So far, so gut-twistingly ghastly. Joss was in the kitchen of Zannah’s flat, getting the coffee ready to take in to the others who were still sitting round the table. She’d volunteered to do this, needing an escape from the unending awfulness that sitting opposite Maureen Ashton had turned out to be. She’d hoped that Isis might be there to distract her a little, but Zannah had arranged an outing for her with Cal, ‘so that we can discuss everything we have to’.
She couldn’t imagine why she was surprised by how painful this lunch had been. When Zannah rang up to ask her to come to London, she’d known two things. The first was that she couldn’t get out of it. She’d made a quick trip down on the weekend after the bombings to check for herself that they were all right, but that had been a proper visit and this was almost like business. Joss hadn’t had much to do with the wedding preparations until now and what excuse could she possibly give her beloved daughter for leaving herself out of them? There was none. She was going to be involved in everything and that was that.
The second thing was that playing a full part would be almost unbearably difficult. The fact that for the next ten months she would have to be in contact with Gray’s wife was torment of the sort you found only in fairytales, where mermaids had to walk on knives and princesses were required to pass through fire and flames to prove their love. I have to do it, Joss told herself. It’s lucky that I’m getting better at suffering. Maybe I’m even getting used to it.
She piled the chocolates she had made into small cut-glass dishes. They were her contribution to the lunch party. The girls had a modern approach to entertaining. Emily was a good cook, but her style was what Joss privately called Advanced Student. Meals in the flat were of the moussaka/pasta with a terrific sauce/frittata with a gorgeous salad variety. She hadn’t thought that impressing Maureen was part of the plan, but it was clear from the menu today – smoked salmon, a very good lasagne, expensive wine and Charlotte’s home-made raspberry Pavlova, carried in a gigantic Tupperware container on her lap in the taxi that had brought her to the flat – that some sort of statement was being made. Would her hand-made chocolates let the side down or earn Zannah a few extra Brownie points? Joss sighed. She’d have to go back to the table soon, and take part in the conversation. So far they hadn’t touched on the matter of the venue, which was what they had come to discuss.
Joss looked out of the kitchen window as she waited for the water to boil. Over the past six weeks, she’d become almost used to the daily misery that fell over her like a thick, grey cloak the moment she got out of bed in the morning. She could feel its weight as she went through the mundane actions of her daily life. Every night, as she lay back against her pillows, she mentally laid it aside, and sometimes she thought that she could even see it: a muffling, foggy dark shadow that hung in the corner of the bedroom she shared with a husband in whom she couldn’t confide. At the beginning, in the days after her last meeting with Gray in the British Library, she’d had difficulty in falling asleep and the warmth of Bob’s body in the bed, snoring away unheedingly beside her, was something of a comfort. It was like having a familiar pet, she thought, and then she was consumed with guilt. Bob, her husband for so many years, the father of her children, who’d never done her any harm and who, she was sure, loved her in his own way: surely he should be more to her than just a teddy-bear of a man to cuddle in bed when she felt unhappy? He ought to be, she’d concluded, staring into the darkness, but he isn’t.
Gray has my heart now. My true love hath my heart and I have his. She loved the Elizabethan poets. Some of her favourite lines, lines to which she’d introduced Gray, came back to her. Since there’s no help/Come let us kiss and part. How matter-of-fact Michael Drayton managed to be about it. He didn’t say a word about the physical consequences of the parting, one of which was a longing so sharp that sometimes it felt to her like stomach-ache. The nights when Bob rolled towards her, indicating with unspoken but well-known signals that had grown up over years, that he wanted to make love, were few and far between now. For the most part, he came to bed so late that he was asleep before his head touched the pillow, but occasionally, she had to close her eyes and repeat the movements that had become like a dance she knew by heart. Sometimes she was able to float out of her body. She’d grown used to distancing herself from the entire process without Bob being aware of what was going on. Just occasionally, though, she surprised him with her passion and those were the nights when, usually after she’d had a glass or two of wine, she managed to conjure up such a powerful fantasy image of Gray that a tremulous orgasm gathered her up and rippled through her, leaving her shaken and ashamed at the same time. After what felt to her like earthquakes taking place in her body, she would go to the bathroom and sit on the edge of the bath, shaking. In the bedroom, Bob’s snores were like a counterpoint to her own restlessness.
