‘It’s going to be a nightmare from start to finish. It’ll be awful getting there, and awful getting back, and unbelievably awful while we’re there.’ Leila turned her back so that David could zip up her dress.
‘Now, now.’ He took hold of the zip pull and tugged. ‘There must be a bright side.’
‘Isn’t. Ouch!’
‘Sorry. Did I pinch you?’ He leaned down and kissed the injured patch of skin, and then raised the zip more carefully.
Leila stepped into her shoes. ‘No, David, there isn’t a bright side. It’s two hours’ drive each way, and I’d rather spend all day arranging church flowers than one minute in a marquee in Hilda’s garden with that insipid Alicia, all blooming in her maternity smock.’
‘You’re ranting, my lovely.’ David was crouched on the floor, peering under the wardrobe. ‘D’you think it’s going to be cold?’
‘Probably. It’s almost December. I wish we were going to spend the day with my family.’
David’s head was underneath the bed, now. ‘Oh, so do I! Let’s find the time to shoot down to Peckham after your parents get back.’
‘I might have to go by myself. Christmas isn’t what you’d call a slack time for you holy types.’
‘Um, have you seen my brown shoes?’
‘On the kitchen table. I polished them for you.’
‘What a woman!’ cried David, springing to his feet. ‘Did you find a present?’
‘Got them an electric carving knife. I thought they could cut each other’s heads off with it. And I got a gorgeous jewellery box for Freya, lined with burgundy velvet.’ She stood in the middle of the floor, uncomfortable in her high heels, scowling forlornly. ‘Do we have to go? Can’t you develop a migraine?’
He clutched at his head and staggered theatrically, and then laughed. ‘You look pretty spicy in that little red frock thing. Clingy, isn’t it?’
Ah well, thought Leila. If I can’t get out of going altogether, at least I can make sure we’re extremely late. She reached over one shoulder to undo her zip, and then she stepped out of the dress.
So they left late, and arrived later because of the traffic, and Monica met them at the door.
‘At last. What kept you?’ Fussily, she brushed imaginary crumbs off David’s jacket, and then peppered the air around them both with kisses. She had a long, well-scrubbed face and the same wilful light-brown hair as David. She’d clipped it up into a bun, but it was already escaping. ‘You look fabulous as always, Leila. How d’you do it? I wish I had your flair. Can’t stop! Bloody beef wellingtons haven’t thawed, cream’s gone off, chef ’s going bananas. Go on through and have a drink.’
She waved towards the back of the house, lifted a walkie-talkie to her mouth and began to snap orders into it.
Leaving their present among a pile of others on the hall table, David and Leila trudged reluctantly across the dining room and through French doors into the back garden. Hilda and Christopher’s house was in suburban Northampton, postwar, with quiet neighbours, a pink concrete driveway and a laurel hedge. Behind the house, a garden stretched away towards school playing fields.
Today, on the back lawn a white marquee fluttered in the breeze like a mediaeval pavilion. David and Leila could hear chatter and laughter from inside, while a group of smokers had set up a private club by the greenhouse. Ignored by a flock of parents, children squabbled on the grass. Monica had laid on a bouncy castle to keep them entertained. Under an awning a string quartet was playing quietly, but nobody seemed to be listening to them.
Hilda emerged from the marquee wearing a royal blue suit and a fixed smile.
‘Aren’t we lucky with the weather? A real Indian summer’s day,’ she gushed, brassy and anxious, steering Leila and David into the white cave. It smelled of mud and grass. A buffet was being laid out at one end by women in aprons. From a table in the centre, a three-tiered chocolate cake rose up like a piece of modern architecture. Garlands of sugar flowers twisted around each layer, and a large ceremonial knife lay ready.
A waitress shimmied up, carrying a tray loaded with champagne flutes, and Hilda waved distractedly at it. ‘What’ll you have? Alicia’s being so good, only orange juice.’
Leila snatched up a glass and mutinously downed half of it in one go.
