As July settled in, it started to get cocky, chasing away the rain clouds to start off with, then all clouds, even the wispy, high-up ones that look like cherubs. There was day after day of uninterrupted azure, with barely a breath of wind. So where, thought Izzie, does all this dew come from? The bottoms of her drawstring hemp trousers were soaked on the short walk across the lawn to the car each morning. Of course, the grass was far too long, but Marcus had been assiduous in not doing anything beyond taking care of the children for the last few weeks. He took them to school and picked them up in his new car, a very efficient people mover with a name that sounded like a 1950s cinema chain, and wearing his fancy new duds—mostly linen, thank goodness, so the image remained intact.
He didn’t seem to feel awkward with her providing the money for the new treats he was obviously enjoying. Or if he did, he hid it pretty well. It was so hard to imagine what he was feeling anymore. He gave no clues. At first, Izzie had wondered if he would feel she was trying to buy her way back into his favor, by releasing some money for these and the other things they had needed for so long—like a new downstairs loo and new carpet in the children’s rooms. But he seemed remarkably sanguine about the whole thing. In a way she’d been dreading him striking an attitude, going all proud on her, but when he didn’t she felt peeved—and this troubled her. He didn’t even comment when her piano turned up again—yet she’d probably have hated it if he had—just started to pile his discarded newspapers on it, as he had done before.
It hadn’t been the first thing she bought after France. No, her guilt had been too overwhelming for that, and she’d started with the telephoto lenses he needed. Only once they were safely locked up in his darkroom could she think about what she really wanted. She’d been torn about going to the piano warehouse, in case it wasn’t there anymore. Finally, with a pocketful of readies and her heart in her mouth, she’d driven over there. At first, she didn’t see it, and angry disappointment tightened her throat. She’d been about to leave, too upset to even ask about it, when the funny little man who’d come to value it suddenly popped up. He’d stared at her, blinking rapidly for a moment or so, then hurried to the office without saying a word. A moment later, he’d reappeared and bobbed up in front of her so suddenly, she’d yelped.
“Mrs. Stock, isn’t it? Were you, er, looking for something special?”
“I was just looking, you know . . . wondering if—”
“Your piano, the Bechstein. A fine instrument. The finest we’ve had here in a long time. It’s not here . . .”
Her shoulders slumped. “Oh . . . that’s what I was afraid of. Well, I suppose—”
“No, Mrs. Stock. I moved it out of here. Actually . . .” He stopped and fumbled for words. “I moved it into the house. The temperature out here—it gets very warm in the afternoons. I’ve . . . I’ve been playing it myself actually.” He laughed sadly and shrugged his shoulders. “I knew you’d be back for it, so I thought it had better be kept out of the way. I didn’t want any children”—he shuddered—“with sticky fingers trying it out. We can arrange for it to be brought back to you later this week.”
Izzie was overwhelmed and laughter bubbled in her throat. “You were hiding it, weren’t you? Trying to stop anyone else seeing it. I don’t believe it! I was so afraid it would have gone. Thank you so much!”
He accepted her thanks with embarrassed pleasure, but had the grace to be shamefaced when she saw the price he had been hoping to sell it for—almost twice what he’d given her. Still—she was so pleased that she gladly split the difference, then added on some more. “Consider it payment for board and lodging,” she called as she drove away, waving through the open window. And she hummed along tunelessly with Radio 3 all the way home.
But there wasn’t much time to play it. An unsolicited plug from a flavor-of-the-month actress on Parkinson resulted in another surge of sales and an invitation to appear on Breakfast TV. What an ordeal that had been! The Paysage Enchanté philosophy had been raked over on the comfy sofas, but considering their nerves, they both thought they’d handled it pretty well.
They can’t have done too badly because the requests for the balm increased even further. Izzie’s feet barely touched the ground, and it was only a phone call from her mother asking her what she wanted that reminded her that her birthday was looming. Marcus sure as hell hadn’t mentioned it. If anything, he was on the defensive. “But you never said!” he ranted a few days later. “I’m not a mind reader! I just assumed you’d want to have a quiet time with us. I mean, you’re hardly ever here are you?”
