‘Roasted fig and orange cake with a fig-leaf ice cream,’ Beau was murmuring solicitously into each guest’s ear with an accompanying flourishing descent of each plate.
I heard Dean’s guffaw, as well as something about his eating enough figs that evening to make going to the lav an absolute cert in the morning, before I gave full attention to the delicious-looking pudding that Fabian and Kamran had produced between them. Food, particularly sweet, comforting pudding, had always been my answer to the black dog that had a tendency to descend on my head from time to time, and I immediately got stuck into the fabulous dessert. Yes, thank you, Beau, I’d love a glass of the pudding wine he was now hovering at my side with. He poured a large glass at which I sniffed appreciatively, like some knowledgeable wine connoisseur, before sipping and then knocking back in one.
‘Steady on, love,’ Shirl admonished. ‘You’ll be on your back if you carry on like that.’
Through an alcoholic haze and now feeling rather sick, I looked across at Dean, who was still monopolising the woman who had been brought to the celebratory dinner – and then abandoned – by George, the obnoxious one.
The blonde, I suddenly remembered, had been introduced as Farrah. ‘Charlie’s Angelson the telly, years back,’ I heard myself laughingly shout across the table. ‘Farrah Fawcett Majors, that’s who you were named after, I bet. Did you know? You could use your intestivagat… ingestivigatise…’
‘Investigative?’ Robyn smiled across at me but, I realised, there was an accompanying frown to the smile on her face.
‘That’sthe word,’ I said, hiccupping slightly. ‘Blimey, that’s a relief. Anyway, as I was saying…’ I paused to pour more wine. ‘…as I was saying, Farrah Fawcett…’ I downed the wine and pointed the empty glass towards the blonde, who was now looking terrified. ‘Gosh, just realised: faucet is American fortap. Why the Americans can’t just saytaplike we do is beyond me. Andfanny packas well: that’s another one.Bum bagis bad enough but, you know,fanny, for heaven’s sake. Who would have thought Farrah was actually FarrahTap-Majors?’ I started giggling then, found myself unable to stop. ‘Anyway, Farrah, you’ll be able to use those ingestiv… thosedetectiveskills… to work out where your date for the evening appears to have disappeared to…’ I hiccupped once more and, pointing a finger at Dean, added, ‘As well as work out just where my husband’s hand is right this minute…’
I paused, leaned back in some triumph on my chair at my witty handling of the situation, before the chair fell back with a crash, taking me and my decrepit trainers with it.
6
ROBYN
‘So, you’re not going to do anything about it then?’ One slice of toast and marmalade down, and a second slice in hand, Robyn headed for the front door of the cottage, licking at her fingers as she went. Monday morning and, as per usual, Mason Donoghue was insisting on a 7.30a.m. Start the Week meeting. His staff, she reckoned, would be a lot more enthusiastic if he came armed with croissants and good coffee instead of the usual packet of biscuits that were – and only if whoever’s turn it was to refill the tin had remembered – the only way to get through these sessions.
‘Robyn, I don’t know what you expect or want me to do.’ Fabian visibly sighed, stretching his long jean-clad legs out on the sofa, and reached for the TV control, switching toBBC Breakfast. ‘You’ve done nothing but go on about it ever since we left Leeds on Friday afternoon.’
‘I want you to find out who those men in the car were.’
‘I defend people, Robyn, I don’tinvestigatepeople. They were probably just being friendly. Northerners are much friendlier than Londoners. You’re always telling me that.’
‘Oh, come on, Fabes, they didn’t look overly friendly. And how did they know your name?’
‘They were smiling.’
‘A crocodile smiles.’
‘You’ve been reading too many crime novels.’ Fabian laughed, draining his mug of coffee. ‘Go on, you’ll be late and then Marvellous Mason will be on your case.’ Fabian, it seemed, was unable to talk about Mason, her headteacher, without the added alliterative handle.
‘What areyouup to?’ Robyn asked, wishing she could join him on the sofa.
‘I’m up at the site with Kamran, and then I’ve meetings with a couple of suppliers. We want to use only the very best local produce…’
‘Bit difficult, that, if you’re making pineapple pudding or… or coconut cake.’ Robyn threw a kiss in Fabian’s direction and, heavily armed with books, files and laptop, made her way down the garden path, loving the scents of the early-April morning. Whoever would have thought she could have felt so ridiculously happy having been forced to give up her career in the West End and ending up teaching in the area’s sink school? Mind you, if Fabian hadn’t followed her north, she didn’t suppose she would have been feeling so… settled. Yes, settled, that was the word. Robyn felt herself smiling and hoped there was no one around to see her.
But then she did have something to smile about: Sorrel was sorted, her mum was sorted – goodness, who on earth would have imagined that Lisa would have ended up with one of the Sattar brothers? And now that she was going to marry him – and yes, she was adamant she was – then maybe her mum could put in a word – several words – and the Sattars would back off from their plans to knock down St Mede’s? It was all looking good.
Apart from Jess.
She’d not seen Jess as inebriated as she’d been on Saturday since she was sixteen and drinking a cocktail of whiskey and cherry brandy at Jason Lambert’s seventeenth birthday party down in the village. Lisa hadn’t been well at the time, but luckily Jayden had been home for a few days and, together, she and Jayden had been sent to bring Jess home, peeling her off Jason’s garden gate and holding her head as she threw up at various strategic points along the way.
Jess wasn’t happy. Robyn knew her big sister well enough to know when she was feeling bad about herself, and she’d certainly gone overboard with the alcohol on Saturday night. Dean, Robyn supposed. Back with Jess and Lola for around a month or so, he was already up to his usual tricks with other women. The blonde, who’d been invited as George Sattar’s guest, had obviously given up on George, who’d never returned to the table, turning, instead, her attention to Jess’s husband. Oh, Dean was a good-looking man, there was no denying him that, with enough sexual magnetism in his confident steady patter and his stocky, gym-toned body to charm the birds from the trees. There’d even been a time, in Robyn’s teens, when she’d had a bit of a thing about Dean Butterworth herself. When Jess, just nineteen months her elder, and in utter thrall to Dean, had first brought him home for inspection, Robyn had known a first crush, writing in her diary about his dark eyes, his long dark curls, the bronzed gym-toned and tattooed pecs she’d found herself staring at as he’d slowly and deliberately shucked off his shirt in their back garden.
She’d never told Jess, of course, and, once she’d gone off to Manchester Met University, leaving Jessica behind in Beddingfield working at theFrozen factory and about to become pregnant with Lola, Robyn had never given the little tosser another thought. Apart from realising what a waste of space he was.
Robyn waved at their next-door neighbour, quickly got into her car, indicated, put the car into gear and set off for another few rounds with the often-unpredictable clientele of St Mede’s.
* * *
‘What the hell areyoudoing here?’ Robyn looked up in surprise as Petra Waters, St Mede’s deputy-head, appeared at her shoulder, batting her away with her eight-month-bump so she could get at the biscuit tin. ‘Blimey, that’s a lethal weapon you’ve got there. And should you be eating more? You look pretty full to me.’
‘I’m starving.’
