The Sunday Lunch Club

by Juliet Ashton

  Anna stole a look back at the others. Only Sam looked her way. He winked. He saw the blush all right. Anna knocked over a salt cellar, righted it again, and was grateful for the chirrup of her mobile.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, reading the text. ‘Guys! Josh can’t make it.’

  ‘What’s the excuse this time?’ Neil was sardonic.

  ‘He’s got something on.’ The text had been more precise: I can’t face it, Sis. As usual, Anna let him off the hook. Although twenty-nine years old, Josh would always be the baby of the family. ‘I spoke to him during the week.’

  ‘How’d he sound?’ Neil’s attempted nonchalance didn’t convince. They all worried about Josh.

  ‘Great. He sounded great,’ lied Anna.

  ‘Uncle Josh never comes.’ Storm’s mouth turned down.

  ‘Shush, you,’ said Maeve gently. There was an unwritten rule not to criticise Josh. Using a family telepathy, they all agreed that he’d been born with thinner skin. He felt knocks more harshly. Took setbacks more personally.

  ‘He promised to come to the next Sunday Lunch Club,’ said Anna. Another lie, but one she’d try to convert into a truth.

  Paloma, whose manners were as exquisite as her face, slept in her carrycot all through the main course, missing the compliments for the beef.

  ‘Even nicer than Dinkie’s.’ Neil verged on blasphemy.

  ‘My carrots were a bit hard,’ said Maeve.

  ‘Yet you bravely managed to eat them all,’ Anna pointed out. ‘Do you want to let that course go down before I do dessert?’

  They all groaned their agreement. Waistbands were discreetly undone. Neil had the look of a man regretting that last roast potato.

  ‘I haven’t been this full,’ he said, ‘since the last time we all got together, at Paloma’s Welcome Home lunch.’ He was red in the face, as if he’d been doing hard manual labour rather than stuffing his face.

  ‘What was that stew thing we had?’ asked Maeve, emptying a bottle into her glass and waggling it at Anna, who understood the code and stood up to fetch another.

  ‘Basque lamb.’ Neil closed his eyes in bliss. ‘Santi’s mum’s recipe.’

  ‘That was an amazeballs day,’ said Storm, who’d barely spoken throughout the meal, his tidy Afro bent over his food.

  The last club meeting had been a triumphant finale to Neil and Santiago’s efforts to adopt a child. They’d persevered for over two years, tackling every hurdle in their path. At times the process had seemed never-ending. Anna saw first-hand how they perked up with each breakthrough only to wilt when they were knocked back again. Then all the stars had aligned and the impossible had happened.

  Or rather, Paloma had happened.

  Despite the fact that Neil and Santiago were willing to take a child of any age, they were in the right place at the right time to adopt a newborn. At ten weeks old, Paloma had still been a dot in a nappy. She would never be able to remember her life before she entered the cocoon of care and love that the Pipers wove around her. Anna found that poignant; Paloma aroused a miscellany of emotions and feelings that took her by surprise. She saw something in the baby’s round eyes, a question that reverberated through her body.

  ‘Come on, Paloma!’ Maeve reached down and plucked the baby out of her opulently dressed crib. The others exchanged glances. Maeve was an impulsive creature who lived in the moment, which often had an adverse effect on the next moment. Inevitably, Paloma woke up and began to squall.

  ‘Aw! Wassamatter?’ cooed Maeve, her wild brown hair falling over the baby, her free hand reaching for her glass.

  ‘The matter is the poor kid was fast asleep and now she’s not,’ said Anna.

  ‘Your Auntie Anna’s a gwouch, isn’t she?’ baby-talked Maeve. ‘Yes she is!’ she squealed, wine furring the edge of her diction.

  ‘Mum,’ said Storm, without looking up from his phone, surreptitiously spirited onto his lap under cover of the tablecloth. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘We’re surrounded by spoilsports, Paloma-woma.’ Maeve sank the rest of her drink as Neil harrumphed loudly at this use of an unauthorised nickname for his new daughter. ‘Your daddy disapproves of me, and my own son has all the pizzazz of a bank manager.’ She reached out to ruffle her boy’s hair. ‘Where did I go right?’

  Ducking away from her, Storm asked, ‘What’s for afters?’

  ‘Strawberries and cream.’ Anna usually resorted to this crowd-pleaser.

  ‘Strawberries are out of season,’ complained Maeve.