“I don’t want a big fuss. I just thought you might have booked something. Dinner out, flowers and a babysitter, something like that. And I did hope I wouldn’t have to buy my own cake this year. Come on, Marcus. It is a special birthday.”
She wearily began to clear the breakfast table. It looked like the piano would have to be her present to herself.
“What do you mean you’re not doing anything?”
Izzie looked up from the desk. “Well, I made the stupid mistake I suppose of leaving it up to him to organize something. Silly me!”
“It’s your fortieth birthday, for heaven’s sake, even reaching those heady heights is worth celebrating, though of course I wouldn’t know.”
“No.” Izzie smiled wanly. “You’re just a mere babe.” She rubbed her hands wearily over her eyes, and went back to the spreadsheet in front of her. “If we get Karen and Angie to do the early morning shift, then Donna to start at three, we should be able to keep the line running for about sixteen hours. Keep that up for a week and we’ll have managed two weeks’ production in—”
“No, I’m sorry, I’m not going to let this drop, Izzie. It’s your birthday, and you’ve worked bloody hard over the last seven months. I love a party and we’re going to celebrate.” She thought for a moment. “It’s Friday, isn’t it? Right, book a babysitter or persuade that Marcus of yours. You’re coming over to my house.”
Driving home, late as usual, Maddy was incredulous that Marcus could have let the whole thing go without making some sort of effort. Birthdays for her had always been sacrosanct. When she was a child, Giselle had gone way over the top with them, no doubt to make up for her dad not being around, and Maddy would rush into her bedroom at some ungodly hour, confident that she would find a heap of deliciously wrapped presents on the bedroom chair. For her twenty-first, Giselle and Peter had told her to be at Heathrow with her passport, and they’d flown Concorde to spend the most fantastic weekend in New York, shopping as if their lives depended on it, and eating copious amounts to recover from the strain and exhaustion of spending so much money.
Simon had always made her birthday fun too, and she was dreading that milestone in September. Their June wedding anniversary had been bad enough, though she had managed to cover up her distress from everyone else. Giselle had remembered of course, and surprisingly, she’d had a call from Cynthia. Contact had been pretty thin on the ground in that department, but this time Simon’s mother sounded choked and weepy. That, Maddy supposed, had helped her be strong and she’d got through the day somehow.
For her thirtieth birthday, Simon had bought her a bath bomb and, smiling at her barely concealed disappointment, had run a deep hot bath and got in with her—well, it had been pre-children. As the bomb fizzed and dissipated in the water, there at the bottom of the bath she’d discovered and fished out the beautiful square-cut diamond ring that she still couldn’t bear to take off. She’d thanked him the best way she knew how, and the water that splashed as a result on the bathroom floor had ruined the cork tiles.
Sex in the bath. Would she ever have sex again? She was beginning to wonder. It had been nine months, and she wasn’t sure she’d gone nine months without sex since she’d reached the age of consent. An old, single friend of theirs from London had always joked that if you didn’t have sex for long enough, you ceased to want it. Maddy was beginning to see what he meant. The thought of getting into bed with someone else would seem like infidelity anyway. She was a widow—not a word she even let herself use—and she’d shelved that particular part of her life.
“It’s Izzie’s birthday on Friday,” she told Colette, as she came in the door and scooped Pasco up into her arms. “She’s going to come over here, in lieu of anything else to do, and I’ve got a little plan. Do you think you could help?” and grabbing a spare piece of paper, she started to write a shopping list for Colette.
Finding something suitable for Izzie’s birthday was quite a challenge. In a normal world, Maddy would have had no hesitation in high-tailing it to London for the day, but she couldn’t for two reasons. One: they were flat out at the barn and there would be hell to pay from everyone if she disappeared without explanation. Two: she was severely restricted as to what she could buy. She’d have loved nothing more than to spoil Izzie with a pair of sexy little Emma Hope kitten-heel shoes or that Anya Hindmarch bag she noticed her salivating over in a magazine. But thanks to Pru’s restrictions, the only options available to her were from the farm shop. A bag of carrots for her fortieth? What the hell, it was a special occasion. She’d throw in a cauliflower too.
