Izzie could hear Sue Templeton’s loud, unrelenting voice long before the door opened. Her big face fell when she saw who it was. “Oh, it’s you,” she brayed. “We were beginning to wonder if you were coming. At last. Is that the cake? Abigail will be thrilled.”
Of course it’s the bloody cake, you dopey tart, thought Izzie, but smiled artlessly and mouthed invented excuses for her lateness. Sue shepherded her through the oppressively narrow hall.
“Bring it through,” she ordered. “Fortunately we haven’t started eating yet.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have waited for me. Sorry, I should have called to say I’d be late but—”
“We weren’t waiting for you,” Sue retorted, then thinking perhaps it was a bit too rude to speak that way even to Izzie, corrected herself, twinkling revoltingly. “I mean we’re waiting for our guest of honor—Mrs. Huntingford House!”
“Mrs. who? I don’t think I’ve met her. What an unusual name!”
“No, Isabel,” Sue explained as if to a tiresome child. “She’s the new woman who’s moved into Huntingford House. Come up from London, husband did something seriously important in the City, setting up a business locally now—to do with computers, I think,” she honked. “Isn’t it always?”
Rolling her eyes to indicate that the details of the business were not the important part—only the size of the bank balance—Sue flapped her hands irritably at the hesitant Izzie and ushered her through. “Her little boy is at Eagles with ours, and I thought she’d like to get to know us all better. So important to make sure you have plenty of friends when you move to a new place!”
Laudable sentiments, but Izzie suppressed a cynical smile. Sue’s hospitality had never been extended quite so freely to her. Izzie could tell by the sense of anticipation in the overheated kitchen that Mrs. Huntingford House had been identified as something of a social catch. This should be funny!
As they entered the room, Izzie could hear stifled laughter then a hurried “Ssshhhh!” She felt herself tense up even further. There were three women already seated at the table: Linda Meades and Clare Lorrimer were so inseparable that she always thought of them as one, a bit like Ant ’n’ Dec or Rosencrantz ’n’ Guildenstern. Meades ’n’ Lorrimer kind of blurred into a sea of silky camel knits, silky camel hair, and too-orange fake tan—all in a flawless eggshell finish. Even the lip gloss was coordinated.
Shoehorned in close to the wall opposite was Fiona Price. Looking frumpy and uncomfortable—her one concession to femininity a pair of gold earrings shaped like stirrups—perspiration beaded her bleached mustache in the airless kitchen, and her arms were clamped across her boobs. Fiona reminded Izzie of an overstuffed armchair, but any idea of coziness was deceptive. Affectionately known in Izzie’s house as “Frau Schadenfreude,” her speciality was spreading the word. She was more effective than Reuters, and, like CNN, seemed to function 24/7. What bothered Izzie the most, though, was the obvious delight she took in other people’s misfortune. When a friend’s husband had been banned for drunk driving, Fiona had virtually pinned Izzie to the wall outside Boots to impart the sordid details.
True to form, the women all pretended to have forgotten her name, greeting her with vague but perfunctory smiles, so she had to go through the indignity of introducing herself again. From then on they ignored her, talking instead about the sweeping changes “Mrs. HH” had made to the house since she’d arrived. Each had some juicy tid-bit of information to impart, gleaned from the carpenter, the postman, the man at the deli in Ringford, the florist, and more, testifying to the lavish lifestyle and effortless chic of their still-absent guest.
Stuck for something to say, Izzie eventually piped up. “There was a woman in a car just in front of me when I parked. Perhaps that’s her and she’s forgotten the house number.” Sue went to peer through the lavishly swagged curtains on the front window. “Yes, that is her! I’ll go and get her. Isabel, do put that cake down and could you pour a glass of wine . . . ?”
But a ring at the doorbell cut off Sue’s string of commands in midstream. She fussed with her hair, pulled lint off the inevitable knitwear, and, bracing herself, went to answer the door, her accent poshed up as she greeted her guest in rapturous tones. From her vantage point by the kitchen window, Izzie watched bemused as the others preened themselves for the arrival of this new marvel.