She’d gone through it all. At first she’d felt sick and hadn’t been able to eat. Then she found it difficult to breathe. There was constant sleeplessness and occasionally, the sudden onset of tears. Even Bob, usually too involved in his own work to pick up on her moods, had noticed that something was wrong. He’d seemed slightly more aware – or wary – of her since the engagement lunch. At breakfast one day, he’d asked, ‘You okay, darling? You look tired.’
‘I’m fine,’ Joss had answered hastily, smiling as brightly as she could. ‘Just didn’t get a very good night’s sleep, that’s all.’
‘Why don’t you phone in and tell them you’re ill? They can manage in the library without you, can’t they?’
‘No, really, I’m okay.’ She resolved to apply a little more Touche Eclat under her eyes, and helped herself to another piece of toast. The library might be able to manage without her, but she’d have lost her reason if there hadn’t been work to run away to. Every morning, she couldn’t wait to get into her car and drive away from the house, which seemed to be the place where her unhappiness had taken up residence.
How would she have survived without her poetry? Writing anchored her to the physical world. Even in her desperate state, she saw things that made her want to reach for a pen. Lines and phrases came into her mind. She was so accustomed to putting the words on to the paper, then transferring them on to her silver laptop, that even the loss of Gray couldn’t stop her. Indeed, since they no longer communicated, her wildly fluctuating emotions, her desires, her sorrow, her jealousy and her anger went into the poems. She knew they were good, perhaps her best work, but she had no intention of publishing them. They were far too raw and personal and she was terrified of anyone seeing them. Except Gray. She longed to send him the whole lot at once. Part of her wanted him to know the damage he’d done. One of the things she missed most was Gray’s careful attention to what she wrote. One poem of hers had gone backwards and forwards between them by email for about a month. He found things to say about almost every word. ‘Why do you take such trouble with my work?’ she’d asked him one night. They often conversed on email after midnight. His reply was: Because if it’s so good. You can ignore what I say, you know. She’d emailed back: Would never do that. You’re usually right. His answering message arrived in her inbox at once: Naturally. Sharp of you to spot that.
Now, Mal, her editor was both kind and a fan of her work and he gave her wonderful feedback but it wasn’t the same. How could it be? Fleetingly, she wondered whether Gray, too, was pouring his heart out on to paper. She found herself looking at the contents pages of poetry magazines with a greater interest than usual.
Her mobile phone was ringing. It was in her handbag on one of the kitchen chairs, and she took it out and looked to see who was calling.
‘Mal? Hello … I’m at my daughter’s. It’s a lunch party. Why are you ringing on a Saturday? Is anything wrong?’
She listened to what he was saying and felt a little faint. ‘You’re pulling my leg, Mal. I didn’t even know you’d submitted it. Is it true?’
When the call was over, she put the phone back into her bag and took a deep breath. Her first poetry collection, The Shipwreck Café, which hadn’t even been published yet, was on the Madrigal Poetry Prize shortlist. The prize was two thousand pounds and a great deal of glory. She leaned against the sink and felt a stab of true happiness, followed swiftly by the need to speak to Gray, to tell him. He’d be so pleased … how wonderful it would have been to hear him telling her how clever she was, how well-deserved the prize would be if she won!
The kettle had boiled and Joss waited for a moment before pouring water into the cafetière.
‘God, Ma, I thought you were growing the beans yourself!’ Zannah said, as she went back to the others.
‘I’m so sorry. I was taking a call from Mal. That’s my editor,’ she explained to Maureen. ‘I’ve got some good news.’
‘What is it?’ Emily leaned forward.
‘I’m on the shortlist for an award. Have you heard of the Madrigal Prize?’
The girls knew about it. Maureen did not. Joss explained, and everyone clapped and cheered.
‘That’s fantastic, Ma!’ Emily said, and stood up to walk round the table and hug her mother. Zannah, who was sitting next to her, had already kissed her and flung her arms round her neck.
