‘Here.’ I remind myself that I should be thinking about Ed not Rich, then hand the flowers over. ‘A little thank you from us.’
‘You really shouldn’t have. This is your party.’
‘I couldn’t come empty-handed but it seemed pointless to bring more booze. I’m sorry about the colour – I know pink roses are more Izzy’s taste.’
‘These are my favourite as it goes so you can stop apologizing. Honestly, you haven’t changed. Do you remember that time when we were kids and you apologized to a paving stone that tripped you up?’ Rich cracks up.
‘I can’t believe you remember that.’ My shoulders start to loosen. ‘But that paving stone probably did deserve an apology – it was about to feel the full force of my fat arse.’
‘Moments like that you don’t forget,’ Rich shakes his head. ‘If you want a proper trip down memory lane, my mum’s coming. If you’re lucky, she’ll probably bring out pictures of the five of us in the bath together.’
‘I’m hoping Rob’ll pop along later. He’ll love that,’ I say with a dose of sarcasm. ‘I’m pleased your mum’s coming though. I was hoping to stop in and see her when she was last here but it didn’t work out.’
‘After Beef Wellington-gate, you mean.’ Rich winks. ‘Just as well you didn’t. I was supposed to set a timer on my phone but I got carried away writing. It was ruined. I was in the doghouse all afternoon. I don’t know who was more pissed off – Izzy, who’d been up since the crack of dawn making it, or Mum because she was starving. On the plus side, it did have them agreeing on something.’
‘You’re exaggerating,’ I laugh. Izzy and Jenny get on like a house on fire.
‘I promise you, I’m not. Oh and Bec? Stop putting yourself down. You didn’t have a fat arse back then and you certainly don’t have one now.’
I blush so furiously even my scalp is burning but, luckily, Izzy reappearing from downstairs saves me from having to reply.
7.31 p.m.
I’m loitering in the hall, drinking champagne when the doorbell goes again. I hear Rich’s mum’s – Jenny Waverly’s – distinctive tones through the door declaring she could murder a gin and tonic while someone else, presumably David, stamps his feet against the cold. Izzy’s patting her hair into place in the hallway mirror so I move to open the door and save her a job. She cuts in front and beats me to it.
‘Hello, darling.’ Jenny steps in and pats her on the back, while David nods a curt greeting and wanders down the hall looking for the bar.
‘I’ll have a gin and slimline,’ Jenny calls after him. ‘Isabel, the house looks gorgeous. You have been busy.’
‘It didn’t take long.’ Izzy ducks her head modestly. ‘Of course you remember my friend Bec?’
‘Remember her? I’d know her in the dark. She was getting under my feet for the best part of her formative years.’ Jenny beckons me into a warm embrace that quells the flicker of irritation I feel whenever Izzy tries to make out she knows the Waverlys better than I do.
‘Rebecca, darling, lovely to see you. I’m so thrilled about the engagement and I know your darling mummy would have been too.’
‘Thanks, Jenny.’ Normally I hate it when people reference what they think my mum would have thought about something. But with Jenny it’s different. I’m glad she’s here.
‘I mean every word.’ Jenny grips my upper arms. ‘And is your father coming tonight?’
‘The flights from Dubai are very expensive at this time of year. I did ask him but it wasn’t possible.’
Jenny’s mouth forms a moue of discontent as if she thinks my dad’s excuse – or residential status – doesn’t pass muster.
‘And tell me, Isabel, Matilda can’t be in bed already? I came early to see her.’
‘It’s past seven, Jenny. We didn’t want to disrupt her routine.’
‘If I crept in, I’m sure I wouldn’t disturb her.’
I can see Izzy smiling through gritted teeth.
‘Jenny, something about you is different,’ I chip in. ‘Have you had your hair cut?’
‘I have.’ Jenny pats the side of her silver chin-length bob. ‘I’m so glad someone noticed. That’s the problem with having sons.’
‘And did I hear you saying something about wanting a gin and tonic? What a good idea – why don’t we go downstairs and sort them out ourselves? I don’t know about you but I find every time I wait for a man to get me a drink, I practically die of thirst.’
Jenny laughs as if I’ve cracked the joke of the century and I flash Izzy a thumbs up behind her back. Perhaps tonight won’t be so nerve-wracking after all.
‘You two go on, I’ll be a minute.’ The doorbell rings again and Izzy waves us off. I follow Jenny, glancing up to see who’s at the door as I turn the corner. But Izzy hasn’t answered it. She’s too busy staring at the roses I brought, lying wrapped in paper on the ornate side table where Rich left them. I know she’s precise on colour schemes – you only have to look at her perfectly coordinated interiors to see that – but her next move shocks me so much I have to blink to make sure I’m not seeing things. And when I open my eyes, the white roses are still lying upended in the leather wastepaper basket, the bottoms of their green stems poking out. Izzy brushes her hands and goes to answer the door as though nothing’s happened.
Four
7.45 p.m.
I’m so confused by what I saw that by the time I step into the kitchen, I’m starting to wonder if I imagined it. It takes me a second to get my bearings. They’ve pushed the dining table against the wall under the skylight to serve as a makeshift bar. The breakfast bar, which Izzy’s usually militant about keeping clear, is covered in platters of food. I hang onto the stair railing and count to ten before I step down. There’ll be a logical explanation, I’m sure. I just need to ask Izzy.
Jenny’s already at the bar filling a glass that’s more gin than tonic but I know a drink’s not going to help my state of mind. I leave her to it and start to wander, trying to spot someone I recognize. Ed’s talking to a couple of guys from work and there’s a clutch of mums I remember from the times I’ve picked Tilly up from nursery. Looking around, I realize that I don’t actually know that many people here. That’s why I didn’t want a big party. But when I tried to tell Izzy that, she misunderstood and told me she’d help make up the numbers. Speak of the devil. She appears in the doorway, her dress shimmering under the lights. I know I need to speak to her. I’m screwing up my courage when I feel a hand on my arm.
‘Bec, are you okay?’
‘Jules! I’m so glad you made it. I wasn’t sure you’d come.’ I practically throw myself into her arms. Jules is the mag’s beauty editor and my closest friend at work. In a room full of strangers, she’s the person I want to see.
‘We almost didn’t by the time my husband had finally dragged himself back from football.’ Jules disentangles herself and gestures at the gangly guy in glasses next to her. ‘You remember Jonny.’