  ‘So shoot me.’ Anna wasn’t in the mood for one of Maeve’s rants about organic, allergen-free, low-air-miles eating.

  ‘They probably came all the way from Morocco,’ sighed Maeve as the big glass dish of ripe red fruit was placed in the middle of the table and everybody leaned in.

  ‘Don’t eat them, then,’ murmured Neil.

  ‘It’d be wrong to waste them,’ said Maeve piously.

  Another shared look ran around the Sunday Lunch Club.

  ‘And before you ask,’ said Anna, setting down a jug she’d found in a charity shop, ‘the cream is from a cow I know personally.’

  Maeve looked up, wide-eyed, before bursting into laughter. She believed anything after her third Prosecco.

  ‘Let’s make sure Dinkie comes to the next lunch,’ said Santiago, holding out his bowl. ‘I miss her.’ I mith her. His English was fluent, but prettified by his accent.

  ‘She seems to be settling in at the home,’ said Neil, tossing a strawberry at Storm.

  ‘Don’t call it that!’ mewled Maeve.

  ‘It’s a retirement complex.’ Anna quelled Neil with a look. The old habit of talking over the younger siblings’ heads died hard.

  ‘It’s like battery farming, but with old dears instead of chickens,’ said Neil, evidently enjoying the consternation this caused.

  ‘It’s a lovely place!’ said Maeve, who hadn’t set foot in it.

  ‘She’s with people her own age,’ said Anna uncertainly.

  ‘Exactly. Since when did Dinkie want to be surrounded by old people?’ said Neil.

  ‘We discussed this.’ Anna was quiet, firm. ‘She couldn’t live on her own any more and—’

  ‘Yeah yeah,’ said Neil. ‘It’s for the best, but . . . you know . . .’

  They did. They knew. They knew that the Sunville communal areas smelled of cabbage. They knew how rabidly proud their minuscule grandmother was.

  Sam said, ‘It’s not easy, but you all did the right thing.’

  He sounded so sane that Anna wanted to believe him. That was the voice he’d used back when she’d wake in the night. He’d dry her tears, talk her round, hold her until she dropped off again. Now when she woke up in the night, she was alone with her thoughts. Sometimes they won and Anna had to drag herself out of bed to make the milky drink prescribed at such times.

  A strawberry stopped en route to Anna’s mouth as something struck her. Would she ever sleep beside a man again? Not for a night or two, but for years on end, with him making a familiar shape in the dark. It wasn’t just sex that made a marital bed special; Anna recalled the braided limbs, the snug warmth of it all. The synchronised turnings. The churned pillows. The bed as fortress. Us against the world.

  She looked at Sam, who was licking cream off his finger. He used to say that. It used to be true. Funny that Anna could miss some ingredients of their marriage so intensely, yet be relieved to have escaped it.

  ‘Storm’s started Japanese at school, did I tell you?’ Maeve bunched her lips like that when something made her especially happy. Her freckles made a dot-to-dot of joy. ‘Don’t be embarrassed, sweetie!’ She seemed devilishly pleased at seeing her clever son cringe in his Adidas top. ‘Only five boys in his year are doing it.’

  ‘Pantsu,’ said Santi suddenly.

  ‘Eh?’ Neil stared at him. ‘Steady on, Santi. I’m the brains, darling. You’re the beauty. You can’t speak Japanese!’

  ‘That’s all I can say,’ admitted Santi, dimples deepening.
‘I learned it when I was a waiter. It means hello.’

  ‘Err, no it doesn’t, Uncle Santi.’ Storm pulled a face. ‘It means knickers.’

  Santi covered his face with his hands, bowing in the face of the laughter. ‘I say it to every Japanese person I meet!’

  Standing to collect the plates, Anna paused. Her mind skipped back to an earlier topic, worrying at it, trying to shake something loose. ‘Um, how long ago was that lunch for Paloma? A month?’

  ‘Four weeks exactly.’ Santiago’s Moorish dark eyes glittered nostalgically; he was a sentimental soul. ‘I’ll never forget the day we introduced our niña to the family.’

  ‘Hear hear.’ Sam’s face creased into a smile. ‘I got smashed. Remember the cocktail guy?’

  ‘And the chocolate fountain,’ said Storm.

  ‘And the amuse-bouche-y things,’ said Maeve. ‘Actually,’ she said, looking into the middle distance, ‘that cocktail waiter was bloody gorgeous.’