Joss felt a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment and tried to make light of it, even though she had tears in her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought Gwyneth Paltrow was silly for crying at the Oscars but I sort of know how she must have felt and I haven’t even won anything. My mascara will be all over my cheeks!’
‘You look fine, Ma. Let’s drink a toast to you in coffee,’ Zannah said.
Joss wiped her eyes carefully with a hankie. She’d taken a great deal of trouble with her make-up today. It was a matter of pride. She’d chosen her clothes with care too: her best linen skirt and a shirt in the kind of pink that gave her skin a glow that could just about pass as youth in a good light. Maureen was wearing a trouser suit, clearly expensive but the colour, a kind of putty-beige, did nothing for her blonde hair, in Joss’s opinion. Still, she thought, as she passed round the coffee cups, you can’t deny the beauty of her jewellery. She glanced at the triple string of pearls and imagined Gray fastening them round Maureen’s neck; imagined his breath on her face and felt quite ill. There was a movement in the region of her heart. How astonishing, she thought. My heart sank. It’s literally true. I felt it sinking.
‘Did you really make these chocolates, Joss?’ Maureen was smiling at her. ‘They’re quite scrumptious! Imagine being able to write poetry and make lovely chocolates. You are clever! You must send me the recipe. You’ve got my email address, haven’t you?’
Joss shook her head.
‘I’ll give it to you. We’re going to have to communicate about so many things over the next few months, aren’t we? I resisted computers for ages, but I’m a convert now. I do everything I can on the Internet. It’s been a boon in the hunt for venues too. But perhaps … ’ She paused. ‘Zannah, I don’t mean to dominate the proceedings, but perhaps before we go on to talk about venues we ought to sort out what each of us is doing. Towards the wedding,’ she explained, looking round the table.
‘You’re right, Maureen.’ Zannah took out her wedding notebook, and Joss wondered whether a love of stationery got passed down in the genes. She, too, adored pretty paper, fancy pens and notebooks. ‘I did mean to talk about that. Ma, could I ask you to do the stationery?’
‘I was just thinking about it as a matter of fact,’ Joss said. ‘And, yes, I’ll order the invitations. Will you leave me to work out the wording?’
‘With consultation, of course,’ Maureen put in. ‘What sort of invitations were you thinking of, Zannah?’
‘Engraved. Plain. Black on cream. Beautiful font. I’ll leave it to my mother. She’s good at things like that.’
‘I’m very relieved you agree about engraving,’ said Maureen. ‘Some modern brides go in for all sorts of things – pink, decorated with spangles and roses and goodness knows what. Silver wedding bells!’
Skull and crossbones, thought Joss. Hammer and sickle. For a fleeting second she allowed herself to think of Maureen’s reaction to those images on the invitations. Picked out in silver, of course. She suppressed a giggle. ‘Dad’s champing at the bit, waiting to be let loose on the music, Zannah. Is that okay? He’s been making a tape, I think, of possible pieces.’
‘Great. I trust him when it comes to music. He knows everything.’
Emily undertook to be in charge of the hen night. Zannah looked rather alarmed.
‘I’m not going on a drunken pub-crawl round the West End,’ she said.
‘Relax,’ said Emily. ‘I’ve got it all sorted. You’ll love it, I promise. I’m not saying a word about it though. It’s strictly secret.’
‘Surely you can tell me,’ Maureen said, trying for a jolly, all-girls-together tone. ‘Just to check that it’s suitable.’
‘It’s eminently suitable, Zannah will love it and I’m not saying a word. That’s it!’ Emily took another chocolate and popped it into her mouth.
‘I’m in charge of my dress and the bridesmaid’s dress,’ Zannah said. ‘Or dresses, if Gemma’s going to be a bridesmaid as well. And I’ll sort the decorations and the flowers.’
‘I suppose we ought to come back to the matter of the venue,’ Maureen said, taking a file out of her handbag. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of printing out a lot of stuff from the Internet. We can pass round what I’ve got and see what suits us. There really is no shortage of places. Some are nicer than others, naturally. Have a look.’