The woman who walked through the door, the very one she had seen in the BMW, was clearly a cut above her welcoming committee. Yes, indeedy—a different breed altogether. Very urban chic but kind of effortless. This woman was a class act, and it wasn’t just the hair; everything about her screamed entitlement, languor, money—such an irresistible blend. Izzie blinked rapidly as she strove to itemize her gorgeously understated ensemble. Her accessories were perfect, from Gucci shades pushed up on her head to the soft glint of Patek Philippe on her wrist, right down to powder-blue suede driving shoes revealing a hint of slender tanned feet, the beautiful baby on hip and exquisite little girl in tow. Even the slightly petulant expression and hint of a frown line between the carefully shaped brows fitted perfectly.
Izzie prided herself on being able to scent good breeding at a hundred yards—it was a gift that had come in handy through the years—and this was an absolutely prime example. The arrival’s bust was slightly larger than hers and she looked a few years younger, but apart from that they were about the same size. Izzie wondered fleetingly whether she could get friendly enough with this vision to find out which charity shop she honored with her castoffs.
“Oh, sorry, this is Isabel Stock. Isabel, Madeleine Hoare. Isabel’s made this lovely cake for Abigail’s party this afternoon. Isn’t it gorgeous? Every little girl’s dream. A perfect fairy princess. And another little Barbie to add to the collection!”
Izzie winced as the newcomer’s incredulous glance swept over the pink monstrosity. She had to say something, to dissociate herself both from the ghastly conceit of Barbie in a Victoria sponge cake and icing crinoline and from the other women there, before she was dismissed along with them. Over here! she felt like shouting. I’m not like them. Honest! I used to live in London too. I’m interesting really.
The Madeleine woman paused, tilted her head, and arched an eyebrow, scrutinizing the icing.
“Christ! It looks like a stag party for toddlers. Are those jelly tots or silicone implants?”
Izzie was startled, not sure how to react, and then from somewhere dug up a witticism. “Just the job for Abigail’s party,” she mused. Madeleine stifled a laugh, and at that moment there seemed to be a connection—almost imperceptible, but it was there. She shot her a quick glance, then looked more closely at the cake.
“How on earth did you get the wretched doll to stand up? Did you shove her in there with brute force?”
“Pretty much,” replied Izzie. “It was either that or cut off her legs.”
A shocked murmur ran round the room, but the newcomer’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Sounds a bit like Boxing Helena,” she challenged, now staring straight at Izzie, who came straight back with, “Not so much Boxing Helena—more Nigella meets Hannibal Lecter.”
Madeleine’s peal of laughter was all the more pleasing because of the uncomprehending stares of the others there. Izzie, who was still clutching the cake despite Sue’s orders, had a look of sheer delight on her face as the significance of what was happening began to sink in. Apart from the two of them, the room was in puzzled silence, but in Izzie’s head an angel chorus was crooning. For the first time in two years someone, apart from Marcus, of course, actually seemed to be on her wavelength.
“It’s Maddy by the way,” she said, as if for Izzie’s ears only.
“Mine’s Izzie, to rhyme with busy.”
Disconcertingly, the rather exquisite little girl holding onto her mother’s leg giggled shyly. Maddy whispered conspiratorially: “I’m sorry. Florence thought you said zizi—which is the French word for a willy . . . !”
Izzie snorted with mirth. “No way! I never knew that. I’ll book my Eurostar seat right away.”
Sue muscled in, puce with anger. “Well, I think it’s a marvelous cake,” she chirped, and whisked Maddy off to the beanfeast going on for the other children in the playroom.
Left undefended in the kitchen, Izzie felt her balloon of happiness slowly deflate as the others looked her up and down. Trying to hang on to that elusive feeling of confidence, she placed the cake firmly on the pristine Corian work surface, then turned round to confront them with a smile bravely pinned to her face.
