I toy with my fork, barely tasting anything. I’ve been relegated to the adult’s end of the table, squashed between Aunt Joan and Mum, who’s intent on my well-being in a way that was exhausting after one minute, and increasingly feels like torture as the meal goes on.
At the other end, Sophie holds court, glowing and resplendent. Henry dotes on her from her right, passing her the choicest cuts of meat, constantly topping up her glass, and looking generally every inch the rich prince charming.
No matter how much I try to catch her eye, Sophie doesn’t once look my way. Right now, she’s laughing at one of Henry’s jokes, her whole head thrown back, her throat exposed.
I clutch my fork tighter. Sophie has never found anything that funny in her life. She barely has a sense of humour.
She’s putting it on to spite me. I know it.
“Thanks, Mum.”
Mum lays a hand on mine and squeeze. “Just looking out for you, love. Now that you’re returned to us safely.”
From the fervour in her voice, I half expect her to cross herself, even though she isn’t religious, and has probably never stepped foot in a church in her life. Certainly, she’s never taken me to one in mine.
“It was only a hike, Mum. Very well-marked, relatively easy trail.” I can say things like that now I’ve done it, now that I’m a hiker. I decide not to mention any of the tears, or the weather, or my broken tent, or Ewan’s ankle, or Angus. I’m definitely not mentioning Angus. “I’m never in any danger.”
“She goes off on her own into the wilderness, and that’s what she says,” Mum says conspiratorially to Joan. “As if I haven’t been up every night worrying about her, waiting for her to call. But did she? No. Of course not.”
“The Scottish Highlands are hardly the wilderness. It’s literally one of the most famous walks in the country, Mum! I’m fine!”
“ButIdidn’t know that.”
Thankfully, the servers come to take our plates, breaking Mum’s concentration as they clear the main course – lamb tagine with couscous studded with raisins and almonds, served with tender stem broccoli and roasted leeks. All delicious. All perfectly cooked. Inside, I’m cheering Angus on with every course: the presentation, the taste, the atmosphere, the service. None of it can be faulted.
“She really didn’t invite Dad then.” My gaze falls back to Sophie as I sip my wine.
“You know your sister. Once her mind is made up on something, there’s no changing it.” Mum pats my hand again, and this time I squeeze it back. “You’ve got that in common.”
“But you wouldn’t have minded, would you? If he’d come.”
Mum sighs. “No. She’s his daughter too. I wouldn’t have begrudged him this, no matter how much I dislike the man.”
“I would have,” Joan says darkly.
But before she and Mum can enter into a competition to list the worst of my dad’s failures – a game I have been subjected to too many times at family functions – the dessert comes out: a wobbling confection of pannacotta scattered with raspberry coulis and summer berries. My mouth waters.
“Nowthatis a ride.”
For a moment, I think Joan is talking about the food, but then I catch sight of a tartan kilt as Angus leant over Sophie’s friend Stef to place a plate in front of her. He catches my look, and my cheeks heat.
Even now, his gaze has the power to set me alight.
Mum peers over to where Joan and I are looking. “Arelesbians allowed to ogle men? Isn’t there some lesbian rule against it?”
“Mum!”
“What?” she asks.
I want to sink into the table and disappear. “You can’t say things like that.”
“To my own sister? She’s not offended, are you, Joan?”
“No more than usual around you, Linda.” Joan sinks a spoon into her pannacotta. “Delicious.”
“See!”
“And my preferences might lie with women, but I can still appreciate a fine male physique. And that, right there, is top tier.” Joan is now waving her spoon at Angus, who is disappearing out of the garden again, and we watch his arse recede, pert in his tight kilt.