She strongly suspected that the present Izzie would appreciate most was a certain French farmer, delivered to her door with a ribbon around his neck. Izzie had actually been pretty quiet on the subject of Jean Luc since their return from France, and his phone calls had been less frequent to Huntingford House too. He was no doubt spending the time calling Izzie on the QT when Marcus was out of the way. What subterfuge! Maddy was thrilled for Izzie that Jean Luc was lavishing her with so much attention, even though she knew it was morally very wrong. She sent him a text message, alerting him to the impending birthday, though she was pretty confident that Izzie would have told him about it. She wondered later, as she turned out the downstairs lights and locked the front door, whether they had talked to each other about Marcus. I do hope not. Izzie needs Jean Luc’s passion, not his sympathy.
Going up for her bath, she noticed a crisp copy of Harpers & Queen on the hall table, obviously discarded by Colette—or perhaps kindly left out for Maddy to help keep her sane. What a treat. Ten minutes later she was up to her ears in Floris Edwardian Bouquet bubble bath which she’d found discarded at the back of a bathroom cupboard (a Christmas present some years ago from Cynthia), was smoking her one surreptitious fag of the day (trying hard not to get it wet), and flicking through the magazine. God, it seemed like another world. Dinky little suits, delicious shoes, sumptuous fashion spreads. In the past she’d have turned down the corners of some of the pages and made a point of seeking out a bag or pair of trousers that took her fancy. Now it all seemed like forbidden territory. Look but don’t touch. She did notice, however, that the beauty pages had a definite emphasis on oh-so-natural products, and were less about putting on the slap than going minimal. The beauty editor had made a strong story about the importance of clear skin, and the facing page had a luscious ad for Elements, “now stocking the full Paysage Enchanté range.”
Throwing down the magazine beside the bath, she spotted the advertisement on the back cover: a beautiful, partially clad model, posing seductively in Armani. She pondered it for a moment. Now she might just get away with that. And, removing the soap and stubbing her cigarette out in the soap dish, she made a mental note to add another couple of items to Colette’s shopping list.
Friday morning, and she made sure she got in early, giving herself enough time to string up some balloons on the balustrade around the office. It was a stunning day, with that chill of an early summer morning that will turn out to be a scorcher. If they hadn’t been so busy, it would have been fun to bunk off for a long pub lunch somewhere by a river and drink Pimms until late into the afternoon. Angie and Karen had been there since seven on the early shift, and dived on the bag of buns and doughnuts Maddy had brought with her.
“One each, children.” She laughed. “They are supposed to be for Izzie’s birthday breakfast.”
“We haven’t forgotten,” said Angie, mouth full. “I’ve bought her a little something. Nothing fancy.”
Lillian pulled up next in her lurid little green car. Getting out, Maddy saw she had in her arms an enormous bunch of garishly colored flowers attached to which was a helium balloon with “Happy 40th” spelled out in silver letters. She looked embarrassed but rather pleased with herself. By the time the birthday girl pulled up, the whole place looked really quite festive, and the anxious face Izzie had worn when she got out of the car dissolved into wide smiles of pleasure.
“What a treat!” she said admiring the pile of presents on her desk. Work had been suspended for an extra early coffee break and everyone was helping themselves to the buns Maddy had bought, supplemented by supplies of Lillian’s famous doughnuts, and slurping fresh coffee courtesy of the extra coffee machine Maddy had brought in from home especially for the celebration.
“Oh, how sweet.” Izzie’s enthusiasm could only be admired as she opened Angie’s present, a dancing flower that played music as soon as anyone moved a muscle. Donna stepped forward with her offering, a wooden plaque in the shape of a big cosy mum, with the words “I only have one nerve left and you are on it.” Karen had put together a selection of risqué bits and pieces: a pink thong with gray lace, one of those back massagers that resemble male genitalia (if you squint your eyes), and a jar of Lick It Off Me chocolate spread. Izzie showed suitable éclat here too, and Maddy resolved that on her birthday, she’d ask for just cards.
Crispin pulled up in his van at the last minute—perhaps it was the smell of doughnuts. They hadn’t seen much of him recently, because thankfully he was spending less and less time at the barn and was finally putting in those windows at home he’d stored for so long. He dashed upstairs, breathless, whispered something to Lillian, and handed Izzie a CD-shaped package. “If you hate it I’ll take it back,” he panted, making a lunge for the plate of food. But this time, when Izzie opened the paper and revealed a CD of Brahms concerti, her eyes filled up with genuine tears of appreciation. She gave him a big kiss on the cheek and he blushed suitably.