Hilda saluted gaily to somebody in the throng and then switched off her smile. ‘David,’ she breathed, leaning closer to her son’s ear. ‘Your father—’ A sudden flash of welcome, a cheerful wave:‘—Hello, Monty! Lovely of you to be here . . . Look, he’s drinking already. I can’t stop him. For my sake, keep an eye . . . today of all days . . .’
Pretending not to listen, Leila watched her mother-in-law surreptitiously. She’s had her hair done, she thought, and felt an odd twinge of sympathy. It was streaked in flaxen layers, and the wispy, winsome fringe was carefully blow-dried to hide the creases of anxiety on her forehead. And she was wearing magenta lipstick. Poor Hilda; she tried so hard. Forty years of covering up.
A gentle, stooping couple in their eighties, old friends of the family, approached. Abruptly, Hilda became all pride and confidence: embracing them both, lying smoothly about how they hadn’t changed a bit.
‘David’s going to be making a speech,’ she told them, taking her son’s arm.
David froze, gaping, and Leila giggled maliciously.
‘Yes,’ stuttered. ‘Yes, absolutely.’
Hilda left them, insisting that she had to circulate (‘but please, David, do what you can, you’re the only one with any influence’). David watched as the cheerful blue linen merged into a little twist of distant cousins. ‘Blast.’ Taking out his handkerchief, he blew his nose. ‘You didn’t remind me about the speech.’
Leila knocked back the rest of her champagne. The bubbles chattered and jostled one another all the way down. ‘It’s not my job to prompt you in your filial duties,’ she retorted. ‘I’d blanked it out. I’ve been in denial about this whole event. I’m not even here.’
‘Damn,’ sniffed David, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘Got a bit of paper in your handbag?’
He hurried off to lock himself in the bathroom, leaving Leila to grab and knock back another glass. Across the floor she could see her father-in-law, angular in a striped blazer, being cornered by a woman in a green hat. Christopher glanced up, caught her watching him, and winked rakishly.
Shuddering, Leila picked up a handful of deep-fried mushrooms and made for the open air. A willowy blonde in a cloche hat and a flowery dress was floating around Hilda’s herb garden, humming under her breath. She had an art deco haircut, short at the back and sweeping around her jawline.
‘Yo, Alicia.’ After two fast glasses on an empty stomach, Leila felt almost affectionate towards her sister-in-law. ‘Double congratulations.’
Alicia smiled a slow, glowing smile. Bet she’s been practising that in the mirror, thought Leila.
‘Hello, Leila.’ Serenely, Alicia picked a sprig of rosemary and held it to her face. ‘Michael’s just getting me some raspberry leaf tea . . . Come and smell this. It’s heavenly.’
Leila plumped herself down onto a rustic seat, under an arch of honeysuckle. She accepted a top-up from a passing waiter. ‘So. Well done. How have you been? You look as skinny as ever.’
Alicia laid a devoted hand upon her stomach. There was a small and ridiculously symmetrical bump, as though she had a mixing bowl stuffed up her skirt.
‘No, I’m vast ! I haven’t felt sick at all, you know. No nausea, no heartburn, no tiredness—none of the things you’re supposed to get. I’m so lucky.’
Leila felt an acid swell of bitterness somewhere under her ribs. ‘You are,’ she said. ‘Lucky.’
Alicia bit her lip. ‘I feel so awkward, you know, with you and David . . . I said to Michael, I wish we could keep it quiet until after the party. But I’m enormous! Everyone would have commented.’ She wandered a little further away, her skirt swaying.
Leila scanned the garden, searching for a friendly face. The lawn seemed to be populated entirely by sweating, energetic parents and toddlers in designer dungarees, but there was no sign of Freya or Charlie, David’s niece and nephew.
One tiny girl, keen to escape from a thug in a dragon costume, ran full tilt into Leila’s legs, holding onto them for support.
‘Whoops!’ Instinctively, Leila reached down to save the child from falling, and found herself looking into a pair of brown eyes. ‘Hello.’ She ruffled the silky-smooth hair. ‘Is that big old dragon bullying you?’
