27

THAT AFTERNOON SAW the arrival of a new dining table and a new cooker – a free-standing electric oven with a ceramic hob on top. Nothing fancy, but it was clean. And since I tended to subscribe to the late Clarissa Dickson Wright’s view that one can make perfectly good food on a two-ring hotplate, I was thrilled to see it replace the grease-covered monstrosity Vince had donated. Even after I’d given it a thorough spray with Mr Muscle, I still couldn’t bring myself to use it. The burnt fat gave off an odour of rancidity that lodged in the nasal linings – much like when all those animal carcasses were burned during the foot-and-mouth epidemic of 2001. That smell stayed in the air, and in your nose, for months.

I hadn’t expected to miss cooking. Preparing meals for George at the end of a long day had long since lost its appeal. But when faced with the prospect of being unable to cook anything at all, well, I couldn’t wait to get back in the kitchen.

Petra and Vince were coming over, as well as Clara, and so I got on with preparing my crowd pleaser: spaghetti carbonara. Vince instructed me to leave the wine to him, and even though I tried to protest, explaining that I wasn’t as strapped for cash as I had been of late, he insisted. He had a new Portuguese white – F. P. Branco, which he’d been giddy for me to try since discovering it recently.

I roughly chopped some tomatoes, harvested by Dennis that morning. I invited both Celia and Dennis, too, since Petra and Celia got along well, even though Petra complained that Celia became terribly boastful about her family after two glasses of wine (Celia would have said the same about Petra, if she weren’t my sister). But they had tickets to the Lakeland Book of the Year Awards. One of Celia’s book group had self-published a slim biography of William and Dorothy Wordsworth, which Celia said was very well written but not really my kind of thing, so best avoided.

To the tomatoes I added basil (again from Dennis), olive oil, seasoning and a splash of sherry vinegar, before making a plain green salad for the kids. George was positively repulsed by the idea of a raw tomato, not that it stopped him dousing everything in ketchup.

As well as now being in possession of a kitchen full of food for the first time in months, I had wine glasses, cups, two new saucepans and plates that matched. I’d also splurged on new school polo shirts for George, bath towels, tea towels, and bedding for both of our beds.

The school holidays were almost upon us. It would be one of the last quiet evenings before the adjoining holiday cottage became filled with a procession of noisy families. Families shouting at each other after dark when they’d had too much to drink, realizing too late that they didn’t actually like spending this amount of time with one another.

‘So,’ said Petra, as we sat out on the patio.

‘So?’ I mirrored back.

‘So, how was Henry?’ she said.

‘By which you mean?’

She shot me a look as though to say, Not how was he in bed, you idiot.

‘I mean, do you like him?’ she said.

‘He seems nice enough,’ I replied, teasing.

‘Nice enough for what? A fling? A relationship? Marriage?’

‘Oh, marriage definitely,’ I replied, deadpan.

‘Have you heard that Hollywood now has its own marital version of the 5:2 diet?’ said Petra, and I asked her to explain.

‘Instead of eating for five days and fasting for two days,’ she said, ‘you live with your spouse for five days and have two days off.’

Vince looked interested.

‘Or is it the other way around?’ she said. Petra thought for a moment, working through the logistics of it. ‘Yes, it must be the other way around. Five days off, two days on.’

‘Like a fireman,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ she replied. ‘Celebrity couples say it makes their marriages work much better, and it’s more fulfilling.’

‘That’s because they’re essentially dating,’ said Vince.

‘Where did you read this?’ I asked her.

‘A magazine in the staff room. Not a trashy one. The head doesn’t allow those. It was Marie Claire. Or one of those thinking women’s magazines where the articles are way too long . . . and depressing.’

Vince said to Petra that they already had their own version of the 5:2. She became cross with him over something he had no idea about, and then proceeded to ignore him for two days. ‘Works perfectly well for us, doesn’t it, love?’

Petra pretended to swat him away and told him to fetch some more water for the table.

Once Vince was in the kitchen out of earshot, I remarked that they seemed to be on speaking terms again.

‘We’re fine,’ she said.

‘What was it about?’

‘Honestly?’ she asked. ‘Dissatisfaction dressed up as something else, I suppose. Do you ever look at your life and think you were meant to have more?’

‘More of what?’

‘More of everything.’

‘Petra, you do have everything.’

‘I know. I have all of the important stuff. And I’m not being ungrateful, I’m really not. It’s just, sometimes, I look at other people and I think—’

‘You’re talking about Nadine.’

Sheepishly, she admitted, ‘That’s wrong, I know,’ she said. ‘Nadine is a wonderful person and she and Scott are so good together, and they didn’t always have all that wealth. Sometimes envy gets the better of me, though, and I get annoyed about everything. I get so bloody angry.’