“Right,” said Maddy, getting into her car at the end of the day. “Work’s over now, Mrs. Stock. It’s POETS day, remember?”
“What’s that then?” demanded Donna, stubbing out her fag on the barn step.
Izzie, Maddy, and, surprisingly, Lillian too chorused, “Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“And anyway,” finished Maddy, “old women like you should take it easy.” She ducked the ball of wrapping paper which came her way. “See you at my house about eight thirty. And do not fail me.”
Colette had fulfilled her shopping obligations brilliantly, and at nine on the dot, Maddy lit the candles, whipped out chicken tikka masala, sag aloo, pilau rice, and piles of naan breads and pappadoms—the best the local take-away could provide—from the warming oven of the Aga and laid them out on her poshest wedding-list dinner plates in front of Izzie, who had already made serious inroads into the cans of Carlsberg she had put out on the table.
“Oh what a complete and utter thrill!” Izzie’s eyes widened with glee and disbelief at the sheer depravity of it. “It’s been eons since I dared venture to the Indian. Is this really all for us?” Three-quarters of an hour and a tub of chocolate chip ice cream later, and they both sat with their belts undone and a look of stupefied satisfaction on their faces.
“Now, to raise the tone somewhat, the champagne!” and Maddy waddled to the fridge to bring out the chilled bottle, stopping to collect two delicate fluted glasses on the way.
“This reminds me. I had a lovely text message from Jean Luc,” said Izzie, trying not to slur her words. “It was all in French, but I think he was wishing me well!”
“It could have been something sexy and suggestive.”
Izzie stuck her finger in the fluted glass to stop the bubbles overflowing from Maddy’s rather misdirected pouring. “I don’t think so. Then Janet popped round with a bottle of elderflower wine”—they both wrinkled their noses—“and a sweet bunch of cow parsley. She really is a darling.”
“Now for my present. Da daa!” And Maddy whipped out the package from the kitchen drawer where she had stuffed it earlier. Colette’s dash to London that day, despite nearly missing the train back, was worth the angst just to see the look of sheer pleasure on Izzie’s face as she unwrapped the cool white linen top and wide-legged trousers from their delicious Armani tissue paper.
“Oh, Maddy,” she breathed. And with no more ado, stripped down to her bra and knickers and put them on. “I’ve never owned anything Armani in my life. I never thought I was grown up enough.”
“Well, if you aren’t now, you never will be,” said Maddy, coming over to adjust the trousers as if she was dressing a window display mannequin. “And anyway you deserve it. I just thought it was boho enough that you might get away with it, without looking like you have strayed too far from the subliminal message, man,” and she put on her best seventies hippie voice. Grabbing the wine and the glasses, she virtually herded Izzie into the sitting room. “I’ll do the washing-up later.”
They both sat in a heap of contentment, side by side on the sofa. Maddy lit a cigarette, and, without asking, Izzie helped herself to one too. “Did Marcus give you anything then?”
“Oh some Jo Malone and the new Grisham he wanted to read, a stalwart at Christmas and birthdays, and he helped the children make me breakfast. I’ve always loved Coco Pops and apple juice.”
“Not together I hope?” and Izzie snorted so hard it took a good slap on her back to stop her coughing fit. There was a pause while she recovered and had another mouthful of champagne.
“D’ja know—this has been just the best birthday. I’ve loved it. Perhaps I’ll be forty again very soon.”
Maddy looked at her in her new white linen. Something wasn’t right. “D’ja know. There’s something missing. Follow me,” and grabbing the drink, led Izzie upstairs, only tripping once. “Better shut the curtains,” she said, putting the glasses down on the bedside table. “In case Hello! magazine has the paparazzi with their long lenses trained on the window.”
“Invite them in. Especially if they are good-looking.” Izzie slumped down on the bed. “I hope your intentions are honorable. I love you, but not quite that much.”
