to as “that sweet young couple in the village,” had got a babysitter for once, Tom’s hair standing on end, Clover flushed and sweet in a dress that showed too much of her large breasts. The Range Rovers, who never came to anything in the village, were there. That pompous ass Gerald Lang, of Stoke Hall, and his wife, Patricia, who hadn’t been to a Winterfold party for years, after what had happened to Gerald—even they were there. The biggest coup was the actress from the ITV cop drama and her director husband, who lived in the really big house farther up the hill and never came to anything. But they, like you, were simply guests in this lovely home, enjoying themselves, and you all had something in common, which was that a tiny part of you wished you could live there, become part of the family, have this life for yourself.
Though increasingly, you felt, the Winters had their problems these days. You knew Daisy wasn’t to be spoken of, and the other daughter was, really, increasingly batty, wasn’t she? And why was the son’s new wife, a cold fish, mysteriously absent? Susan Talbot had been spreading rumors all week about Karen, and as you mingled more you discovered that Cat had returned with a son, whom she’d apparently kept secret. And Bill was drinking too much, and Lucy, his daughter, talked too much, and dear old David—he looked pretty done in, didn’t he? Not well at all—and the birthday girl, Martha, wasn’t herself, it couldn’t be denied, distracted and mechanical in her responses to you, as though she were somewhere else entirely.
But though all of these things were true, when that nice Joe Thorne appeared, an hour or so into the party, carrying a birthday cake blazing with so many candles he seemed to be carrying a halo of fire and everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” Martha’s face, bathed in the glow of the fire and the champagne and the atmosphere, seemed then to be lit from within with some emotion. And you felt sure that, though of course things weren’t easy for anyone, no matter how it looked from the outside, the Winters must, indeed, know themselves to be a lucky family.
• • •
Just as Lucy finished handing round another spread of canapés, she saw Cat shushing a reluctant Luke out of the room and off to bed. Cat turned and raised her eyes at Lucy, mouthing: This is really weird.
Lucy had to admit it was. Kind of unreal, a dream, or a scene from a film, not as she’d expected, and she rubbed her eyes. It had been a long day. Cat had a son. Karen wasn’t here. Everything else seemed unchanged: the twinkling lights and the Clarice Cliff platters worn with years of sausage rolls and washing up, the old lead crystal flutes, the same faces of people she had known all her life, some bent with age, the children dashing around through people’s legs, Gran talking intently to Kathy, the vicar—she looked tired; Lucy thought she must be knackered. The punch bowl on the side, the fire burning—but everything felt different this time. As she stood still and looked around the room, she wished she could go away now and quickly scribble it all down so she’d remember, beset by the sense of her world spinning, getting faster and faster, like a carousel before the music suddenly stops.
“Hello, old thing.” Florence put her hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “Haven’t spoken a word to you all evening. How are you, darling?”
Lucy kissed her aunt, shaking herself out of her haze of thoughts. “I’m fine. Listen, have you seen Joe?”
“Handsome Joe?” Florence grinned. “He is awfully nice.”
“Oh . . .” Lucy could feel herself blushing. “Don’t be embarrassing. I need to tell him something. Hey, that purple and green is fantastic on you, Flo. You should wear colors more often. You look like Cleopatra.”
Florence threw back her head and laughed. “You do talk rubbish.” But she looked pleased, and there was an undeniable glow about her this evening. “I’m feeling pretty chipper, I have to say.”
“How so?”
Florence drained her drink. “Lucy, well—I’ve been putting my house in order.”
“That sounds vague.” The sound of rattling glass sounded in the corner and, glancing over her aunt’s shoulder, Lucy could see her father trying to push an empty champagne flute onto a tray, making too much noise.
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it? But I’ve righted a wrong. Took rather a lot of courage to do it. No going back now.”
One of the things Lucy loved about Florence was that she didn’t seem to care about things that, to Lucy, were so important. “Flo, you’re being very mysterious.”
“Someone betrayed me. Sounds dramatic, but it’s true.” Her face clouded, and she looked frightened, very young suddenly. “I’ve been a total fool. I’ve decided I’m not going to put up with it anymore. God. I hope I haven’t made a huge mistake.”
“What have you done?” Lucy said.
“I’ve done something for myself,” Florence said. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. You might even be able to help me, in fact.”
“How so?”
“Well . . .” Florence bit her lip. “I don’t want to say too much at the moment. Maybe I’ll be calling on your journalistic connections at some point. My niece, the Fleet Street rising star.”
“Oh, I’m really not that,” Lucy said frankly. “I couldn’t—”
Someone shoved against her and Lucy jolted her glass, spilling champagne. She turned to find her father, swaying slightly, fiddling with his phone.
“Hello there, Dad,” Lucy said. He glanced at her and grunted. “Good party, isn’t it?”
She handed her father a tray of tiny Florentines. Bill looked at them and then at her, as if trying to remember why he was there. His eyes were slightly glazed.
“You all right, William?” Florence gestured to her brother, and Lucy realized she, too, was not exactly sober. “Look at those freckles. Do you remember in the summer we used to join the dots all over your body with one of Dad’s ink pens? When he was bigger he’d try to fight us off, but Daisy was always stronger, wasn’t she, Bill?”