“Wine, anyone?” she said perkily, and seizing the bottle in its frosty plastic insulated jacket (“icy condoms,” as Marcus had dubbed them), sauntered over to the table. She really didn’t fancy sitting next to the Frau at the far end, but Linda and Clare had formed an apparently impenetrable barrier on the far side, and the fug of Opium and Mitsouko that surrounded them was enough to repel all boarders, welcome or otherwise. Sitting at the head of the table seemed presumptuous so she sat down on the only other chair, opposite them, and surreptitiously moved it as far from Fiona as she could. Three sets of eyebrows shot up and meaningful looks were exchanged.
“Well, Izzie, you look as tired as I feel,” murmured Clare with phony solicitude. “Working hard at the moment? That lovely little house of yours must take some keeping up. Give me modern, anytime. So much easier!”
Linda joined in. “How’s that hunky husband of yours—Marcus? I haven’t seen him at the gym lately. Not that he needs it; he’s in such fa-a-antastic shape. I remember him saying while we were in the sauna one time that you had a joint membership. Don’t you ever go? So good for the posture—and the skin!”
Posture! Skin! Izzie’s shoulders had gradually hunched up round her ears, and she could feel her own face now going blotchy with rage. How dare these ignorant trollops try and get her going! Well today she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. Summoning up the remnants of her self-control, she strove to remember Marcus’s nicknames for them. Linda he referred to as the Lizard—all sunbaked and scaly with swiveling eyes and a tongue that kept flickering in and out. Clare was Daisy, and there was indeed something cowlike about her huge, over-made-up eyes and wobbly, pushed-up boobs. Yes, that definitely helped. Izzie sat up straight again and smiled broadly.
“Marcus is really great at the moment, thank you. How clever of you to remember his name. He often used to mention seeing you both at the gym. But you know Marcus, he always has such funny stories to tell when he’s been anywhere, and he makes me just curl up with laughter with the things he tells me. He hasn’t had time to go there lately and, you’re so right, he really is in wonderful shape. We get plenty of exercise together though! The house—well, what can I say? We’re so happy there. We always dreamed of living in a house with character and charm, and we’ve certainly got that. I suppose people always choose houses to suit the way they are. I’m sure yours suits you down to the ground, Clare.”
The simultaneous intakes of breath round the table told Izzie she’d hit the mark, and she sat back, pleasantly surprised at how easy it had been. She was saved from further interrogation by the return of Sue and Maddy, their hostess still braying and honking her way through her monologue.
When they reached the table, there was an unexpected pause in the running commentary, and Izzie looked up to see Sue glowering at her. Oh God! What had she done now? Sue stomped off to get another chair, which she shoved in next to Izzie, scraping the leg spitefully down her ankle, then banged another knife and fork down next to hers. Izzie looked in surprise at the cutlery (very scrolly, repro Georgian). How very remiss of Sue to forget to lay a place for Maddy!
Lunchtime chitchat was steered expertly by Sue toward subjects about which Izzie knew nothing—and cared less. Someone’s dog had come into season, someone’s car went like a bomb, someone else was going to Dubai for half term. Izzie kept schtum, but was encouraged by Maddy’s scant contribution to the conversation. As pudding, a plate of individual sticky strawberry tarts, was produced, Sue looked theatrically at her watch. “Oh, Izzie, look at the time. You’ll have to be going, won’t you?” she said pointedly, then turned conspiratorially to Maddy. “She has a bit farther to go to collect her children from school than we have, you see.”
Bewildered, Izzie put down her fork. “I will have to leave in a bit, but I’m all right just for a moment.” She laughed uncertainly.
“No, no. I won’t have you rushing. It’s just not fair on those poor little children of yours if you’re late. I won’t have it on my conscience! It was such a nice surprise that you decided to stay on for lunch, but we won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for the cake. Smashing.”