The child nodded dumbly, her dimpled hands warm and trusting, resting with familiarity on Leila’s knees as though she’d known her for years. She was wearing an old-fashioned blue velvet dress with smocking. She blinked, and rubbed her nose. Then the chubby legs gave way and she sat down
‘Pretty,’ she said, grabbing a clumsy handful of grass.
Glad of the company, Leila slid off the bench and sat beside her, cross-legged. They made a small and rather uneven coronet of honeysuckle flowers, and Leila was just resting it on the child’s hair when a brisk young redhead flurried up.
‘Sorry,’ she said coldly, snatching up the protesting little girl as though Leila were a convicted paedophile. ‘My daughter’s bothering you.’
‘No, she’s not,’ Leila protested.
But the woman did not even glance at her before bustling away. ‘I turn my back for five minutes . . .’
‘Sweet,’ chirruped Alicia, from the lavender.
Feeling profoundly irrelevant, Leila watched as the pair crossed the grass to join a gossiping gaggle, the child balanced casually as a handbag on her mother’s hip. The flowers had fallen off her head. She was trying to reach for them, but her mother was too busy networking to notice. The parents stood in a tight knot of complacency with their baby slings and pushchairs, wiping noses and making cosy conversation about whether or not to immunise. They were members of an exclusive club, and Leila wasn’t in it. No doubt they had smug, self-satisfied bumper stickers boasting about their ‘Baby on Board’. For a moment, she hated them all.
And there was Michael emerging from the house, wearing a cravat and carrying a cup and saucer as though they were about to explode. No. Not now. It was too much. Leila was on her feet, desperate to avoid having to congratulate her brother-in-law upon his impending fatherhood, when her eyes rested upon the slightly stooped figure of Nicky Pertwell, Monica’s husband. He was skulking with the smokers who huddled in guilty comradeship by the greenhouse. She hurried towards him, deftly avoiding the parents’ club and Michael with his Semtex teacup.
Laughing, Nicky watched her progress.
‘Leila. Thank God you’re here. I thought you were going to let me down.’ Nicky wasn’t exactly good-looking. Not even elegant, really. He had an appealing, lopsided smile and an unhealthy pallor, and he never stood up straight. Perhaps he couldn’t. Yet women—all women, even Hilda—loved him.
‘Am I glad to see you, Mr Toad.’ Leila let him kiss her genially on both cheeks. She wanted to cry. ‘I’ve never seen so many happy families on one lawn. I’m afraid it’s not helping my state of mind.’
Nicky stuck a cigarette between his teeth. He did look faintly amphibian, goggling through round, rimless glasses, and she had never met anyone so overtly camp in manner. Had he not been married to Monica, she would certainly have assumed him to be gay.
He flicked his lighter with a limp-wristed flourish and then snapped the brass lid shut. ‘Where’s David?’ His voice had never quite broken, and there was a mild, friendly accent that Leila assumed was a remnant of his Manchester roots.
‘He’s dashed off to scribble down all the good things he can think of to say about his parents.’
‘Did you give him a postage stamp to jot them on?’ Nicky snatched two glasses from a tray as it sailed past, and handed one to Leila. ‘Senior Management—I mean Monica—is in full tizz mode. Let’s take cover in the kitchen. Far too many in-laws out here.’
Hilda’s kitchen was large and chrome and surprisingly scruffy, with piles of junk mail and newspapers on every surface. It was cool, though, and Leila threw herself into a chair with a sigh. A bald chef was standing at the table, frenziedly stirring, while people in aprons ran around like ants.
Nicky dragged a handkerchief out of his pocket and began to mop his shining brow. His hairline was receding. ‘Whew. So humid. Must be global warming.’ He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair, and then held up his glass. ‘This stuff’s wasted on Hilda and Christopher. Pearls before swine. But Senior Management said I had to wheel out something decent.’ Nicky imported wine. His business and Monica’s had a symbiotic relationship.
‘I suppose a lot of work’s gone into all this?’ asked Leila.
Nicky shrugged. ‘Monica does these bashes all the time. It’s routine for her.’