  ‘I auditioned him myself,’ said Neil.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Santiago under his breath.

  ‘Don’t do what?’ Neil’s brows drew together, two peeved beetles.

  ‘Don’t be all camp.’ Santiago stood up, and crossed to the glass door to the garden. He pulled it closed, and stared out at the darkening afternoon. Nobody had complained of the cold. It was Santiago’s way of avoiding a row.

  Neil watched him, but changed the subject. ‘It was a marvellous do. Even though some naughty person spilled fabric conditioner all over the laundry basket and didn’t own up.’

  The naughty person was otherwise engaged, thought Anna, scraping leftovers into the bin. She wasn’t the sort of person who had enthusiastic sex in utility rooms during the cheese course. Except, apparently, I’m exactly that sort of person, she thought, not entirely displeased with this version of herself. She set down the stack of plates and said, ‘Just popping out, folks. I need to get milk for the coffee.’

  The corner shop sold everything. Ketchup. Tissues. Horrible porn. It would certainly have milk, but Anna kept walking.

  She was rushing, but not because she was in a hurry to get back. She was on the run from a mounting suspicion. However fast she strode, it kept pace with her. When she pushed at the door of the chemist on the parade, it was right there at her side. Anna bought what she needed, and secreted the package in the bottom of her bag, as if it was contraband.

  ‘There’s milk in the fridge!’ called Sam as Anna whirled back down her own narrow hallway. He held it up, triumphant.

  ‘Silly me.’ Anna pushed past him, tearing off her mac. ‘Right. Who’s for coffee?’

  ‘I’ll have—’ started Maeve.

  ‘Your stupid organic whatsit tea, yes I know.’ Anna set down a tray with a slam, then banged down cups. Much as she loved her ragbag of visitors, she needed them gone; this laid-back Sunday suddenly had an urgent agenda.

  ‘Whose go is it to cook next?’ Sam was saying as he followed her back to the table with the truffles Neil had brought.

  ‘Yours.’ The fringes on Maeve’s cheesecloth sleeve were damp from trailing in her lunch. ‘Don’t forget I’m vegetarian.’

  ‘My darling Maeve,’ said Neil, ‘nobody could ever forget you’re a vegetarian.’ He had scant patience with his little sister’s constant reaffirmation of her various ‘ism’s. ‘You say it once an hour, on the hour.’

  ‘But you love me for it.’ Maeve was utterly confident of her place in the world, of the protection of her family, of her welcome everywhere.

  ‘I do,’ said Neil, ‘but then I bloody have to, don’t I, you pest?’

  ‘I can’t promise anything as spectacular as Neil and Santiago’s “do”,’ said Sam. He held Anna’s gaze for a moment. ‘There’ll be no fabric conditioner spilled.’

  She coughed, looked away, longed to root through her bag and get out her purchase. Why won’t they all go home?

  Neil stood, and hope fluttered in Anna’s heart that the others would follow suit.

  They didn’t.

  ‘Let’s break out the Trivial Pursuit,’ he said.

  All the booze in the house had been drunk. Maeve had scampered to the corner shop for fresh supplies. They’d gravitated to the front room, strewn themselves over the sofas that faced each other, the board game forgotten.

  It was Anna’s own fault. Her comfortable, untidy house was too welcoming. It invited every stray to make itself at home. Anna’s lunches were notorious for carrying on until nightfall; there was always one more cup of coffee to be had, one more strange liqueur from the back of the cupboard, one more scurrilous story. Today she didn’t bask in any hostess glory. Instead she cleared up as loudly as she could, slamming drawers as she put away dishes, even starting up the vacuum cleaner.

  Nobody budged.

  In fact, as she loitered in the hallway, she heard Maeve ask Sam the dreaded question: ‘How’ve you been?’

  Anna slumped against the coat stand, letting out a tiny groan.

  ‘Well,’ said Sam. ‘Funny you should ask. My leg hurts when I do this.’

  Evidently, in the sitting room, Sam did whatever ‘this’ was. They were in for a long sermon; Sam’s health was Sam’s favourite topic. Like many hypochondriacs, he was absurdly healthy, yet every twinge and cough sent him rushing off to the internet to research his symptoms.

  ‘Then, of course,’ he went on to his captive audience, ‘there’s that rash on my elbow. God knows what that is.’

