‘Won everything as a kid, apparently. I was watching some old clips on YouTube the other day. He was sensational on court.’
‘What happened?’
‘When?’
‘I mean, why did he give up?’
‘Oh, I see.’ Mum finished the carrots and moved to the sink to add water to the pan. ‘Some sort of skiing accident I believe. Broke his leg in several places. Once something like that’s happened to you, there’s no going back.’
‘S’pose.’
‘So he went into Frozen with the other brothers. He’s in charge of assets.’
‘Assets?’ I put a tentative hand towards my own backside. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Getting his hands on St Mede’s, I guess.’
‘I think he’d like to get his hands on Robyn.’
‘What?’ Mum started to laugh. ‘Don’t be daft. As far as I know, he’s got enough on his hands with Mina. You know, the supermodel? She’s from Leeds and?—’
‘Oh, spare me George Sattar’s love life,’ I snapped. ‘Right, mint sauce or onion sauce? Or both?’
‘Both, I think.’ Mum frowned. ‘You need to show Kamran just how fabulous a cook you are.’
‘Don’t say that or I’ll get nervous, Mum. It’s just a simple Easter Sunday roast.’
‘Darling, when you cook, it’s never simple. You’re good, you know you are.’
‘Where’s Sorrel?’ I asked, going to the window.
‘Clearing out stuff from drawers. And deciding what she’s taking with her. It’s quite possible she’ll never come back to actually live next door.’
‘Well, she won’t if you’re insisting on selling the place,’ I said mildly.
‘And then she said she was going out somewhere. She’s sixteen, Jess.’ Mum gave me a look. ‘I can’t monitor her all the time.Youwere already seeing Dean at her age, you know. Right, mint? There’s a fabulous patch just coming into its own up by the back fence. I wonder if I can transfer it to Kamran’s garden,’ she mused, pulling on her gilet and heading for the door.
* * *
Three hours later and I was ready for the shower. The stuffed and marinated leg of lamb was in the oven, the long loaf of chicken and black olive and truffle terrine with baby leeks was waiting simply to be sliced and decorated in the fridge as were the two puddings I’d been working on for the past couple of days. I sniffed both at my hair – shades of garlic and chilli – and at my armpits – pure working woman in the kitchen – before glancing at my phone. Lola should have been home now. I frowned, dithered, wondering if I should ring Dean. I’d dropped Lola off at Dean’s mother’s place the previous evening with Dean promising not only to take Lola to the cinema to see the newGhostbustersfilm, just released, but to have her back here – I glanced at my phone once more – twenty minutes ago. I really couldn’t afford the half-hour round trip to get Lola from my mother-in-law’s.
Sighing, I picked up my phone and called Dean but it went to voicemail. I left a terse message demanding the speedy return of my daughter. ‘Yes,mydaughter, Dean,’ I muttered in Arthur’s direction, pointing at myself just so the dog at least would be fully aware as to whom Lola belonged. He wagged his tail sympathetically, looking hopefully at the leash hanging up behind the door as I headed for the shower.
* * *
‘There, not bad. Not bad at all, Jess Butterworth. Or is it JessicaAllenagain? Shall I revert back to my maiden name? I’ve always preferred it to bloody Butterworth…’
Surveying myself in the bathroom mirror, running a hand through my mass of wet, dark curls, I critically surveyed my body: my ample breasts and behind, tempered with the slimmest of waists. I pulled in my stomach, as well as my cheekbones, and peered at the reflection of my back and bum in the mirror as I turned. Had I lost weight? Had all the nervous tension over kicking Dean out, leaving Hudson House and about to start this new venture at The White House, helped to shed a few pounds?
I reached into my side of the wardrobe (‘allminenow, Dean,’ I sang, trying to muster up pleasure that I really was, once again, by myself), scrolling down the rail and batting away the mundane to find the one skirt that was a marker of where I actually was in the fat stakes. Oh, all right, I wasn’t actually fat. Never had been really: just a size or two up on the slim women that were my mum and sisters.
The skirt was nothing but beautiful, a fitted pencil design in the finest cream gaberdine that I’d bought a couple of years previously, guiltily splashing the cash that Jayden had sent for my birthday. I’d worn it to some party Dean and I had been invited to and I knew I’d looked good, better than good, hoping it would turn Dean’s head away from the affair I was beginning to suspect him of having with some woman from the golf club. It hadn’t, and I’d carefully and methodically placed the skirt in its plastic protective bag back in the wardrobe, gone downstairs and eaten the cake – yes, all of it – I’d made for myself to actually celebrate the birthday Dean had forgotten about. Again.
Standing in my underwear (I really could do with some new stuff), I removed the skirt from its protective polythene, breathing in the very faint hint of perfume Robyn had sent from London for that particular birthday two years previously and which, failing to lure my husband back to my side, had gone the way of the skirt, thrown into a drawer, and it had not seen the light of day since. I slipped the skirt from its hanger, caressing the soft fabric, unzipping the back and sucking in everything possible before stepping into its depths.
I stared. This wasn’t my skirt! It couldn’t be! Or maybe this wasn’t actually my body! The skirt caressed my hip bones without a hint of tightness, the fabric smooth and sexy and just utterly, utterly gorgeous. I must have lost a couple of pounds. I made my way to the airing cupboard, scrabbling around until I found the scales I’d hidden in there years ago.
‘Bloody hell.’ I actually said the words out loud as I stared down at the dial, stepping off and back on again, lifting the scales and giving them a bit of a shake before repeating the whole performance. I was more than a stone lighter than what I’d thought I was. ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ I whispered again. ‘Am I dying of some awful disease? Not Mum’s porphyria?’