‘She seemed quite uptight when I saw her.’
‘Jumpy as a flea. That’s because she’s got no bookings. It’s all dried up. Nobody can afford lavish parties nowadays. Or decent wine, for that matter.’
He picked up a bottle, squinted critically at the label, then filled two more glasses. ‘Try this.’
Leila was staring at him, concerned. ‘Nicky . . . are you in trouble?’
‘Not yet. I could always go into the church.’ Leila frowned, and he held up his hands. ‘Stop worrying, Leila. We’re not going down the gurgler. I think we’ve covered our bases. The day Monica has to sack her nanny, you can feel sorry for her.’
Leila let it go. ‘Where are the children? I’ve got a birthday present for Freya in the car.’
‘I expect Monica will summon them when she needs some matching accessories to go with her outfit.’
‘Meeow!’
Nicky looked faintly ashamed. ‘Nice girl, the latest nanny. Catalina. Chilean.’ Tipping his chair sideways, he stretched an arm towards the kitchen benchtop and picked up a newspaper, as though anxious to change the subject.
‘Gawd, look at this! Hilda gets The Times. Bet she doesn’t read it. Let’s have a squint at the crossword . . . er . . . got a pen? No, me neither. Oh, here’s one. Now, seven down: of avuncular weed. Has to be an anagram. Has to be.’ He wrote the letters in a circle in the corner of the page. ‘Any ideas? We heard you had a disappointment, Leila, with the baby.’
The remark came without any warning or change in inflection, and Leila was caught off guard. Nicky didn’t look up; he spared her that. She made an effort to sound breezy. ‘We did . . . yes, we did. Never mind.’ She coughed, trying to keep her voice level. ‘Perhaps I don’t need any accessories.’
‘We were sorry,’ he said. ‘Monica and I. We were both so sorry.’
Leila didn’t answer. His kindness had knocked the breeziness clean out of her.
‘Any hope?’ asked Nicky.
‘Some. Not much. It looks as though dear old Grandma’s going to get the child. But if she wanted her, why not say so before?’
‘Have you been given an explanation?’
‘Um.’ Leila felt the tears welling up. ‘There’s a total news blackout. We know almost nothing about the birth family. It seems it’s a hanging offence even to ask.’
‘Frustrating.’
Leila laughed shakily. ‘My mum’s threatening to march into social services and give ’em a piece of her mind. They’d better get their tin hats on!’
Nicky felt in a jacket pocket and dragged out his cigarettes. They were rather squashed. ‘Would your mother really do that?’
‘No, she wouldn’t.’ Leila reached into her handbag for a tissue. ‘She’s pretty feisty, Mum, but she wouldn’t actually make a scene like that. Anyway, she’s in Nigeria for another fortnight.’ She blew her nose as inconspicuously as she could.
Nicky was on the point of lighting up when he met the chef ’s stony glare. ‘Whoops!’ He placed a guilty hand across his mouth. ‘Faux pas. Sorry.’
As he was jamming the cigarettes back into his pocket, the kitchen door was kicked brutally open and two children barged in. The eldest was half-grown, awkward and gangly. She had frizzy auburn hair and wore hipster jeans and a gold tee-shirt. She rushed at Leila.
‘You got here!’ she yelled jubilantly, squeezing her arms around Leila’s neck. ‘We thought you’d had a terrible car crash and your guts were spread all over the motorway.’
‘Sorry, guys. Awful traffic.’ Leila hugged the girl, swiftly wiping her eyes with her fingertips. ‘Happy birthday for last week, Freya. How does it feel to be thirteen?’
‘Big disappointment. It’s no different from being twelve.’
Leila forced a chuckle. ‘I love this gold top. D’you think it would fit me?’
‘Might be a bit on the tight side,’ snorted Nicky.
‘Look,’ groaned Freya, baring her teeth at Leila. ‘Braces! Yeuch! Aren’t they disgusting?’
‘No, they’re hardly visible,’ declared Leila. ‘And when they come off you’ll have teeth like a film star.’