I stopped eating and held her gaze. ‘Vince is a great guy, Petra.’

She nodded. ‘I’m a bitch to take it out on him, aren’t I?’

‘How would you feel if he ignored you for not being good enough? Not being pretty enough? Rich enough?’

She threw me an outraged look as though to say, He . . . would . . . not . . . dare.

‘Precisely,’ I said.

She told me she’d try to be kinder with him. ‘You know, Henry might be a great guy for you. Nadine absolutely adores him,’ she prattled on, before pausing and glaring at her daughter. ‘Clara, that is way too much pasta you have on your fork. You really mustn’t shovel your food into your mouth like that.’

I caught George’s eye as he surreptitiously removed half of the spaghetti loaded on his fork.

A few weeks ago I’d caught him twirling the fork in the centre of the plate to see if it was possible to get his entire serving on to it and, incredibly, he managed it. I didn’t reprimand him, as he picked the whole lot up and chewed bits off, much as you would a toffee apple. It took me back to when Petra and I were kids and we’d have competitions to see who could pile the most chips on our forks.

I remember Petra winning on most occasions.

‘Nadine is very protective of Henry,’ Petra continued now, ‘because of what happened.’

I stopped chewing. ‘What happened?’

‘He didn’t tell you?’

‘I don’t know if he told me or not, because I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Petra lowered her eyes to her plate and dropped her voice to all but a whisper. ‘His son died.’

‘Oh,’ I said, utterly floored. ‘I didn’t know that.’

There was a moment of silence when she let me process what had just been said. Then she went on. ‘It was a swimming-pool accident. He got sucked into a faulty filter when diving down for pennies.’

‘Oh, God,’ I said.

‘Terrible thing,’ said Petra. ‘His wife took her eyes off the boy to help clean up after a party. Their marriage didn’t survive after that. Understandable, really.’

Petra put her cutlery at the side of her plate. ‘Do you mind if I leave this?’ she said, and I shook my head. I’d lost my appetite, too, I told her. ‘Nadine said that’s why Henry came back here,’ Petra explained. ‘He couldn’t bear to be amongst people who knew. He needed a clean break.’

‘Where did it happen?’ I asked.

‘It was at a friend’s house. He and his wife were in London for work. He had a high-powered job to do with chemical something-or-other.’

‘Engineering,’ I said.

‘That’s right.’ Petra gulped down the remainder of her wine.

‘Should I open another?’ Vince asked, coming back outside.

His tone was gentle, fatherly. He said it in a way you would ask a person if they needed another ice pack, another painkiller.

‘Please,’ Petra replied. ‘Do you mind driving home?’ she asked, and Vince said he didn’t.

With her glass refreshed, Petra leaned in towards me. ‘Henry didn’t mention any of this to you?’

‘Nothing,’ I replied.

‘He didn’t hint at what had happened to him? You didn’t detect the sadness at all?’

‘Quite the contrary. He was quite exuberant, pretty forceful in his ideas. For the whole of the evening he was in a jolly mood. Although—’ I said and hesitated. Dropped my gaze as I remembered. ‘There was one moment when there was something . . .’

I felt the sting of shame as it came back to me fully.

‘He wanted to come in – to come into the house – and I didn’t want him to.’

‘Why not?’

‘Various reasons. I didn’t want him to meet’ – I paused, tilting my head in George’s direction – ‘so there was that. And of course, the house is a disaster, and I just didn’t want him inside – you know, judging me.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘he thought I was being over the top about him not meeting George, and I kind of blew my top at him. Saying that, since he wasn’t a father, I’d appreciate it if he kept his parenting advice to himself.’

Petra winced.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ll apologize.’

Quite unaware of our conversation, Clara and George were talking amongst themselves at the end of the table. ‘You two finished with your plates?’ I asked, and George said yes, while Clara looked to Petra to check if it was okay to leave what remained of her meal. Petra didn’t notice, lost in thought as she was, so I mouthed it was fine. ‘Scoot,’ I told them quietly. ‘Go and play. I’ll call you when dessert is ready.’

We sat in silence, each of us watching the kids at the end of the garden. They were pointing to the wild rabbits, and giggling, George making Clara laugh with whatever he was saying.

‘Just imagine,’ said Petra softly, gesturing to the children, ‘just imagine. That poor, poor guy,’ and her eyes began to fill. Both Vince and I nodded without answering.

The minutes passed.

Eventually, I gave her hand a squeeze. ‘I love you, Petra,’ I said. ‘I don’t tell you often enough. You’re such a good sister to me and I love you.’

‘Oh, honey,’ she replied, overwhelmed. She searched for a tissue before blowing her nose. ‘I love you, too.’

And then, between the tears, she said, ‘Vincent, you tell those children to get back over here right this instant. I need to hold on to them. Tight.’