liked that – being given something to do. It showed Andrew I belonged.
I ran upstairs, shouted at the boys to get out of their bedrooms and then took the last flight of steps up to Phoebe’s attic room. The door was ajar, and I was about to push it open when I saw her through a crack in the frame, and I paused, angling my head to see in. She was lying on the bed on her stomach looking at her laptop, bare feet in the air, her arse tight and round, her T-shirt twisted to reveal a strip of white skin across her lower back.
I thought I had been quiet, but after a moment she said, ‘Coming,’ to let me know she knew I’d been spying, that she wasn’t to be underestimated.
I’d have to watch her.
Back in the kitchen, Alice had found a menu in a drawer and Andrew was writing down what people wanted. Dennis was nosing around and Andrew pushed his head away a couple of times, with an expression of distaste: not a dog-lover, then. (I made a fuss of him to show I was.) Alice seemed tense. She kept laughing and moving things: a pepper-pot, a newspaper. At one point she grabbed a child – Frank – and held on to him, one arm across his chest, almost for protection. Intriguing. I wondered if I was unnerving her, the adjustment of integrating her new flame with her old friends. Yes, possibly I was right. She kept giving me jobs to do: collecting cutlery, finding bottles of Beck’s, rummaging in the fridge for lime pickle and mango chutney and Hot Pepper Jelly (the woman had it all). I felt Andrew’s eyes on me the whole time.
‘How’s the oeuvre?’ he said.
It was the phrase Alice often used.
‘Coming along,’ I said.
‘Don’t be modest.’ Alice broke off from laying the table to wrap her arms around me – rather as she had hugged Frank earlier. I smelt beer on her breath. ‘He’s been writing in the London Library every day and it’s really coming together. His agent has a lot of interest already.’
I smiled. Tina said how clever I was. Alice released me and Andrew started talking about a committee meeting that was imminent – a special fund for ‘review and investigation’.
I looked out of the window. The teenage girls, Phoebe and Daisy, were sitting on garden chairs, just outside the kitchen door. The way Andrew’s daughter was sitting, her legs crossed, her elbow resting on her knee, suggested a French insouciance. She had an edgy, petulant air that reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who. The loose wool jumper she was wearing had fallen off her shoulder, revealing a turquoise bra strap and a pale triangle of skin – a particularly sexy combination.
The food arrived and we sat down at the table. I was next to Louis, who in my opinion was Alice’s least attractive child – a large boy with a face full of acne. He was causing her a lot of trouble. The headmaster from his school had been on the phone a couple of times. Bullying issues. I wasn’t going to waste my time with him so I talked across the table to Tina, asking after the wool shop. ‘Oh, you know,’ she said. ‘Whole new shipment of alpaca delivered on Friday!’ She glanced at Andrew. ‘Big important stuff!’
It upsets me when women do that – put themselves down. Men like Andrew encourage it. I remembered his patronising laugh when he brought up ‘her little business’ in the bookshop.
‘I’m so impressed by anyone who sets up on their own like that,’ I said. ‘I hope you’re proud of her, Andrew?’
‘Of course,’ he said.
He began to dominate the meal. His father had dementia and had recently been admitted to a residential home. His mother, who had suffered health problems of her own, was not coping. It was terribly unfair. There had been a lot of tragedy in her life. Alice took Andrew’s hand and kept hold of it. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know.’
‘Horrid,’ I agreed.
Daisy was dipping her finger in the little plastic pot of mint raita, then dabbing the speckled yoghurt on to her tongue.
I
I ran upstairs, shouted at the boys to get out of their bedrooms and then took the last flight of steps up to Phoebe’s attic room. The door was ajar, and I was about to push it open when I saw her through a crack in the frame, and I paused, angling my head to see in. She was lying on the bed on her stomach looking at her laptop, bare feet in the air, her arse tight and round, her T-shirt twisted to reveal a strip of white skin across her lower back.
I thought I had been quiet, but after a moment she said, ‘Coming,’ to let me know she knew I’d been spying, that she wasn’t to be underestimated.
I’d have to watch her.
Back in the kitchen, Alice had found a menu in a drawer and Andrew was writing down what people wanted. Dennis was nosing around and Andrew pushed his head away a couple of times, with an expression of distaste: not a dog-lover, then. (I made a fuss of him to show I was.) Alice seemed tense. She kept laughing and moving things: a pepper-pot, a newspaper. At one point she grabbed a child – Frank – and held on to him, one arm across his chest, almost for protection. Intriguing. I wondered if I was unnerving her, the adjustment of integrating her new flame with her old friends. Yes, possibly I was right. She kept giving me jobs to do: collecting cutlery, finding bottles of Beck’s, rummaging in the fridge for lime pickle and mango chutney and Hot Pepper Jelly (the woman had it all). I felt Andrew’s eyes on me the whole time.
‘How’s the oeuvre?’ he said.
It was the phrase Alice often used.
‘Coming along,’ I said.
‘Don’t be modest.’ Alice broke off from laying the table to wrap her arms around me – rather as she had hugged Frank earlier. I smelt beer on her breath. ‘He’s been writing in the London Library every day and it’s really coming together. His agent has a lot of interest already.’
I smiled. Tina said how clever I was. Alice released me and Andrew started talking about a committee meeting that was imminent – a special fund for ‘review and investigation’.
I looked out of the window. The teenage girls, Phoebe and Daisy, were sitting on garden chairs, just outside the kitchen door. The way Andrew’s daughter was sitting, her legs crossed, her elbow resting on her knee, suggested a French insouciance. She had an edgy, petulant air that reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who. The loose wool jumper she was wearing had fallen off her shoulder, revealing a turquoise bra strap and a pale triangle of skin – a particularly sexy combination.
The food arrived and we sat down at the table. I was next to Louis, who in my opinion was Alice’s least attractive child – a large boy with a face full of acne. He was causing her a lot of trouble. The headmaster from his school had been on the phone a couple of times. Bullying issues. I wasn’t going to waste my time with him so I talked across the table to Tina, asking after the wool shop. ‘Oh, you know,’ she said. ‘Whole new shipment of alpaca delivered on Friday!’ She glanced at Andrew. ‘Big important stuff!’
It upsets me when women do that – put themselves down. Men like Andrew encourage it. I remembered his patronising laugh when he brought up ‘her little business’ in the bookshop.
‘I’m so impressed by anyone who sets up on their own like that,’ I said. ‘I hope you’re proud of her, Andrew?’
‘Of course,’ he said.
He began to dominate the meal. His father had dementia and had recently been admitted to a residential home. His mother, who had suffered health problems of her own, was not coping. It was terribly unfair. There had been a lot of tragedy in her life. Alice took Andrew’s hand and kept hold of it. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know.’
‘Horrid,’ I agreed.
Daisy was dipping her finger in the little plastic pot of mint raita, then dabbing the speckled yoghurt on to her tongue.
I
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