lips.
Rosa made a face. ‘Buzz off, Phil, this is women’s talk. Anyway, you’re married.’
‘Never stopped him before,’ guffawed his companion. That must be Mike, Hetty worked out by a process of elimination. Phil muttered something the women could not catch. Mike found it wildly funny and spluttered into his tea.
‘You can take my word for it,’ Rosa finished loftily, so that the entire room could hear, ‘it gets smaller with age. Like their brains.’
There was a bus back, which she would be able to use regularly, but for the moment she would walk in the gathering dusk. Past a smattering of Italian, French and Indian restaurants – this was hardly a gastronomic wasteland. More bookshops, a children’s clothing shop, a bicycle store crammed with parts, its window obscured by tyres in neatly tied bunches like a Victorian child’s ringlets. An old-fashioned ironmonger’s with a tin bath and tools and faded signs for Eveready batteries. A video shop: she was tempted to enter, then made her second resolution of the week.
Rather than sit morosely in front of the telly night after night, as Markus had warned, it would be better to join the library. She had said it to her mother and Sally as a joke. But her mind did cry out to be filled, and not with more Delia recipes. Could she aspire to read a book a week? Where should she start? Fiction? Biography? It was ages since she had read anything remotely improving or noteworthy. What might somebody like Markus read, that she could chatter to him about without seeming a complete fool?
Hetty stood outside the biggest bookshop and examined the contents of the window. Shortly after, she resumed her walk up the hill towards the common, with a copy of Pinter’s plays and Bridget Jones’s Diary under her arm.
It felt like a step forward. Her spirits were high as she approached the block of flats.
A house-warming. When? Who?
Markus and Christian, obviously. The three BJs, and their men, if they would come. Mrs A. Her mother, and Sally and Sally’s Erik, though he didn’t attend family functions. Perhaps he could be persuaded for once. Hetty felt a fresh curiosity about him. Her son Peter,if invited, would plead too much on at uni. Rosa, and Clarissa and Robin. Larry and Davinia, though they would act superior all evening. Heavens, that was eighteen people already. Mr and Mrs McDonald, as a courtesy. Twenty.
How much would twenty people drink? A case of twelve bottles, maybe? Hetty calculated, then recalled Annabel and the empty vodka bottle, Christian and Markus polishing off a single bottle with her help in less than half an hour. Her mother, Sally and she had got through two and a half. Twenty bottles, then. Thirty?
Should she make a fruit punch or mulled wine? That was the done thing in the countryside, to welcome guests after a chilly walk. She glanced up at the lighted windows above her. A punch did not seem right. Thirty bottles it would have to be, and Oddbins would lend her the glasses.
‘And what do I serve to eat?’ she asked aloud. Mystery upon mystery. What would sophisticated young, and older, Londoners expect?
A footfall came on the path. It was Markus, muffled up against the cold, a preoccupied frown on his face. ‘Beg pardon?’ he said, fumbling with his keys. ‘Hello, Hetty.’
‘I was wondering,’ she mused. ‘I will have a house-warming. How about three weeks on Sunday? My pay cheque comes then. But food. Do I spend the whole day cooking?’
‘Mercy, no. If it were me, I’d have oodles of decent plonk and a few peanuts. Christian wouldn’t argue with the first, but he’d think nuts were distinctly infra dig .’
‘What would he prefer? I’d like to please.’
‘Dim sum, probably.’
‘ Dim sum ?’
‘Yes. Don’t be so terrified, Hetty. You’ll get them in Sainsbury’s.’
The replies came back, on the answerphone, or via notes pushed under the door.
‘ Annabel, Flo and Shelagh are delighted to accept your kind
Rosa made a face. ‘Buzz off, Phil, this is women’s talk. Anyway, you’re married.’
‘Never stopped him before,’ guffawed his companion. That must be Mike, Hetty worked out by a process of elimination. Phil muttered something the women could not catch. Mike found it wildly funny and spluttered into his tea.
‘You can take my word for it,’ Rosa finished loftily, so that the entire room could hear, ‘it gets smaller with age. Like their brains.’
There was a bus back, which she would be able to use regularly, but for the moment she would walk in the gathering dusk. Past a smattering of Italian, French and Indian restaurants – this was hardly a gastronomic wasteland. More bookshops, a children’s clothing shop, a bicycle store crammed with parts, its window obscured by tyres in neatly tied bunches like a Victorian child’s ringlets. An old-fashioned ironmonger’s with a tin bath and tools and faded signs for Eveready batteries. A video shop: she was tempted to enter, then made her second resolution of the week.
Rather than sit morosely in front of the telly night after night, as Markus had warned, it would be better to join the library. She had said it to her mother and Sally as a joke. But her mind did cry out to be filled, and not with more Delia recipes. Could she aspire to read a book a week? Where should she start? Fiction? Biography? It was ages since she had read anything remotely improving or noteworthy. What might somebody like Markus read, that she could chatter to him about without seeming a complete fool?
Hetty stood outside the biggest bookshop and examined the contents of the window. Shortly after, she resumed her walk up the hill towards the common, with a copy of Pinter’s plays and Bridget Jones’s Diary under her arm.
It felt like a step forward. Her spirits were high as she approached the block of flats.
A house-warming. When? Who?
Markus and Christian, obviously. The three BJs, and their men, if they would come. Mrs A. Her mother, and Sally and Sally’s Erik, though he didn’t attend family functions. Perhaps he could be persuaded for once. Hetty felt a fresh curiosity about him. Her son Peter,if invited, would plead too much on at uni. Rosa, and Clarissa and Robin. Larry and Davinia, though they would act superior all evening. Heavens, that was eighteen people already. Mr and Mrs McDonald, as a courtesy. Twenty.
How much would twenty people drink? A case of twelve bottles, maybe? Hetty calculated, then recalled Annabel and the empty vodka bottle, Christian and Markus polishing off a single bottle with her help in less than half an hour. Her mother, Sally and she had got through two and a half. Twenty bottles, then. Thirty?
Should she make a fruit punch or mulled wine? That was the done thing in the countryside, to welcome guests after a chilly walk. She glanced up at the lighted windows above her. A punch did not seem right. Thirty bottles it would have to be, and Oddbins would lend her the glasses.
‘And what do I serve to eat?’ she asked aloud. Mystery upon mystery. What would sophisticated young, and older, Londoners expect?
A footfall came on the path. It was Markus, muffled up against the cold, a preoccupied frown on his face. ‘Beg pardon?’ he said, fumbling with his keys. ‘Hello, Hetty.’
‘I was wondering,’ she mused. ‘I will have a house-warming. How about three weeks on Sunday? My pay cheque comes then. But food. Do I spend the whole day cooking?’
‘Mercy, no. If it were me, I’d have oodles of decent plonk and a few peanuts. Christian wouldn’t argue with the first, but he’d think nuts were distinctly infra dig .’
‘What would he prefer? I’d like to please.’
‘Dim sum, probably.’
‘ Dim sum ?’
‘Yes. Don’t be so terrified, Hetty. You’ll get them in Sainsbury’s.’
The replies came back, on the answerphone, or via notes pushed under the door.
‘ Annabel, Flo and Shelagh are delighted to accept your kind
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