‘We were all looking out for you from the spare bedroom window,’ scolded Charlie testily, climbing onto Leila’s knee. He was eight, small for his age and pale, with sticking-up hair. ‘We waited for ages. Freya, Dad and me.’
‘Oh dear, did you? I feel really, really guilty.’
Charlie shot a mischievous glance at his father. ‘Mummy got extremely grumpy and said it was bloody typical of you and David to let the side down.’
Nicky spat a mouthful of wine back into his glass and wheezed with laughter, slapping his thigh.
‘Shut up, Charlie,’ said Freya. She elbowed her brother in the ribs.
‘Ow! Well, it’s true.’ Charlie’s eyes were wide with exaggerated innocence. ‘She said quite a lot more as well.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s David?’
‘Writing a speech,’ sobbed Nicky, still shaking.
‘He promised he’d play football next time he came,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m going to hold him to that.’
Sensible heels could be heard, clacking on the tiles. Monica strode into the kitchen, and Leila was jerked back into reality. The day was to be got through: the celebration of fertility, the jollity, the inescapable grief.
‘You two!’ Monica’s gaze swept across the scene. ‘Here you are. Poor Catalina’s looking for you—run along to the marquee, quick. What on earth are you all giggling about?’
A platoon of girls in black trooped in behind her and began with military precision to fan out across the kitchen, collecting trays. Monica watched them and then clapped her hands for quiet. ‘Right, are we ready to go? Good.’
The team clearly knew the procedure. They formed a line at the door and sallied forth, trays held high. Monica turned to follow them, pausing briefly in the doorway.
‘Dad’s drinking,’ she hissed with an agonised grimace. ‘Do something, Nicky!’
Round tables were laid out in the marquee, each seating eight. Monica, who was in charge of the seating plan, had deployed the immediate family so that one Edmunds sat at each table, acting as a sort of local warlord.
Searching the name cards, Leila found that she was to preside over the younger generation—cousins and friends of cousins in their late teens; and for that she was grateful to Monica. At least she hadn’t been stuck in the parents’ club. She passed an entertaining hour listening to the youngsters’ views on sex, war, and the latest James Bond film. Theirs was the only rowdy group, and the waiters enthusiastically tended their glasses.
Alicia was perched at the next table, listening politely to Christopher’s only surviving uncle. The old man blinked his mauve eyelids in slow motion, like a tortoise. Alicia held herself very straight, a doll with a tranquil smile, taking saintly sips of her orange juice. Just watching this self-sacrifice made Leila stick out her glass for a refill. It was her little rebellion. It didn’t matter what she ate or drank; her body wasn’t a vessel. By the time they came to the coffee, she felt more relaxed than she would have believed possible. In fact, it seemed as though she was hardly there at all. She leaned back in her chair and let her eyes wander, although she had a little difficulty in keeping them focused.
Across the marquee she could see David, with Freya and Charlie to each side. He seemed to be telling them a long, complicated story, with much waving of hands and wild laughter from all three. Charlie was actually falling off his chair in his hysteria. David caught Leila’s eye, waved, and patted his pocket to show he had the speech in hand.
And there was Hilda, making gracious little sorties around the tables, greeting old friends with feline tidiness: a lone figure in her brave blue. Christopher would not join her, although his wife glanced at him often with a tight, meaningful smile. She even jerked her head at him—a tiny movement, almost imperceptible—but he just beetled his heavy white brows, lounging in his striped blazer.
Twice Leila caught him watching her. The second time, she met his eye. I’m not scared of you, you old bastard. Fortified by wine she felt momentarily invincible, but the challenge backfired because Christopher appeared to be delighted. She yawned to show that she was bored, and looked away, but the sensation of his gaze on the back of her neck made her want to squirm.
Unfortunately, it was at this moment that Hilda paused to bestow a few minutes on her daughter-in-law.
‘Leila.’ She slid into an empty seat. ‘I gather consolations are in order.’ And perhaps she really meant to console.
Leila became dangerously still. Don’t you dare. ‘Consolations?’
‘No baby.’