Now on the other side of the front door, Izzie shook her head in puzzlement. What on earth was going on there? It was only when she was parked near St. Boniface’s, a good twenty minutes before the children were due to come out, that it all fell into place. With a sickening lurch, Izzie realized she hadn’t been invited for lunch at all. She was supposed to drop the cake off and go—or have a glass of wine at the most. Sue had set the extra place only when it was clear she wasn’t budging—and the strawberry tarts! Of course, there had only been five.
Quite out of character, Izzie felt tears pricking in her eyes. She leaned her head on the steering wheel and howled.
Maddy awoke the following morning full of resolve. She had escaped Sue Templeton’s at a time she hoped wasn’t indecently early, only to be swamped by a wave of despair, not helped by the misery a couple of glasses of wine at lunchtime can precipitate. Those two hours had confirmed her greatest fear—that this was the way life would be from now on.
As she had pulled into the Eagles’s car park, she had vowed that the minute she got home she would hurry along the completion of the spare room and invite friends for every weekend stretching out as far as the eye could see. Turning off the engine, she had sat in the car and glanced back at the children asleep in their car seats, soft little mouths fallen open, oblivious to the world as only sleeping children can be. Sequestered there, warm in the early autumn sunshine, she had decided she would wait until Will’s teacher opened the school door to let out the flood of children before she got out to greet him. Just at that moment, she couldn’t have borne another second of banal chat and provincial platitudes with the other mothers.
Now, as soon as the radio burst into life at six thirty, she jumped out of bed and headed for the shower.
“What the hell’s got into you?” mumbled Simon, without even opening his eyes. As a rule, Maddy never stirred until she had downed a mugful of Earl Grey and she was sure Colette had dealt with the messy business of Coco Pops, toast, and baby mush with Will, Florence, and Pasco downstairs.
“I want to get a move on.” She stomped across the floor, wincing as she stepped on a nail sticking out of the floorboards. When would the goddamn carpets arrive?
“Well, wonders will never cease.” Simon yawned as he swung up onto the side of the bed, crumpled and tousled from sleep. He sat for a moment, summoning the energy to stand up. Maddy paused for a second and looked at her husband. With his broad shoulders and thick unruly fair hair, he was such a good-looking man, she thought, and God I must love him to have sacrificed everything.
She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “I’m just fed up of waiting on everyone—carpenters, carpet layers, the decorators—today I’m going to be dynamic and kick some butt.”
“I love it when you get arsey.” He chuckled, pulling her by the arm so she tumbled on top on him onto the bed. Her nose filled with the scent of his body. “You know you’re in your element really.” He kissed her nose. “This place will be beautiful when you’ve finished—you are so clever”—his mouth moved to her ear—“and so sexy,” he murmured softly, his breath sending delicious shivers right down to her toes.
“Oh, you English boys, you love to be dominated—must be all that boarding-school repression.” She could feel her body responding to him, despite her resolve. “Shall I play matron?”
“Oh please,” he groaned, “I could really go for you in one of those uniforms.”
“Right, Hoare Minor.” Maddy playfully rolled him over, as he started to pull at the drawstring on her pajamas. “A cold shower for you, my lad, and PE on the lawn—look sharp!” and slapped him on the backside.
“Spoilsport!” he called after her, laughing, as she headed for the bathroom.
She was like a woman possessed over the next twenty-four hours. The builder, who went under the implausible name of Crispin, positively reeled under the barrage of Maddy’s requests and deadlines. Suddenly the woman who had wafted around, waving her hand vaguely and talking dreamily about bleached-string-colored walls and obscure door handles made by companies from London he had never heard of, was behaving like a whip-cracking foreman. Maddy wasn’t completely green. She knew he’d been hoping to stretch out this job for a while, when she’d accepted his estimates without question. She was prepared to bet that, when he’d smelled the size of the budget involved, he hadn’t shied away from adding a zero or two. Now perhaps he’d begin to panic that the holiday he’d no doubt planned on the back of this little earner might not happen at all.