‘Maureen,’ said Zannah tentatively, and Joss could see that she was worried about what she was going to say. She recognized the look in her daughter’s eyes. It had been there every time she’d had to perform in public when she was a child. It was a sort of panicked excitement, which made her skin flush pink and her cheeks burn. That was happening now. Zannah held her hands in a certain way when she had to make any kind of declaration or announcement and there it was: palms not quite pressed together, fingertips touching, almost but not quite in a prayer position.
‘Yes, dear?’ said Maureen.
Zannah plunged on, ‘It’s just that … Well. Adrian and I have talked it over and we’ve actually already decided on a venue. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I hope very much you’ll agree with us that it’s a lovely idea.’
Maureen cocked her head to one side. ‘Adrian’s not said a word.’
‘Well, we only made our minds up a couple of days ago.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s Charlotte’s garden. You’ve seen it, of course. We think it’s absolutely perfect. A marquee on the terrace, with all the trees – you remember the trees down by the wall – the trees decorated too. And there’s a really lovely church almost next door. I was there just the other day. What do you think?’
Joss watched Maureen adjust her face before answering. She was taking her time. Finally, she sucked in air through her nose like someone about to dive into a pool filled with icy water and said, ‘I’m not at all sure I agree with this decision, Zannah. No offence to your beautiful garden, Charlotte, but from what I saw, I don’t think a marquee capable of holding the number of guests I had in mind would fit on to your rather narrow terrace.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps you arid Adrian didn’t take the numbers into account, Zannah.’
‘Well, that’s the other thing, Maureen. I don’t want all that many people at the wedding. I thought seventy-five at most.’
‘Seventy-five!’ To hear Maureen, you’d have thought the mere mention of this number was one of the most shocking things she’d ever heard. She appealed to Joss. ‘I despair!’ she said, trying for a lightness of tone that would indicate she was still in some sort of good humour, though it was quite clear that she was, in a phrase beloved of Em, ‘spitting cobs’ behind the façade of her rapidly disappearing smile. ‘Whatever do these young people think a big wedding is all about?’ She turned to Zannah again and adopted the tone of an indulgent teacher. ‘It’s not just about you and Adrian, you know. Such a wedding is a family occasion. A statement to the world. It’s an event to which you want to invite your colleagues, your friends, everyone. Graham has more than thirty colleagues at the hospital I’m sure he’d want to be there. To say nothing of your father’s colleagues, and your mother’s, and Emily’s too. And of course, mine. It’s a demonstration of who we all are. You agree with me, don’t you, Joss? You tell her.’
‘I’m sorry, Maureen,’ said Joss. ‘It’s not up to me. It’s Zannah’s wedding, and Adrian’s of course, and if they only want seventy-five people, then that’s what they should have.’
Surely Gray couldn’t want huge numbers of people at the wedding? But Joss wasn’t sure of her own views about big weddings, let alone his. Mostly, she thought the whole enterprise a gigantic waste of time, and could think of a hundred other things the money could more usefully be spent on, but Zannah’s single-mindedness and Isis’s infectious enthusiasm had almost succeeded in changing her mind. Why shouldn’t love be celebrated with a glorious, all-out, beautifully decorated party? Bob, surprisingly, was what he called ‘on side’ and what Em called ‘up for it’, which was a good thing, as their savings would be greatly reduced. She heard Maureen speak and turned to her. Joss could see that she was doing her best to keep her emotions under control, although she was clearly seething inwardly.
‘I do think you might have given me a hint about this a little earlier,’ she said. ‘I’ve already spoken about this wedding to so many people. What are they going to think?’
‘I’m sure they won’t mind.’ Zannah spoke more firmly than Joss had expected. Perhaps that’s the voice she uses at school, she thought, to keep the children in line. She felt like cheering. ‘It’s nearly a year before the wedding,’ Zannah continued, ‘so I’m sure you can’t have told that many people. I want a small, beautiful wedding and Charlotte’s kindly letting us use her garden. It’s just right – and, what’s more,’ she smiled at Maureen, trying to dissipate the woman’s anger, ‘it’ll be much cheaper than any hired public venue.’