“Oh, entirely dishonorable,” said Maddy giggling and, opening her cupboard doors wide, started pulling things off the shelves and throwing them on the bed. Next she went into her bathroom, and pulled out makeup bags stuffed away through lack of recent use.
Maddy clapped her hands and, taking another swig of her drink, announced, “Let’s dress up.”
Over the next half hour they behaved like children, trying on shoes and hats, discarding silk palazzo pants, skimpy tops, and evening dresses and delving in the cupboards for more, wrapping two or three belts each round their waists. Izzie pranced about amid the growing debris on the floor in one of Maddy’s more beautiful Ghost dresses, champagne in hand and tottering on Jimmy Choos, swishing scarves like a catwalk model. “Oooh,” she cooed. “This is like an orgy.”
“It’s been too bloody long since we wore decent clothes. Now the slap.” She picked up handfuls of cosmetics. “Come and sit here. I’m your makeup artist for the night. Tonight, darling, you are going to be—”
“Dolly Parton?” suggested Izzie helpfully, wobbling precariously.
“Your wish is my command.” Maddy preceded to lay on, with as steady a hand as she could muster in the circumstances, thick layers of foundation, her best Chanel purple and green eye shadow, and YSL eyeliner, swirling blusher in big circles on Izzie’s cheeks, and her best Bobbi Brown lipstick in a huge, exaggerated cupid’s bow around Izzie’s mouth. Izzie stood up precariously to look at the finished result in the dressing table mirror.
“Oh, madam, you are so talented.” She giggled, her mirth rising. “You have made me look so beauutiful. I hardly know myself. Watch out, Donatella Versace.”
“Well, dear, it’s been a while, and I may have lost my touch a bit.”
“My turn,” said Izzie, swapping places, and after five minutes of artwork, punctuated by periods of painful laughter that made their stomachs ache, Maddy looked like a cross between Sophia Loren and Barbara Cartland.
“I think that look works for you. Perhaps not quite enough mascara.” She lunged toward Maddy, wand in hand. “You need to end up with only about three big fat eyelashes, so I’ll have to stick them together a bit more.” Maddy stayed as still as she could, for fear of losing an eye. Izzie took a step back to admire her handiwork, stumbling on a Lulu Guinness bag left on the floor. “Perfect. D’ja know”—she propped herself up on the bed and refilled their glasses from a fresh bottle—“now I’m forty I’ve made a decision. I can finally admit to all those things I’ve never had the courage to admit to.”
Maddy joined her on the bed and curled her feet up underneath her, nursing her glass in her lap. “But am I allowed to play this game, being so young and all?”
“Okay, you are honorary . . .” Izzie pronounced the “h.” “Honorary old lady for the night.”
“So examples, then?”
“Like . . .” She waved her hands, casting around for an example. “I know. I just hate thongs. Butt flossing. They feel like cheese wire.”
“Exactly.” Maddy nodded frantically. “Make you walk funny.”
“And”—Izzie thought for a moment—“I think Virginia Woolf was a dreadful writer.”
“Never read her, too intellectual, but Picasso’s crap.” Maddy lit a cigarette.
“Aaah awful awful.” Izzie howled with laughter. “Terrible! Pasco could do better. Picassssco!” She screeched again, “What about films?”
“Four weddings and a bar mitzvah?” Maddy held up her cigarette like Kristin Scott Thomas, and put on her clipped, brittle voice. “‘It’s you, Charlie, it’s always been you.’ Pathetic. Nothing more pitiful than unrequited love.”
“Oh! She was the best bit in it.” They both pondered a moment and Maddy filled their glasses again. “This champagne’s yummy. Oh, Bellinis. Can’t stand Bellinis. And I hate to say this”—she glanced at Izzie shamefaced—“but I’m not good with olives either.”
Izzie gasped and put her hand over her mouth, her eyes crinkling with humor. “But that first lunch. I practically cleaned out Ringford for them. You should have said.”
“Sorry.” She put her hand unsteadily on Izzie’s leg. “Didn’t want to hurt your feelings, and pesto. I hate pesto and sun-dried tomatoes. So bourgeois!”
“But what would Sue Templeton say? She thinks they are the yardstick of class.”
“She thinks lacy loo roll covers are the yardstick of class!” They both screamed with laughter again.