‘Ah.’ Leila sat back in her chair, pulse racing. ‘No. No baby, Hilda.’
‘Well.’ The mother-in-law pursed her magenta mouth, sorrowfully kind. ‘I’m sure it’s all for the best.’
Fury was churning at the floodgates, boiling and bubbling. ‘Excuse me? Why is it all for the best?’
Hilda shook her head, and the wispy fringe fluttered. ‘You knew I had grave reservations about bringing a strange child into the family like that. Anything might have happened. Anything.’
Leila took a long breath. Then, quite deliberately, she opened the gates. The rage burst free in a glorious, foaming wave. ‘David is miserable, Hilda,’ she snapped, very loudly, and several people at the next table glanced around, eyebrows raised in amusement or surprise. ‘Is your son’s misery all for the best? He just wants to be a father.’
Hilda recoiled slightly. ‘But my dear Leila, can’t you see? This child would not have made him a father.’
‘I don’t think you want your son to be happy. Not unless he plays by your rules.’
A flush blossomed on Hilda’s cheeks. ‘Well, you know my views.’
‘Oh, I do.’ The wave was splendidly reckless now. It flattened anything in its path, annihilating their carefully built façade of cordiality. ‘I do! Actually, Hilda, I’ve had just about enough of hearing your views. For fifteen long years, I’ve put up with your narrow-minded, self-serving drivel.’
Even as the words left her, Leila knew she would regret them. There was muffled laughter from the teenagers around the table, and it seemed as though a hush had spread across much of the marquee.
Hilda leaped to her feet. ‘I will assume that’s the alcohol talking.’ She gripped the back of a chair, white-knuckled. ‘Perhaps you’d better have another cup of coffee. Make it a strong one, Leila, will you?’
Someone was tapping their glass with a spoon, calling for quiet. It was Monica, standing on a chair, looking like a rather buxom statue of Queen Victoria. Hilda stalked back to her own table.
‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ bellowed Monica when the hubbub had died to a murmur. She beamed around at the crowd. ‘It’s so nice to see you all here to celebrate with my parents and remember that very special day, forty years ago, when they tied the knot.’
Leila felt increasingly nauseous; perhaps it was the clichés. Or the guilt.
‘Anyway.’ Monica simpered affectionately in David’s direction. He’d made a paper napkin into a hat, and was pressing it onto Charlie’s head.
‘My brother David—who likes the sound of his own voice, being a clergyman!—has agreed to say a few words. After all, this is an extraordinary occasion, as we celebrate the long and successful union of two extraordinary people.’
There was a rumble of assent, and sporadic clapping. It seemed to come from far, far away. Leila felt a cold sweat gather ominously on her forehead. Pushing back her chair in a panic, she ducked under the open side of the tent and trotted across the lawn and into the house. She headed for the upstairs bathroom, away from inquisitive eyes. Tearing along the landing she made it with no time to spare, retching violently over the toilet.
Sounds of merriment trickled in through the open window. The crowd seemed to be laughing immoderately at David’s speech. There were bursts of hilarity, and a cascade of applause. Hunched miserably on Hilda’s bathroom floor, nausea had Leila by the throat. She’d forgotten how grim it felt. She vowed, fervently, never to drink alcohol again.
At long last, she heard a toast to Hilda and Christopher. She imagined them cutting the cake in a parody of their wedding day, smiling for the photographer.
She was still crouching by the basin when David came to look for her. She heard the familiar footsteps thumping up the stairs, two at a time, and his worried voice at the door. ‘Leila? You in there?’
‘Um . . .’ Shaking, she pulled herself upright and turned on the cold tap. ‘Just a minute.’ Water gushed into the basin. She bent, splashing her face and neck, and sloshed some of Hilda’s Listerine around her mouth.
‘You all right, Leila?’
Pressing her nose into a towel, she crossed to the door and opened it. David stood on the landing, his eyes bright with concern.
‘What’s happened? You look awful.’ He laid a hand on her forehead.
‘I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not in the club.’
He smiled gently. ‘Never crossed my mind.’