When she wasn’t barracking Crispin, Maddy stormed from room to room, with the phone glued to her ear.
“I don’t care what the warehouse says,” she shouted imperiously. “You said three weeks for the carpets and it’s been four. I want them by the end of the week or you can forget it.” She jabbed her finger on the disconnect button, confident that she’d see the carpet-layers’ van in the drive on Friday. At sixty-five quid a square meter, they weren’t going to risk losing this contract.
Sure enough, eight thirty Friday morning, two surly-looking blokes were carrying rolls of carpet upstairs and the rest of the morning was spent to the accompaniment of banging. Excited at the prospect of being able to step out of the bed the next morning to feel soft wool under her feet, she rang Simon at work.
It took a bit of time to get through, and Maddy was impatient in her excitement. Lillian, Simon’s secretary, seemed to be stalling her. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hoare, he’s rather tied up at the moment. Can he call you back?”
For a brief moment Maddy was disconcerted. Simon would usually interrupt anything to speak to her. She hung up and instantly forgot it as Pasco crawled across the hall toward her. She scooped him up into her arms and nuzzled her nose into his soft neck.
“I do think, Mr. Pasco Hoare, that we just might be getting somewhere with this blasted house. Now all we need to do is find someone half decent to invite here.”
“Let’s celebrate,” she said, when Simon finally called back, sometime after lunch. “The carpet’s gone down. How about supper at that new place in Ledfinch? I’ll book, though I can’t imagine they’ll be that busy. Do these peasants go out for meals?” He agreed but sounded a little distracted. She reckoned he must be dealing with some new client—not entirely confident she knew what exactly Simon would do in a discussion with someone in business. Funny, she mused, grabbing her keys to go off and collect Will from school, you can marry someone, share their bed, and have their children, yet you haven’t a clue what they do for ten hours a day.
“I thought I might go down to London on Monday and have lunch with Pru,” she ventured after they were seated at their table that evening and had ordered. Simon looked weary and not terribly interested in the menu or the surroundings of the Vinery in Ledfinch. To Maddy it was an amusing, and not completely unsuccessful, stab at mixing country pub with brasserie. Large leather sofas had replaced pub seating, and instead of beer mats the tables were minimalist, with a single flower in a tiny vase and a bowl of olives.
“It would be fun to see her,” she continued, “and I thought I might go back to the house. The new people have found a couple of things in the attic we’d forgotten. Some old stuff of Mémé’s.”
Obviously suspecting that somewhere between these two appointments, Maddy would find the lure of Selfridges irresistible, Simon smiled indulgently. “Go easy on the autumn collections, will you? Or at least stick to just one complete new outfit.”
“Oh, darling”—Maddy laughed—“you can’t honestly expect me to find anything half decent in Ringford, can you?”
“Whatever,” he replied and took her hand over the table. “You are happy here really, aren’t you, darling?” It was an odd question. Simon was usually so upbeat, never one for quiet introspection. He was a bull-by-the-horns man, equally capable of doing a hard day’s work and then being the life of the party until the wee hours whenever they went out in London, which had often been four or five times a week.
“Once we get the house shipshape I will be.” She tried to sound as jolly as possible in an attempt to shake off her slight feeling of unease. “How’s everything at work?”
“Oh fine, fine,” he replied and leaned back, yawning and stretching in his chair. “Couple of problems to iron out and it’ll be fine. These damned American venture capitalists are proving tricky, but we’ll get there. Jeff Dean is flying in from New York on Monday. I thought I’d go and collect him at Heathrow and try and soften him up before we get to the meeting at the office.”
They chatted on about the children and Maddy’s idea for making a cottage out of the ramshackle sheds in the garden, then she finally made him laugh with her description of the Templeton lunch. “The whole house was a shrine to a DFS furniture showroom. Sue is absolutely ghastly. There was this Izzie woman there who seemed like she might be quite fun. In fact, she’s refreshingly different from the appliqué brigade—a bit boho, sort of reminds me of a little elf. Anyway, she arrived with this extraordinary cake for Abigail’s birthday. Christ, the poor woman! I thought she was the nanny or something. Sue treated her like dirt.”