‘You keep saying “I”, Zannah,’ Maureen said, her voice a little lower and calmer now. ‘ I want … I don’t want. It’s Adrian’s wedding too, you know.’
‘Yes, of course I know,’ said Zannah. ‘I do mean “our wedding” really. Adrian and I have talked about every single aspect of the day. I’m sorry I said “I”, Maureen. I didn’t mean that.’
Maureen accepted the apology with a small dip of her head. She pressed her advantage and went on, ‘I had no idea that financial considerations were uppermost in your minds. We’re quite happy to help with expenses, you know. Adrian’s my son and we’d be delighted to contribute. I’m sorry if I hadn’t made that quite clear. It’s a terrible burden for one family to carry on their own and I wouldn’t dream of you, Joss, and your husband, taking care of everything.’
‘I think,’ said Joss, suppressing an urge to throw her coffee across the table at the velvety front of Maureen’s beige jacket, ‘that Zannah was saying something else. Not about money at all. It’s about the sort of wedding they want. They don’t want our friends to be there, or yours, or … your husband’s. It’s kind of you to offer to contribute financially. I’m sure there’ll be ways in which you can still do that. However, I would like to make it clear that we, as the bride’s parents, are happy to pay for whatever we need to pay for.’
‘Well,’ said Maureen, gathering together her printed-out pages and pushing them into a soft, brown suede handbag, ‘there were other things we ought to have talked about, but I suppose they can wait till another time. For instance, you say the church is perfect but I’d rather thought St Margaret’s, Westminster, or Chelsea Old Church … Never mind. I’ll look into marquees and their hire on the Internet, and let you know what I find, Charlotte. There’s nothing more to be said, if you’ve set your heart on it, Zannah. Though I have to admit, I’ve not quite given up, you know. I’ll talk to Adrian. I just want to make sure you haven’t pressured him, my dear.’ She laughed without mirth, and pushed her chair back from the table. ‘I really ought to go now,’ she said. ‘Graham’s going to want supper when he comes back from the hospital, and we have covered most things, haven’t we?’
She stood up. ‘Thank you so much for a divine lunch, Zannah. And you, Emily. I believe you did the lion’s share of the cooking. Perhaps Adrian ought to be marrying you!’ She trilled out another laugh.
Emily said, ‘Oh, you’d hate that, Maureen. I’ve set my heart on no wedding at all. I’m going to fly to America and get married there … just me and my fiancé.’ She grinned at the look of horror that crossed Maureen’s face.
‘Oh, dear, well … maybe you’re right. I’ll just have to put up with Zannah!’ Again, there was the silvery cascade of sound to tell the world she didn’t really mean it.
Joss was so distressed by Maureen’s casual mention of cooking supper for Gray that all thoughts of the wedding and where it was going to be and how many people were going to attend vanished out of her head. She managed to say a reasonably civil goodbye to Maureen and while Zannah and Emily accompanied her to the door, she sat at the table and helped herself to another of her chocolates.
Charlotte, directly opposite, was gazing at her searchingly. ‘Is anything wrong, Joss darling? You looked so happy when you were telling us about the Madrigal Prize, but now you seem distraught.’
‘I’m very happy about being shortlisted. Really. I’d not expected anything like that would ever happen to me.’
‘That’s the shortlisting. What about … other matters? Are you unhappy about something else?’
‘No, no … really.’
‘I don’t know whether I believe you. You forget, I’ve known you all your life. You look … well, as though there’s some kind of shadow over you.’
‘I’ve got a lot on my mind. The wedding. Managing everything. You know how it is.’
Charlotte nodded, and Joss knew she wouldn’t pursue it. That was one of the best things about Charlotte. She made an effort to help. She wanted to understand, but if you sent out strong enough signals that said Keep off, then she wouldn’t insist. Joss longed to tell her about Gray. What a relief it would be to have this lump of misery, this horrible anguish, out in the open.
Zannah and Emily came back into the room and sat down at the table.
‘Fifteen-love to us,’ said Emily. ‘Terrific! What if Adrian takes her side?’
‘He won’t,’ said Zannah. ‘He wouldn’t dare. He knows my feelings.’
