But look at him now! What, in a little boy, had been a worrying sign of sadness and separateness had transformed into a quite distinctive breed of coolness and self-reliance. Yes, Harry had done all right, despite everything. If Fran felt a sense of pride at being part of that survival and transformation, who could blame her? She’d been his surrogate mum, when he needed her. And though their relationship was no longer as close – which was natural and as it should be – there was still a special bond between the two of them, and she hoped there always would be.
She was jolted out of her reverie by Harry himself meeting her eye, smiling and raising his beer bottle to her in mock salute. Yes, at sixteen, Harry was no longer anyone’s child.
A sudden, very loud crash on the patio drew everyone’s attention.
Mo got to his feet, held up his hands and started apologising. Dom made his way over and righted the fallen heater, his mouth set in a forgiving smile. To be fair to Mo, the need for three huge copper heaters on an early summer’s evening was questionable, but that was Dom – ‘go big or go home’. Fran swallowed another mouthful of champagne and reminded herself to stop being so ungracious. Commotion over, and apologies flapped away, Narinder, Mo’s ‘date’ for the prom – small, bossy, resplendent in cerise – pulled him away from the tables of bottles and glasses and food, obviously not trusting him not to cause another accident. They joined the other kids down on the lawn, adding more colour, life and noise to the gathering.
Fran felt the music from the outdoor speakers enter her spine. She swayed to the beat, feeling the old urge to dance come pushing back up: a sure sign that she was relaxing, or getting gently oiled. She smiled. It was turning out to be a lovely occasion. A chance for them all to celebrate – the kids to blow off some steam at the end of exams; and the parents to take a moment to appreciate getting their offspring through high school intact.
As she breathed in the relaxed atmosphere and the general goodwill, her eyes sought out her daughter. Jess had, as always, put her own very personal spin on the proceedings. A short, dark-purple skater dress and a new pair of pristine white hi tops. She was jittery with excitement, already bopping around the garden – like mother, like daughter – her arm linked with Gabbie, her ‘date’ for the evening. Gabbie was rocking a ‘vintage’ – that is, charity-shop – confection in patterned brown and gold and a pair of sparkly Docs, which Fran knew had cost her more than a new prom dress would have done. Jess and Gabbie seemed young compared to Sal’s daughter, Tish. She looked stunning. She’d opted for a fitted floor-length, off-the-shoulder, pure-white dress that clung to her figure. Jess and Tish were only a few days apart, in terms of birthdays, and yet Tish already had an ownership of, and confidence in, her body that was rare for her age. She was aware of her power and happy to use it. This evening – stunning in her Greek-goddess dress – Tish was absorbing most of the attention from the boys and, somewhat more unsettlingly, some of the dads, but at least it took the heat off the other girls. For that, Fran was grateful. Sixteen was too young. If Jess stayed this side of adulthood for a little while longer, so much the better.
On the lawn the kids drifted, coalesced, photos were taken, then they floated apart and the pattern reconfigured again. Fran felt buzzy with the booze, and it was only 6 p.m. She turned away from the party and headed back into the house, intending to stick the kettle on for a brew.
Dom’s house was as lovely as his garden, remodelled after Adele’s departure and redecorated every eighteen months or so ever since. Dom was never satisfied with anything for very long. The end result was chic and uber-stylish, but the thought of all that deciding on colours and fabrics and furniture, and the pressure of living ‘your best life’ in a virtual show home, made Fran feel tired. What Dom was still trying to prove, she wasn’t altogether sure. She filled the kettle, put it on, then wandered further into the house. The noise of the celebrations followed her, muted by the soft furnishings.
‘Hello there. I was wondering where you’d got to.’
Martha was lying on one of the sofas in the snug, reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. She was twelve now, going through that gawky, awkward stage. Fran felt for her. Martha sat up and folded a corner of a page down to mark her place in the book.
‘Are you enjoying it?’
Martha gave a diffident shrug. Fran should have known better than to ask such a direct question. Martha studied the front cover of the paperback as if the picture would give her the right answer. ‘It’s okay. I’m not sure I understand what it’s going on about really.’
Fran sat down beside her. ‘Give it time. It’s one of those books that makes more sense when you’ve read it all.’
Martha pushed the book under one of the cushions, as if embarrassed to be caught reading.
Fran changed the topic. ‘Aren’t you going to come outside and see them all in their glad rags?’
Martha shrugged again, her collarbone moving beneath her pale skin. The vest she was wearing accentuated her thinness. Fran felt a maternal urge to make her a sandwich, but it wasn’t her place, not any more. Though perhaps – she reflected – she should mention Martha’s weight to Dom; another time, when he wasn’t in full party-host mode. Martha wriggled her feet along the couch, bringing her toes to rest against Fran’s hip.
Instinctively, Fran reached down, lifted them up and put them in her lap. ‘They’re cold.’
Martha smiled. ‘You always used to say, “Cold feet, warm heart”.’
Fran smiled, touched by Martha’s reference to their shared history. They sat in comfortable silence as the sounds from the party drifted through the house. Fran could understand why Martha might prefer a book and a room on her own to a garden full of beautiful people. The role of ‘embarrassing little sister’ was not an appealing one. And in many ways Martha was a young twelve-year-old. Physically she was still very much a child; emotionally too, Fran suspected. Her immaturity was unsurprising. Three years old was too young to lose your mum; four, too little to be caught between two warring factions; five, too soon to learn that people can let you down; eight, too young to barely see your mother, aside from high days and holidays. Where the divorce had toughened Harry, it had weakened Martha. She seemed to have lost a layer of protection, and that had made her vulnerable. Fran pulled the end of a throw over Martha’s toes and rubbed them. She heard the kettle click in the kitchen. ‘Do you fancy a cuppa?’
Martha shook her head, but when Fran stood up to go through to the kitchen, the girl followed her.
They talked in fits and starts about high school and how Martha’s riding was going. She obviously still loved visiting the stables. Fran listened patiently about a new hack that Martha and her instructor had discovered, in the valley, which led down to a stream that Sable, Martha’s regular ride, was nervous of crossing. Fran nodded, sipped her tea and half-listened. The draw of the laughter outside grew. Surreptitiously she glanced at the clock. The limo would be arriving soon and the youngsters would be off. She really wanted to take her tea outside and re-join the party. Deep down, a part of her resented having to sacrifice this special time with her own daughter for time with Dom’s. She loved Martha, but her pre-teen shyness made conversation hard work. Fran decided that she would make a move.