Sorrel rolled her eyes, took a gulp of her wine. ‘For God’s sake, Rachel does that practically every time a new boyfriend comes into her life.’
‘But she doesn’tactuallydo it, does she?’ persisted Simon obstinately. He gave her a look that signalled he was far from happy that she was disagreeing with him.
‘Look,’ she went on, ‘what’s the worst that could happen if Alastair follows his heart? You’ll all still be here to pick up the pieces if it goes belly up for him, won’t you?’
Too late she heard the mistake she’d made, that she had set herself apart from the group – notwe’llstill be here to pick up the pieces, butyou, as in the rest of them. How revealing was that, she thought? ‘Anything I can do to help, Frankie?’ she quickly asked, by way of distraction.
‘If you could put some napkins on the table, that would be a help,’ said Frankie, perhaps sensing she needed something to do, something that would stop her being so querulous. ‘They’re in the usual place in the drawer.’
Napkins in hand, Sorrel set about placing them on the table next to the discoloured bone-handled knives Frankie favoured. Sorrel had never seen the attraction in them; she preferred hygienic cutlery that could go in the dishwasher. Orla had favoured pretentiously large unwieldy pieces of cutlery, the type so heavily weighted in the handle they were forever falling off the plate. Sorrel believed you could tell a lot about a person from their cutlery, and the way in which it was held.
The task completed, she caught Simon looking at her with a frown on his face, his brows drawn, his eyes ever so slightly narrowed, his hand pressed beneath his chin. She knew what he was thinking, that she was being deliberately obtuse, refusing to accept that he was right about Alastair making a huge mistake. Sorrel was beyond caring what he thought. Perversely she was beginning to think that Valentina Zima’s presence in their lives would give them all a damned good shaking up. God knew it was time they were roused from their complacent little ruts and forced to live new and different lives.
For too long Orla had controlled things, and they, like sunflowers turning to the sun, had willingly allowed her to take charge. She had done it so effortlessly, relying on nothing more than the force of her character. Sorrel had both admired and loathed Orla for having that kind of power.
She had been their guiding light; Simon liked to say, the one who made fun things happen, especially for the children. Sorrel never doubted for a moment that everything Orla had done was part and parcel of giving a stellar performance, of claiming centre stage, the spotlight permanently trained on her.
Sometimes Sorrel thought she was the only one who saw things clearly. These were the facts as she saw them.
Fact 1. Orla had not made Alastair happy.
Fact 2. Alastair’s behaviour had not been that of a grief-stricken man mourning the loss of his wife.
Fact 3. They had all colluded in keeping the myth alive that their longstanding friendship was cast iron, that it was bomb-proofed against petty jealousy, rivalry and that nothing –nothing– would ever change it.
Fact 4. The day might well come when they would learn that the narrative by which they had lived their lives had been a lie, nothing but a conjuring trick.
The two facts yet to be established was which one of them was living the biggest lie?
And how did Orla really die?
Chapter Twelve
How’s it going in Shropshire? Have they noticed your teeth?
Rachel would have smiled at Jenna’s text had she not been feeling so out of sorts.
No they haven’t!She added an angry face at the end of her reply.
Told you it was a waste of money.
Not in the chuffin’ mood. Go away!
Don’t be like that. How was the party last night?
Gah!
Not having a good time with your future in-laws?
Oh, the greatest!
Want me to ring you?
Better not. There’s a shortage of privacy.
Tell me all when you’re home. Meanwhile, chin up and flash those pearly whites! XA row of smiley faces sporting big teeth then followed.
Locked inside the upstairs loo of No. 23 Calcott Close, Rachel slipped her mobile back into her pocket. Thank God for Jenna for lightening her mood, and thank God she and Paul would be leaving later that afternoon and heading back to London. Apart from sharing a bed with Paul, she’d barely spent any real time with him.