‘Little Mo might be able to persuade him.’ Emily started to giggle. ‘She has ways of making him obey her, I’m sure.’
‘So have I!’ said Zannah and, before long, she and Emily were helpless with laughter, almost lying across the table.
Emily reached for the wine bottle.
‘Who wants to drink Ma’s health? Congratulations, Ma dear. We’re very proud of you. I think we ought to have some kind of party, don’t you? Have you told Pa yet?’
‘No, and I must. May I use the phone in your bedroom, Zannah?’
‘Sure. I’ll start the dishes.’
Joss went into her daughter’s bedroom and lay on the bed. She held the handset against her shoulder and dialled. Bob would be pleased and proud and wouldn’t properly understand how marvellous it was, how satisfying it was to have her work recognized. The shortlist would be published in the newspapers. Gray would see it. He always read the paper carefully. Oh, Gray, she thought as she waited for Bob to answer the phone. I wish I could phone you and tell you how I’m feeling. The answering-machine picked up her call and Joss heard her own voice asking her to leave a message after the tone. She said, ‘Hello, Bob, it’s me. I’ve had bit of nice news. Give me a ring at Zannah’s and I’ll tell you about it. I’m in all evening. Or I’ll ring you. Bye.’
*
‘What on earth’s so urgent that it couldn’t be done over the phone, Mum?’
Adrian’s frown, in the dim shadows of this rather chichi little bar, made him look even more gorgeous than usual and it was all Maureen could do to stop herself reaching out to push his hair out of his eyes, as she used to do when he was a small boy. God, Zannah didn’t appreciate what a treasure she was getting! She said, ‘Honestly, Adrian. You can’t say you weren’t happy to get my call. Anyone would think you didn’t want to meet me for a little drink. I need to speak to you, that’s all. I’m in town – and it took some effort to convince myself that I was going to be safe, after the bombs and everything – it’s nicer to chat to you face to face. I just didn’t fancy trekking all the way to your flat. You can make a bit of an effort to see your aged mother, can’t you?’
‘You look lovely, Mum,’ Adrian smiled. ‘You don’t have to fish for compliments. It’s just that I’m meeting Zannah later. But it’s good to see you, of course it is. Everyone probably thinks you’re my girlfriend.’
‘Or that you’re my gigolo!’ She giggled. ‘Forgive me, darling. We’ve been having a wedding-planning lunch at Zannah’s flat. I expect she told you.’
Adrian nodded and Maureen realized she was hoping he’d say he knew nothing about the lunch. It would have made what she had to say next, that Zannah was doing all sorts of things without consulting him properly, more plausible. She went on, after another sip from her glass of white wine, ‘She told me that you’d decided to hold the reception in Mrs Parrish’s garden, and get married in basically the nearest available church, without looking into what other churches have to offer. Are you really in favour of that? Do you honestly want only seventy-five guests? What about everyone from the hospital and the bank? Zannah said she’d discussed it with you but I can’t imagine you’d agree to that without a fight.’
‘I don’t care, to tell you the truth. Not that bothered, if you must know, about the people at the bank. I mean, my friends’ll come, of course, but not everyone in the office. I bet Doc doesn’t want the day full of everyone he sees at the hospital either. No, I’m with Zannah on this. And I reckon the garden’ll be rather good. Not to mention more economical, right?’
Maureen sighed. ‘It’s your wedding as well, Adrian. Wouldn’t you like the reception to be held somewhere … well, somewhere a little grander?’
‘Zannah has strong views. She thinks a family venue means more, and quite honestly, Mum, it’s her day, really. Don’t tell her this, and I’m okay with a proper wedding, all the stops out, but it’s mainly for her sake. I’d be quite happy with a register office and a flight to the Maldives. And, by the way, that’s not where we’re going on honeymoon. I’m keeping that secret.’
Maureen frowned. ‘You aren’t giving me the kind of support I expected, Adrian. I’m disappointed.’
‘Darling Mummy,’ Adrian said, taking Maureen’s hand, and she relaxed a little at the affectionate use of a name she hadn’t heard much since Adrian had grown up. He said, ‘You know I’d never want to disappoint you, but I’m not upsetting Zannah. She’s been planning her wedding since she was about six. It’ll be terrific, you’ll see. I’m sure Charlotte will welcome your input.’
