‘Oh my god, Lalla, that’s absolutely amazing!’ gushes Sophie. ‘How did you do it?’
‘Trial and error... it’s not quite as good as it seems, but marzipan and butter icing hide many flaws,’ I say with a self-deprecating shake of the head.
‘The glaze on the honey pot looks almost real,’ says Aisha, leaning in closely with an artist’s eye for detail. Even in November, Aisha is a vivid picture of health – flawless skin, dark glossy bob, sculpted cheekbones, and boundless energy levels. She dresses permanently in Lululemon, which shows off her impressively toned physique. She has three overly clever children, runs her own design business, and is married to a cardiologist. She’s also unfailingly nice to everyone, so we do our best not to hate her too much.
‘Trade secret,’ I reply, and put my arm around her shoulder in the way I’ve seen Olympic gold-medallists hug the losers.However, Aisha’s replica of Hogwarts’ Castle for her son’s sixth birthday still reigns supreme. I don’t think any of us had ever seen a lighted candelabra inside a cake before.
‘I love it,’ says Cait, staring longingly at the little pig in a striped shirt with a sniffle of self-pity. Cait is like Piglet but without the energy or enthusiasm. She’s short and thin, and her affection for Toast’s oversized peasant clothes doesn’t do her any favours at all. With her pale skin and long red hair, she looks like a struck match.
She was supposedly happily married until she revealed that her charming and witty husband, Owen, was a systematic abuser. He was arrested, a court case followed, and he was given a suspended sentence and restraining order, which keeps him away from her now. She’s left with her twin flame-haired girls, an untidy house, and almost permanent paralysing fear.
‘We all love Piglet,’ I say and smile at her. Cait tries to smile back, but her expression is more the look of someone about to tell you they’ve been diagnosed with an incurable disease, so the impact is limited. On a cheerful note, Cait does have a passion – a morbid true crime obsession that she pours into an earnest podcast that has two subscribers (one is her mother).
I don’t tell my dear friends that I had the cake made, bespoke, at great expense, from GC Couture in Mayfair. I asked them to make it look slightly homemade so that it was more believable. Apparently that’s not an unusual request. They even had it delivered in an unmarked van to avoid detection.
We sip Chablis, observe our children in a rare moment of blissful calm, and admire the beautifully landscaped garden designed by the charming Luca, although his efforts have been ruined by an assortment of slides and swings, as well as the new trampoline Stephen bought for Nathan’s birthday. We openly objectify the poor man, but it’s not our fault: he’s speaks in an Italian accent, and knows how to handle an axe. Meanwhile our husbands get increasingly angry at car parking infringements and bin collections.
Nathan is digging up tulip bulbs with Jethro. Cait’s twins are trampolining together and giggling hysterically. Aisha’s son iscompleting the sudoku from last Saturday’sTelegraphthat Stephen failed to finish. It’s a rare sunny mid-November day; even the trees seem elegantly poised.
‘Your garden’s still looking smart,’ says Aisha, staring out. ‘Ours is completely covered in leaves.’
‘Luca does most of it, but Stephen attacked the privet rather aggressively at the weekend,’ I say. ‘The pressure of the bank’s partner process is probably getting to him.’
‘I think he just likes a well-pruned bush,’ says Sophie, half-pissed, pointing at our denuded hedge. Everyone giggles. All except Cait, who’s still staring down at her phone, probably finding holes in some police investigation as armchair detectives are so adept at doing.
‘Anyway, I can’t mock, I’m meeting an old flame tonight, so I’ll have to get the razor out,’ says Sophie. She’s a part-time secondary school teacher, which explains her drinking of course, but also why someone with such a beautiful figure would dress in clothes that seem disappointed to be there.
‘Oh, and how is that going to help things?’ says Aisha, our icy moral compass. ‘You don’t throw oil on a fire, you cover it in a blanket.’
‘Oh, I don’t want a blanket. I want to remind him that you can’t takethisfor granted!’ Sophie thrusts out her chest and raises her wine glass. ‘But making him jealous would be a lot easier if men were a bit more effing impressive.’
‘Why don’t you ask him yourself, if it bothers you that much?’ says Aisha.
‘Ask him to marry me?’ says Sophie, astonished. ‘It’s below my dignity.’
‘Why does being married matter?’ says Aisha.
‘Because he married her,’ says Sophie, the drink allowing more honesty than usual. Her partner, Paolo, is also a teacher (head of geography, aged forty-seven, but not as unattractive as that makes him sound), and his first wife died, which I had nothing to do with (it was cancer). Sophie met Paolo when he was still grieving, and she became pregnant with Jethro soon after, but Sophie still feels second best to the dead wife.
‘You should try couples therapy,’ says Aisha.
‘I don’t want anyone fiddling with parts of me that I can’t fiddle with myself,’ Sophie says, arching her eyebrows.
‘I would’ve thought that’s exactly what you’re after,’ I say. Some of my jokes are successful and many are not. Sexual innuendo is an easy win in social situations. Less so in a job interview, as I once found out.
Everyone is laughing when Cait suddenly jumps up and gasps. A short panic attack, or maybe an itch. She cradles her phone as if she’s foreseeing doom.
‘What is it, Cait?’ says Aisha.
‘He was in my fucking house last night!’ she says.
Chapter4Owen
About eighteen months ago, Cait and I were sitting in the sunshine watching our children playing together in the sandpit in Highgate Wood, when I asked her, ‘What’ll happen to the girls if he ends up killing you?’
Cait looked quite surprised by my question, but I have a nose for such things and Cait’s habit of covering up even on the warmest of days meant she was hiding either an eczema outbreak or bruises. With a child’s pink spade in her hand, Cait explained quite matter-of-factly and completely tearlessly how Owen punched and kicked her, and, more recently, had started to strangle her.
I suggested various quick solutions using everyday household items (bleach, iron, even the kettle, a favourite of mine), but these were all rejected. I even offered to do it myself at one point and Cait laughed. As she was unwilling to do anything, I told her to take pictures, make notes, and record as much as she could, which she did with impressive thoroughness, and hid rolled up in her headboard until required by the courts.
