Joe broke his father’s grip around his waist and stood, everyone’s eyes going with him.
‘Anyone would be proud of their kid for achieving something like this,’ he said, sending a not at all subtle look my way. ‘Isn’t that right, Mrs Taylor? If Sophie had writtenButterfliesor something like it, you’d be over the moon.’
The split second it took for my mother to paste on a smile told me all I needed to know.
‘We’re proud of all our children,’ she said. ‘But ifSophie were to write a novel, this wouldn’t be her sort of thing, I don’t think.’
‘I always knew you’d do something great,’ Gregory said, the dollar signs in his eyes almost visible. ‘You must’ve made so much fucking money.’
Joe forced his way through the guests to grab my hand. ‘Sophie, you’re right, we really should go and help …’
‘Sarah.’
‘Sarah,’ he finished. ‘Thanks for that, everyone, good chat.’
‘But I’ve got more questions!’ Carole wailed. ‘Have you ever been to Texas? Can you ride a horse? Is it really possible for a woman to have more than one orgasm during coitus?’
‘Poor Uncle Bryan,’ I said as Joe almost yanked my arm out its socket in his rush.
‘Never quote me on this but poor your Aunt Carole,’ Joe replied, leading me away and letting the door to the conservatory slam shut behind us.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Don’t deny it, you were enjoying that scene back there,’ Joe commented as we strolled into the thick of the fête, dozens more children high on fairy cakes and full sugar squash pinballing across our path. Almost nothing had changed since I was a little girl. Same stalls, same games, even mostly the same people. My mouth watered at the sight of whipped cream and fresh jam sandwiched into the middle of a Victoria sponge. Some things just couldn’t be improved on.
‘What scene?’ I replied innocently as we stepped around a gaggle of little kids, sitting in a circle in the middle of the green, swapping stickers. Who needed smartphones? Sticker superiority would always exist.
‘Your mother’s “literary salon”. Don’t pretend you weren’t.’
‘I wouldn’t exactly say enjoying it,’ I replied, ‘but you were the one who said it would be easy to play author. Spoke too soon, didn’t we?’
Joe kept his head down so I wouldn’t see his face but I did.
‘Possibly fractionally prematurely. And now you’re angry with me again.’
‘I’m frustrated with the situation,’ I corrected before wandering over to the nearest stall.
Joe stayed close behind, attached to me like one of the toddlers I saw leashed to their mothers, only able to toddle so far before they were yanked back onto the bums. The stall held all kinds of homemade treats, anything and everything that could be forced into a jar, from pickled beetroot to pickled blackberries, and a vast colourful array of homemade jams. Joe picked up a jar of damson jam and his eyes lit up like Christmas.
‘I haven’t had damson jam since I was a little kid,’ he said, pulling out his wallet and handing over a fifty, refusing change as he loaded up on jars of jam, much to the delight of the man behind the stall.
‘Big fan of damsons, are you?’ I asked when he pulled a fold-up tote bag out of his back pocket to carry his purchases. It was a strangely erotic move and I felt a low down flutter at the sight of it. This was bad. No one should be aroused by a reusable shopping bag, not ever.
Joe held one of the jars aloft like it was the Holy Grail, the others weighing down the bag on his shoulder. ‘Do you think it’ll still taste the same?’
‘Can’t see why it wouldn’t, they haven’t changed damsons as far as I know.’
He opened it, his huge hand covering the small lid and twisting it off with ease. Another ordinary move that made my thighs clench when it shouldn’t. Then he stuck two fingers into the jam and pulled them out, red and glistening, before sliding them into his mouth, eyes closed. I wasn’t sure if it was possible tospontaneously orgasm based on visual stimulation alone, again I was not a neuroscientist, but my field research suggested it might be.
‘It tastes exactly the same.’
Joe’s eyes opened and found mine straight away, wide and wondrous. I watched as he licked every trace of jam from his skin, unable to move. I couldn’t believe how badly I wanted to knock him down to the ground and take the same two fingers between my own lips to find out how good he might taste.
‘Want some?’ The tart smell of the dark fruit hit me like smelling salts.
‘No,’ I replied, curt and clipped. Anything more was too much of a risk.
He shook the jar from side to side, my head involuntarily moving with it. ‘Sure you don’t want a taste?’