‘Hmm!’ said Maureen. ‘I don’t know about that, but she’s going to get it whether she does or not. I’m not going to be left out of everything. In fact, I’m going to offer to pay for the catering. I might use Veronica’s firm, which is marvellous, but pricy … perhaps I’ll look into some others first. What do you think of that?’
‘Sounds good to me. Listen, Mum, I have to go. Really. There’s still stuff to finish in the office. Don’t look so horrified! I know what you’re going to say – no one works on Saturday. Wish it were true, that’s all. We lost a lot of time over the bombings. But it’s good to see you. We’ll come down to Guildford for the weekend one day soon, I promise.’
‘Yes, I wish you would. I need to talk to Zannah about her dress. We did speak a little about the arrangements in general before the venue bombshell. The main thing is: we’ve got the division of labour sorted.’
‘You make it sound like a Soviet five-year plan. What division of labour?’
‘Poor innocent Adrian! You have no idea, darling.’ Maureen took out a notebook covered with scarlet silk embroidered with gold dragons and opened it on the table in front of her. ‘There is so much to do! Every single detail has to be ordered, checked up on, arranged, considered. It’d be a nightmare if you didn’t share the work. So, Joss is in charge of printing the invitations and Bob’s doing the music. Charlotte is the venue and the church – one of her friends is a proper churchgoer, apparently, which is a plus. I’m going to offer to do the catering, as I said. Emily’s in charge of the hen night and Zannah wants control of the dress and the bridesmaid’s dress for Isis … also the decorations and the flowers.’
‘Isis never stops talking about being a bridesmaid. It’s a bore, if I’m completely honest.’
‘She seems a nice little girl,’ said Maureen.
‘You don’t know her like I do. She can be a brat, believe me. No, she’s okay. A bit talkative for my liking, but she’ll be at school most of the time, right?’
Maureen wondered whether she ought to press Adrian on this. Could it be that he wasn’t all that keen on Isis? Well, who would know better than she did how awkward the relationship could be between a child and a step-parent? Gray’s troubles with Adrian started almost as soon as she married him. Perhaps men were genetically programmed to dislike other men’s children. ‘She likes you, doesn’t she?’
‘Oh, yes. A present here and a present there … it doesn’t take much to win a child’s heart.’
‘I can’t imagine anyone not loving you, sweetheart.’
‘But you’re my mother. You have to love me, don’t you?’
‘You make it easy for me. Give me a kiss before you go off to your boring old work. Though I shouldn’t stop you, I suppose, as you’re doing so well in this job. But one thing that did come out at lunch, while we were still doing small-talk over the smoked salmon, which I meant to tell you and nearly forgot is this: did you know that Mrs Parrish’s first husband used to work for your bank years ago? Not in London, of course, but somewhere up north. She was an accountant, it seems, and that’s how they met. Katchen was his name. Nigel Katchen. I wonder whether anyone still remembers him? It’s not that long ago. I think that’s quite a coincidence, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely. Small world too! Bye Mum. Must fly. Lovely to see you.’
Later, in the taxi on her way to Victoria, Maureen remembered the announcement Joss had made about that poetry prize. What was it called again? She’d forgotten. Graham would be interested, she was sure. He didn’t make a fuss about his poems, but she knew he enjoyed writing them and she’d always considered it a harmless pastime. If Joss won the £2000 she’d be able to afford to pamper herself a bit. She could be quite attractive if she took more trouble. Perhaps it would be a good idea if Graham had a little tête-à-tête with Adrian. Nowadays, even though they weren’t exactly bosom buddies, relations between the two of them were reasonably cordial. They could discuss things one to one, like, for example, the question of stepchildren. She’d speak to Graham tonight. She didn’t want her son to think that every bit of attention was focused on the bride. He mustn’t feel excluded, she told herself. As she paid the taxi-driver, the name of Joss’s poetry thing came back to her. The Madrigal Poetry Prize, she thought, and felt pleased with herself for remembering.