  Anna wanted to shout, It’s a rash! but she knew from long experience that once Sam found his groove he was impossible to deflect.

  Unable to wait any longer, she stole upstairs. Anna needed her fears disproved, her silly imaginings dismissed. The manoeuvre with the tiny plastic paddle wasn’t one she’d ever done before; there was a knack to it. She washed her hands and sat and waited, forcing herself to look around the bathroom instead of down at the stick.

  The room needed some TLC. There was a cracked tile in the shower. The tap wobbled. She’d get round to it. The house was an endless work in progress, like life. Anna whistled. Then she hummed. Then she tapped her foot. Then she gave in and looked down.

  The anonymous plastic wand had big news.

  Babies were a closed door for Anna. A no-no. Something that happened to other people. Ten years of marriage had produced no close shave, no near miss. She’d never discussed baby names with Sam, never wondered if their spare room would make a good nursery. Parenthood was a roped-off area.

  Like a sleepwalker, Anna plodded down the stairs and headed to the garden, where she drew in deep lungfuls of chilled air.

  Wrapping her arms around her body, Anna gave herself a sharp talking-to. This news was too enormous to take in at one bite; she would break it down later, when she was alone. She must hold it together until everybody left.

  If they ever did.

  Maeve was rustling up more tea in the kitchen, Storm ‘helping’, if pretending to look for a teapot while staring at his phone could be described that way. ‘We’re on to Sam’s diabetes,’ she said cheerfully, her head in the fridge.

  ‘He hasn’t got diabetes.’ Anna said it so crabbily that Maeve bobbed up over the fridge door to stare at her.

  ‘God, OK,’ she said. ‘Give him a break.’

  Anna didn’t want to ‘go there’ with her sister. One of Maeve’s pet theories was that Anna had been crazy to let Sam go. She was all the more emphatic about this when she’d been drinking, saying stuff like, One day you’ll realise and it’ll be too late. ‘Sam’s the healthiest person I know,’ said Anna, taking care to sound less gruff. ‘He’ll outlive us all.’

  ‘I reckon he misses y—’

  ‘Here, let me.’ The sooner Anna made the tea, the sooner they’d all go home.

  Anna barely heard the goodbyes, or registered the hugs. Sam was last to leave. When he held her she, clung to him, until he pulled away with a concerned frown.

  ‘Anna?’

  ‘I . . .’ She could tell him ri
ght now. No messing about. She could say it out loud. Watch his expression. ‘Headache.’ Anna tapped her forehead.

  ‘Ouch.’ Sam looked sympathetic. ‘Poor you.’

  Poor us, actually. Anna had a stowaway.

  The house was quiet again, that special Sunday evening calm. Anna drifted about her home like a ghost.

  A baby. The great unmentionable between her and Sam. She’d tidied away the notion, accepted she was different. I’m not meant to be a mother. Anna looked down at her body, wondering why it had played such an elaborate practical joke after all those years of doing her bidding.

  In bed that night, facing the small hours and still wakeful, Anna’s weariness stripped away the jumbled fears and laid bare the real question.

  How do I feel about this baby?

  Bone-tired, worn out with the effort of predicting the million things that could go wrong, she answered simply, without deliberating.

  I love you, she thought.

  Chapter Two

  Lunch at Sam’s

  GOAT’S CHEESE TARTLET

  BEEF WELLINGTON/SPINACH AND BLUE CHEESE EN CROUTE

  NUTELLA CHEESECAKE

  Anna almost backed out of the next Sunday Lunch Club. When she woke that morning, a name she never said out loud was on her lips.

  Bonnie.

  She rarely dreamed of Bonnie, and what she’d done to her. The pregnancy stirred Anna’s brain like a stew, sending all sorts of gristle to the surface. Snatches of the dream tugged at Anna, but as the morning passed, the dream lost its power, so she did something to her hair, dashed a lipstick over her lips, and propelled herself outside into the indecisive May weather.

  The modern low-rise block was square and neat, surrounded by clipped gardens and mature trees that made it easy to forget the noisy main road. Sam lived on the ground floor, in the boxy flat he’d bought after the divorce. Even though the split was amicable, the usual resentments had bubbled beneath the surface and it had taken two years for Sam and Anna to speak to each other without conversation turning bitterly to how the CDs had been divided up. Both of them had been relieved to move on from that stage and become what most people agreed they were destined to be; not partners, but best mates.