“Polenta. Overrated nonsense,” said Izzie, getting more dogmatic. “Whatever you do to it, it still tastes like wallpaper paste.” She wrinkled her nose. “And oysters—slimy and disgusting.”
“Taste like semen,” countered Maddy, and gasped at her own crudeness.
“Madeleine Hoare, you should be ashamed of yourself! And you a well-brought-up girl!” There was a pause.
“D’ja know, I’ve got a definite agenda for the next forty years.” Izzie took another sip.
“What’s that, then?” She’d never seen Izzie so drunk.
“I want”—Izzie looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought—“I want a big fuck-off car. And I want to swan around in it with Dolce & Gabbana shades and look drop-dead gorgeous.” Maddy took in Izzie’s makeup, now smudged into one multicolored smear from the tears of laughter.
“Oh, I think you are halfway there already.”
“And . . .” Izzie slurred. “And I want to snog Joseph Fiennes. And”—she was getting into her stride now—“I want to bonk in a hammock.”
“I want to do it in a lift.”
Izzie fervently nodded her approval. “Marcus and I did it in the bathroom at his parents’ house!”
“At night?”
“No, half ten in the morning. Very thrilling.” She paused and ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “Why don’t people snog once they’re married?”
“I don’t know. It’s one of those things you sort of give up at the altar. I love snogging.” She struggled to remember what it was like. “I love that moment when a man you fancy like hell bends his head toward you slowly and you just know he’s going to kiss you. No one snogs anymore, do they?”
Suddenly the mood changed and she glanced fleetingly at Maddy. “Oh, some people do.” She paused. “Some people really do.” Maddy was alerted by the change in her voice and watched the tears of grief start to pour down her face.
“Did you snog Jean Luc?” She hadn’t been going to ask that.
Izzie put her head in her hands and rocked slowly, slipping into that twilight between happy drunk and maudlin wrist-slitting self-pity. “Oh God.” She groaned. “Can you stop the bloody room from spinning?” Maddy felt a moment of panic. Please don’t throw up all over my precious bedspread.
Izzie raised her head, her eyes blurred and swiveling. “D’ja know the worst thing of all about hitting forty? I’ve just realized all those things I know I’m never going to do. When I was twenty I really thought I could do anything. It was all out there for the taking, and now here I am.” She took another swig of her drink. “I really thought by now I’d have conducted the Berlin Phil . . . or been in Vogue.”
“But you have been in Vogue!”
“I meant on the cover, stupid.”
Izzie leaned back against the pillows and, rubbing her eyes, spread her mascara even further down her stricken face. “It’s the things I haven’t done that I regret. There were loads of things I wanted to do but I was too shy, but now I feel too old.” She looked across at Maddy mournfully. “And what if I don’t have sex with someone else ever again? I mean, is this it?”
Maddy narrowed her eyes and looked back at her hard. Waiting.
Izzie held her gaze. “Oh God, Maddy. What am I going to do?” She turned on the bed, eyes desperate and beseeching. “Everything’s going wrong. Is it all my fault? Why can’t I make these things work? The minute one thing goes well—like the business—I go and fuck up my marriage. I love Marcus so much, and I just want it all to be back like the old days.” Maddy took her in her arms and let Izzie sob. The old days. This was not the time nor the place to bring up anything she had learned about Marcus.
“It’s okay. No harm done. Marcus doesn’t even have to know.” She rubbed her back, as Izzie wailed harder, shaking her head. “Come on, you old soak,” she said gently, and she eased Izzie off the bed, prizing the glass out of her hand and they both weaved their way to the spare room. Izzie grumpily complied with having her new Armani removed, despite her slurred request that she be allowed to sleep in it, and Maddy, stumbling slightly, helped her into the bed. Izzie was barely under the sheets, when she heaved herself out again, struggled into the bathroom, and wasted a good take-away and some very good champagne.
Bleary-eyed and shivering, she reappeared from the bathroom a few minutes later, and slipped into bed. Maddy wrapped the duvet around her, then, grabbing a tissue from the bathroom and squeezing on some baby lotion—the nearest thing to hand—she went back to wipe the worst of the makeup from Izzie’s face. By the time she’d made a pathetic but slight improvement, Izzie was fast asleep.