Bill shrugged. “She was freakishly strong.”
“Your sisters were stronger than you?” Lucy said.
“We were.” Florence laughed.
“Oh, I’m the joke of the family, aren’t I?” Bill said. “Big joke. That’s me.”
“Oh, Bill, no, I only meant she—” Florence began, but he interrupted heavily.
“Listen, Flo, I might head off. Not feeling so good and tomorrow’ll be a long day.”
“I’ll come with you,” Lucy said.
“No, you stay here, why don’t you?” Bill squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. “Think Gran could do with the help. Anyway, like I said, Karen’s not well, I said, didn’t I? You can sleep in Cat’s room, can’t you? Stay here, that’s best.”
Lucy gripped his arm. “Oh.” She said softly, “What’s up, Dad? Everything okay?”
Bill said, “It’s fine, love.” He blinked and swayed a little. “I shouldn’t drink. I can’t take it.”
“You can’t,” Lucy said. “Remember my birthday?”
“Well, that.” Her father stopped. “Was different. That bar was very loud. I distinctly said just singles, and she kept giving me triple gins and tonics.”
“Rubbish,” said Lucy. She looked to her aunt for support, but Florence had wandered off. “Dad—I’ll come home with you.”
“No,” her father said roughly. “I said, stay here.”
“I just meant I’ll walk you home,” Lucy said, feeling tears prick her eyes. “Make sure you’re all right. I won’t come in—”
A voice behind them said, “Any more champagne over here?” and both Lucy and her father turned.
“Oh, hello,” Lucy said, smiling. “Dad, it’s Joe.” She nudged his arm and beamed at Joe, who was staring at them both, bottle in hand, frozen in place. She pulled at her floral shirtdress awkwardly, wishing it weren’t so tight. “
I—I—”
“Do I want more champagne?” her father interrupted, his voice a little too loud. “Is that what you’re asking?”
Lucy ignored her father. She said brightly, “I’ve got some good news, anyway. Keep forgetting to tell you. I’m sure I’ve got our restaurant guy to agree to review the Oak Tree. He says December the seventh, and . . .” She trailed off, and looked at Joe and then at her father, on either side of her, staring at each other.
“I hope you rot in hell for what you’ve done,” Bill said softly to Joe. He slammed his glass down on the table, where it rocked drunkenly from side to side, knocking over an empty plastic cup. Joe swept it up deftly in one hand as Bill strode out of the room, looking at no one, head down. There was a murmuring ripple of surprise around them as the heavy front door slammed shut.
It’s starting, Lucy thought. She turned back to Joe, a polite smile fixed on her face, and when she saw his expression she knew. In that moment, she saw it perfectly clearly, almost everything. How could she have been so blind? Of course. He was looking at her intently, something like rage and anger written all over his face. He didn’t even look ashamed, standing there holding the champagne bottle and the empty glass. Suddenly Lucy wished that everyone would leave, that this was over. At once it seemed unbearably fake, all of it. And what she wanted now was the truth. She knew it now. That was why they were all there, all of them.
Cat
“SO YOU’RE BACK, dear, for how long?”
“I hear you have a . . . son, how old is he?”
“And you’re still working at the . . . plant stall, then?”
“It must be wonderful to live in Paris, dear.”
“Your grandmother’s always talking about you, dear, she must be so pleased you’re here.”
• • •
Hiding in the loo off the freezing-cold cloakroom, Cat wondered how long she could actually stay there. Until someone banged on the door, maybe? She wished she’d brought a glass with her, but she’d already drunk too much. Maybe she needed something to eat. Those canapés were delicious—Joe Thorne might have nearly killed her son and written off her rental car, but he knew how to make pastry, and Cat, like any self-respecting Parisian, took pastry seriously.
She hadn’t realized how hard it would be, this bit of coming back. Two days here and she was used to the shock of the familiar, but that was before the party. After an hour of questioning, of pecked cheeks and beady eyes, Cat was ready to hide upstairs. She’d never had Lucy’s ebullience; if someone asked Lucy something she didn’t want to answer—like Clover, that mumsy airhead from the village: “Do you have a boyfriend yet, Lucy?” (Cat got the feeling Clover was the kind of person who asked that question a lot)—Lucy just diverted attention: “Oh, no chance, not at the moment. Are you watching X Factor or Strictly Come Dancing ? I’m Strictly this year.”
Cat simply didn’t know how to do it. So when Patricia Lang, who was very grand, fixed her with a stare and said, “Why haven’t you been back for so long, dear?” Cat had felt herself flushing with irritation. She had never liked Mrs. Lang, and she loathed her husband, Gerald, who’d always reminded her of a kind of red-faced bullfrog. She remembered him of old. He gave her the creeps.
“Y’very like y’mother,” he’d slurred once after midnight Mass, to which he’d turned up obviously drunk, and then he’d slid his large, meaty hand across her ribs and stomach, as if he were measuring her for size. Cat, then thirteen, had dodged out of the way, grabbed his arm, and bitten him, hard, on the fleshy ball of his palm, then kicked him in the shin. Then, surprised and slightly alarmed at the violence of her own behavior, had left him, hobbling and swearing softly in the porch, and run all the way home in the dark. She’d never told anyone.