‘I’ve publicly insulted your mother and thrown up in her bathroom. I don’t think it’s possible to disgrace myself more comprehensively. I’m going to have to join the Foreign Legion.’
‘Please don’t do that.’ Stooping, he rested his forehead against hers. ‘It’s hard sometimes, isn’t it?’
‘It’s hard.’ She shut her eyes, and they stood quietly together, taking comfort in one another until they heard footsteps in the hall below.
‘Come on,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Let’s go home.’
To Leila’s embarrassment, Monica was waiting for them downstairs.
‘You might like to hang on to this,’ she said, handing Leila a bottle of mineral water. ‘Don’t worry, nobody noticed. I think it was probably those wretched beef wellingtons. I should sue Pertwell’s, if I were you. Let’s hope the whole mob doesn’t come down with food poisoning.’
Grateful for this generous fiction, Leila accepted the bottle.
Her sister-in-law nodded efficiently. Her hair had abandoned its clip. ‘I’ll see you off. David, why don’t you nip ahead and fetch the car from wherever it’s parked?’
As they made their way down the salmon-pink drive, Monica rubbed her palms together, as though wrestling with some dilemma.
‘Look . . . I’m sorry. I gather my mother was extremely rude and tactless.’
Leila dipped her head, screwing up her face in pained recollection. ‘I was pretty rude to her. And today, of all days. Unforgivable.’ She sighed. ‘I seem to be churning out a lot of apologies at the moment.’
‘No. What she said to you was quite ridiculous.’
‘Even Christopher managed to behave better than me,’ moaned Leila.
‘Ah!’ Monica looked smug. ‘I put him on the teetotallers’ table at the last minute. We were plying him with sparkling grape juice all the way through lunch.’
‘That’s a cunning plan.’
‘Nicky’s idea.’ Monica’s smile faded. ‘I know I’m a bit pompous at times, Leila. It isn’t easy, you know, being Hilda’s daughter. I love her dearly, and she has many qualities I admire, but she was never the most sympathetic of mothers.’
Leila was taken aback. ‘I suppose not.’
‘None of us could ever match up to her expectations. The boys went off to boarding school. They had some other influences. I didn’t.’
Fascinated, Leila watched her sister-in-law’s robust profile. All the no-nonsense arrogance, the overblown confidence, was gone.
Monica raised her shoulders. ‘Dad wasn’t home much, but when he was around their incompatibility was exhausting. They’re celebrating forty years of civilised dislike. They’ve actually made an art form of it.’ The two continued to stroll. ‘We’ve each dealt with it in our own fashion. I’ve tried to do the Right Thing. Married money, set up Pertwell Party Solutions, produced grandchildren.’ She put a hand to her mouth.
‘Oh, gosh. Sorry. That was crass.’
‘Don’t worry. Go on, Monica.’
‘Well, Michael’s become completely materialistic. Designer clothes, car and wife. It’s the only form of self-expression he allows himself, and it earns him parental approval.’
‘Ah. I get it!’ Leila laughed suddenly. ‘David’s gone the other way, hasn’t he? Black sheep, black cassock, black wife. He’s thumbing his nose in style.’
They had reached the end of the drive. Monica stood stolidly on the pavement, gazing at Leila with a faint, admiring smile. ‘Listen. Don’t say another word about that row,’ she advised. ‘And for heaven’s sake, don’t go apologising. Promise me? I’ll be cross if you apologise. She was well out of order.’
‘So . . . we pretend it never happened?’
Monica nodded firmly. ‘Absolutely. Don’t give it another thought. I predict the old girl will treat you with more respect in future.’
The car drew up beside them and David jumped out, leaving the engine running.
‘Thanks for a great day,’ he said, hurriedly kissing his sister. ‘Here’s a birthday present for Freya—if you could pass it on? Say our goodbyes for us.’
Before they pulled away, Monica leaned down to Leila’s open window.
‘Well done, Leila,’ she said, clutching Freya’s parcel. ‘Well done. And I truly hope the two of you will become parents soon. You’ll be so much better at it than I am.’