Later as they lay in bed, wrapped around each other and satiated in the aftermath of comfortable and familiar lovemaking, Maddy fell asleep to the still unfamiliar silence outside and the strong smell of new carpet.
Simon lay wide awake beside her.
Instead of Selfridges on Monday, Maddy spent an hour or so, after a giggly lunch, absorbing the familiar smell and bustle of Knightsbridge. A couple of hours with Pru Graves was always a tonic. As usual they’d gossiped about old school mates, and Pru updated her with tales from the world of PR. Maddy in turn had regaled her with anecdotes from Huntingford, the school playground, and the neighbors, playing up their awfulness.
“God, darling”—Pru’s heavily made-up eyes had been wide at her tales of hop-festooned kitchens and “country” pubs with play barns—“as your townie therapist, I insist you come down twice a month for treatment.”
Later, as Maddy ran her hands over the soft leather trousers on the racks in Joseph, she wasn’t convinced twice a month would be enough.
She returned to her car, bearing some stiff carrier bags and a satisfied smile. But as she pulled up outside their old house in Milborne Place, her euphoria turned again to panic. It was almost desperation by the time she was greeted with a big hug by the new owners, a Sunday newspaper editor and his petite wife. How Maddy had loved this house, with its beautifully regular façade, its high narrow hallway, floor-to-ceiling windows, and French doors to the garden. Simon and she had sat so often there on the terrace reading the papers and drinking coffee on summer Sunday mornings. Letting go of the house had not been a bereavement. It was more like relinquishing a lover, and having to watch him go off and marry someone else. Houses, thought Maddy, are fickle things.
Thankfully, yet somehow painfully, little had changed inside except for the furniture. She cast her eye covetously over the chrome kitchen units she had so carefully chosen and thought about the dinner parties they’d had. Friends drinking wine and laughing late into the night. Even the grandeur of Huntingford House seemed to diminish. This was her real home. Suddenly she felt tired and resentful. What the hell had she agreed to relinquish here? She had lived in London all her life, except for a year living with her adored grandmother Mémé in Paris to perfect her French. Slice her in half and she was city girl through and through.
After tea and conversation about a London she was beginning to know less and less about, she squeezed the box of Mémé’s dusty bits and pieces from the attic into the boot of the car, careful not to crush the carrier bags containing her new purchases, and headed out of town and onto the A40 toward Huntingford and what, to Maddy, felt like purdah.
As she opened the front door, the children, fresh from their baths, flew into her arms, and the next half hour was spent opening presents she had bought them. Florence pranced about, enchanted by her new pink tulle dress, and Will disappeared with a remote-controlled car he had coveted from the Harrods’s toy department. Okay, so it was a spoil, but Maddy felt that somehow she had to make up for the deprivation she felt sure the move had inflicted on them.
Later and with Simon not yet home, she poured herself a glass of wine, lit a cigarette, went through the post, and tried to seek inspiration for supper from the rather pathetic contents of the fridge. Then she noticed the light flashing on the answering machine.
“Maddy, it’s Sue. Sue Templeton.” Maddy raised an eyebrow. “Lovely to see you for lunch last week. We’re planning a little get-together for the mums from class, Thursday week. Do hope you can come. I’ll call back.” I bet you will, thought Maddy. Beep.
“Er Maddy, it’s Izzie. You know from the lunch last week. The one with the horrendous cake. I just wondered if you wanted to come over for lunch or something er . . . sometime. I’m sure you’re too busy but if you’re not . . .” Beep.
“Er Maddy, sorry, Izzie again. I forgot to leave my number. It’s 225571. Speak to you soon.”
Maddy took a slug of wine and smiled slowly. Yes, that just could be fun.