He must be fifty or sixty now, but Cat realized she still loathed him. Wasn’t it funny, these people you didn’t think about for years? She’d looked round for him: Gran always said vaguely that it was no wonder he mostly never came to any of their parties after what had happened to him here, but could never be drawn on exactly what that was. Almost like it was a joke. She supposed he was a joke, in a way, a nasty, aggressive man who didn’t realize he was a dinosaur. His wife, however, was more beady than ever, and Cat honestly hadn’t known what to say. She’d blushed even more and then excused herself, to go to the loo.
Bang-bang!! Cat jumped out of her skin.
“Hello? Anyone in there?”
Cat ran the tap and dried her hands. “Sorry, just coming.”
Opening the door, she saw Clover’s large, moonlike face hovering in wait for her.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—I wasn’t sure—that’s why I knocked, there was silence for such a long time, you see, and I do need to—we’ve got a babysitter, and we have to get back to her! It’s a rare night out for us!” She gave what Cat thought would be best described as a simpering smile and said, “How often do you get to go out, Cat? In Paris?”
Cat said, “Not much.”
“Yes. Of course.” Clover nodded as if Cat had enlightened her. “And Luke’s father, he . . .”
Cat let the half question hang in the air. “He, yes.”
“Ha, ha!” Clover laughed too loudly. “Oh, well, I think you’re very brave. Tell me, did you breast-feed? Because I hear that in France breast-feeding is totally frowned on. It’s such a shame. One of my parenting-group friends—”
“Great!” Cat said, patting her on the back. “Lovely to see you again, Clover. I’ll let you get off, isn’t it awful weather? Good-bye!”
As Clover retreated, muttering something about playdates, Mrs. Lang appeared from the kitchen doorway. “Hello again, dear. I was just saying to Gerald that I must find out from Cat if—”
Cat couldn’t take it anymore. “Thank you! Excuse me, have to check on something outside for Gran.” Recklessly she drained the glass of wine on the sideboard, opened the door, and escaped outside.
It was still raining, and the soft mist rolling off the lawn met the light from the house, fusing into a phosphorescent glow. Cat hurried around the terrace, past the living room and the silhouettes of the guests, framed by the windows like pictures in a children’s book. She stopped and looked out across the valley. It was a black night, the rain blotting out the moon and stars.
I think you’re very brave.
Cat had turned at the corner of the L by the kitchen and was wishing she had a cigarette for the first time in years when a low voice called out urgently, “Hey? Who’s there?” She started, and her hands shot into her mouth.
“It’s Cat. Who is this?”
“Cat. It’s Joe.”
Joe Thorne appeared from the darkness, and Cat pulled her fingers out of her mouth. “Oh, thank goodness.” Relief and adrenaline and alcohol made her sound almost ecstatically glad to see him. “What are you up to?”
He stamped his feet gently on the mossy ground. “Just wanted some fresh air. Thought it’d be okay to have a couple of minutes’ break. The party’s starting to wind down.”
Cat came and stood next to him under the shelter of the porch. She said awkwardly, “You must be exhausted.”
He nodded. “Yes. It’s been a good night, though. I hope your grandmother’s enjoyed herself. I wanted her to be pleased.”
“I know she is. Very pleased.”
There was a small, awkward pause. The rain dripped softly onto the stones of the terrace.
“Luke absolutely loved Stick Man,” she began. “And, er . . . I looked up The Gruffalo. It turns out I’m the only person who’s never heard of it. I feel terrible.”
“Maybe it’s banned in France. Anticompetitive. Perhaps they have their own Gruffalo knockoff.”
“I’m sure they have it. Sometimes I miss out on stuff, with Luke. It doesn’t matter, we read every night and he loves it, but we don’t . . .” She looked down. “Oh, well. We have a bit of a
strange life there. That’s why it’s so lovely being here. Everyone together.”
He crossed his arms. “Right.” Out of the corner of her eye, Cat stole a glance at him. He always looked so serious, so weary. Suddenly she wasn’t sure if she wanted another drink or was wishing she hadn’t drunk the last one so quickly.
“This is your idea of hell, isn’t it?” she said.
“No, not at all.” He glanced back at the door. “I suppose family things make me . . .” He trailed off.
“You like Game of Thrones, don’t you?” she said suddenly.
“How do you know that?”
“Saw the DVD in your bag yesterday when we were all in the kitchen.”
“Please don’t say Game of Thrones reminds you of your family. Oh, my God.” He looked around in mock alarm. “Winterfell. Winterfold. Are you . . . the Starks? Are you the Lannisters? Oh, no. Don’t be the Lannisters.”
Cat put her hands over her mouth and laughed softly. “No. Don’t be silly. I just mean you have to take it all with a pinch of salt. Family. Otherwise it’s . . . it’s too much.”
He nodded. “Yes. Well, Game of Thrones aside, family gatherings like this do make me feel . . . um. Very sad.”
She tried to help. “You miss home.”
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