* * *
Tyres crunched on the gravel. A slam of a car door. Phil’s best friend Evan and his wife Lucy had arrived.
‘Hello, Cate, you look beautiful. And Phil, good to see you, old man!’ Evan pumped Phil’s hand up and down with unnecessary vigour. He held out a bottle. ‘This do?’
‘Puligny-Montrachet, very nice,’ Phil said. It would have cost more than his old dad had earnt in a week.
‘Phil!’ Lucy planted a kiss on both his cheeks. She stepped back, a smile playing on her lips as though she was inspecting him. ‘Looking good!’
‘You, too.’ He flicked his eyes away from the pale cleavage splendidly displayed by the low neckline of her emerald-green, floral dress; the floaty sleeves so long, they grazed her knuckles. Over his shoulder, Cate was disappearing through the glass doors clutching a fashionably unstructured wildflower bouquet.
‘I would have sent the flowers ahead if I wasn’t so disorganised.’ Lucy gave a tinkling laugh.
‘Good drive down, Evan?’
Evan ran his hand through his floppy, blond hair. ‘Yah. Prunella didn’t conk out.’ He named all his cars after ex-girlfriends.
‘Drink?’ Phil asked. One of next-door’s girls – he never could remember which was which – was approaching with a tray of champagne flutes.
‘Thought you’d never ask… Bollinger, I presume! Bolly-jolly good.’
Phil felt a hand on his arm. Cate had reappeared minus the flowers, the scent of her freshly washed hair inches from his nose blending with the Chanel perfume she loved to wear. She gave him a smile. It was all he needed. What was wrong with him this evening? Evan was his friend. The person to whom he owed everything: his multimillion-pound, handmade furniture company, this dreamy old vicarage outside Sevenoaks, the Bentley in his double garage. Even Cate, he sometimes thought. Cate loved him, she’d grown up with nothing like he had but when he saw the smile on her face as she toyed with her emerald bracelet, he couldn’t help asking himself if she’d find him equally attractive if she was crunching over discarded drug paraphernalia in the stairwell of the council estate he’d once called home.
He took a perfectly chargrilled pepper, halloumi and red onion skewer from one of the girls.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. A couple from his golf club had arrived. He busied himself with introductions and drinks. The conversation would turn soon enough to the topic he dreaded.
‘So, you’re off to Venice withLuxe Life Swap! You must be so excited,’ one of the wives gushed. ‘We’re going to be glued to the show.’
Phil cast his eye around for Cate, but she was pointing out their new summer house to two women from her book group.
‘Yes,’ Phil said. ‘It’s a business thing really, good for brand awareness. Far more subtle than social media. You know I’ve always avoided getting into that.’
‘But staying in an Italian count’s palazzo is a teeny, tiny bit of a holiday,’ Lucy butted in. ‘Of course, Phil’s been to Venice before, haven’t you? Phil and my husband Evan went there on a school trip. They’ve been inseparable ever since. Isn’t that right, darling?’
Only Phil caught Evan’s momentary hesitation before he replied, ‘Yes, inseparable. Now, how’s the handicap, old boy? I hear you’ve been playing off eight.’
* * *
Cate plunged two glasses into the sink. The aroma of pine-scented bubbles mingled with charcoal smoke wafting in through the bi-fold doors. The girls next door had been primed to keep on top of the dirty glasses but Cate just wanted a moment alone to wipe off the fixed smile on her face when anyone mentioned Venice.
Lucy’s heels clicked across the poured concrete floor. Trust her to interrupt.
‘Cate! You shouldn’t be washing up!’
‘I know.’ Cate shrugged.
‘Put that down. You should be out circulating, enjoying yourself. You’re the hostess.’
‘And you’re a guest.’
Lucy nudged Cate aside and plunged her hands into the sink. Despite pushing up her sleeves, her ludicrously long cuffs still trailed in the suds.
‘Are you worried about Phil? He’s not himself, is he?’ Lucy kept her face turned towards the Moroccan-tiled splashback.
‘Phil?’ He had been quieter these last few weeks, distracted, accusing Cate of imagining things when she asked what the matter was. But she wasn’t going to share that with Evan’s wife. ‘He’s fine, probably just worried he’s got to go a whole fortnight without popping into his workshop or the new showroom. You know how hands-on he is.’
‘One has to let go, like sending the children off to school.’ Lucy swished the glasses under a running tap and upended them on the draining board.
