I walk up the steps carefully, conscious of the fact that I’ve definitely had too much to drink now, holding on to the unpolished wooden rail as I go.
There are lots of rooms up here – it was built in an era when people had big families and big amounts of servants to look after them – and I start to go through them all, knocking politely before I look inside. Heaven forbid I scald my retinas with anything full frontal.
Some of the rooms are occupied, others are empty apart from rucksacks and suit carriers and abandoned make-up bags, still bearing the signs of people getting ready to party. The master suite I’m sharing with Gareth is filled with our clothes and belongings, scattered over the floor, the bed still unmade. I smile as I see the vase full of roses on the dresser – he’d presented them to me earlier in the day, a cascade of fragrant red and white. Gorgeous.
I stroll down the hallway until I reach the room that Poppy is staying in. She’s probably in here, on her own, reading something by Hemingway and underlining sections with red pen. Old habits die hard.
I knock, very gently, not wanting to wake her if she’s actually managed to fall asleep, despite the din roaring up from downstairs.
I push the door open, and light from the hallway spills into the darkened room.
It floods from the hallway, into the room, and right on to two bodies. One is female, pushed up against a wall, skirt hiked up to her waist, legs wrapped around a man’s body, fingers twined in his hair. The man is pounding away, grunting and moaning, his face clasped into the woman’s breasts by eager hands.
My first thought is to apologise and run away, but for some reason I squint my eyes to see better.
As soon as I do, the whole world falls away. The sounds of the party disappear, and the cheers of the guests fade into nothing, and the booze fizzing through my veins turns to ice.
Everything changes in that one moment. Everything turns upside down.
Because the man is Gareth, and the woman is Poppy.
Chapter 29
Andrea: B is for Beef Wellington – and also for Bastards
Darlings,
How did it go today? I do hope it wasn’t too windy, and I didn’t end up as grit in your eyes – how amusing would that be?
Do you like the card, by the way? It’s from that set that Joe bought me for Christmas, Rose, with the pretty pictures of British mammals on them. I especially like this hedgehog. He’s rather dashing, don’t you think? I shall call him Henry.
Anyway, not so much space on here, and I am about to turn in for the night, so I’ll keep it brief. Tonight, my sweets, I’d like you to eat a meal together. I’ve left you a lovely recipe for Beef Wellington, and my Tinkerbell, Lewis, will have left everything you need in the fridge. I opted for ready-made pastry; I don’t suspect either of you is in the mood for kneading right now.
No idea how it’ll turn out – Rose, you don’t seem to cook much any more, and Poppy, you barely seem to eat – but give it a go. Cook a splendid meal, and eat it in the Posh Room, and drink some bubbly, and talk.
What I’d like you to talk about, specifically, is Bastards. We’ve all known them, my loves, even me. I had a torrid affair with my former manager when I was barely out of my teens, only to discover that not only was he married, but he was screwing half his other clients as well! Utter Bastard – but he did get me some of my best roles, so I forgave him.
Some, though, are not as easy to forget. Some leave their mark on everyone around them. Some simply destroy everything good that crosses their path – and they’re often the ones with the most handsome face, the wittiest of conversation, the most charming of demeanours. They seem full of life and energy, but they’re secretly empty – and they try to fill themselves up by sucking the life out of the people around them. Usually women who’ve fallen under their spell.
I think we all know who I’m talking about here, and it’s time it came out into the open. So eat, drink, and be honest – and remember, girls, that Bastards only have power over us if we let them.
And while I’m at it, scoot forward to C now – it’s one line on the ever-efficient index that Lewis will have prepared, and I think it sits magnificently with your dinner.
Bon appetit!
Mum xxx
Chapter 30
Poppy
‘Looks like she stole this from a magazine,’ says Rose, brandishing the laminated recipe sheet and waving it around like a referee’s yellow card. ‘It’s Gordon Ramsay.’
‘Does that mean I’m allowed to swear in the kitchen?’ I say, wrestling with the bloody pastry in an attempt to wrap it around the beef. The pastry is winning.
I hate cooking. I always did. I never helped out at home when I was younger, and I was one of those students who survived on crumpets, coffee and fags for three years. These days, my shopping consists of what I can get from the deli counter. Usually I just emerge from Sainsbury’s with a bottle of gin and a packet of prawns.
I give up on making the pastry look at all presentable, and slam it into the fridge. It’s supposed to chill for half an hour, according to Gordon, but I’m not sure I can be arsed with waiting that long.
