Johnny had glowered at her, slung an arm around Callie’s shoulders and eased her through the crowds – how did the Starlings know all these people – to the gate and the track down to Sea Haven House.
They ambled down God Almighty Hill, Callie only slightly swaying. To her regret, Johnny had dropped his arm, which had tingled warmth on her skin and had retreated to the roadside of the pavement.
‘Here we are then. Home sweet home,’ Johnny said as he put the key in the lock of the front door. He paused and looked down at her again. ‘I hope– I hope it wasn’t all too much.’
She grinned up at him. ‘Of course it was too much. Too much food, far too much bubbly. Too much fun.’
‘I meant Sybil and Stella and the others.’
‘Well, Jessica does have an unusual style of dancing.’ She giggled. ‘I can’t believe she got me doing the Birdie Dance. And did my eyes deceive me or did your mother and Becky and Maria do a passable rendition of “Baby Love”?’
Johnny gave a rueful smile. ‘They were in a girl group once; they don’t let anyone forget it, but it’s not what I mean.’
Callie reached up and stilled his words by placing a finger on his lips. ‘I’d love to hear more about that sometime and I know that’s not what you meant. I’m teasing.’ His face was illuminated by the porch light they’d left on to welcome them back and it lit his sharp features. Puzzled why he seemed so tense, she added, ‘I think your family are wonderful. The party was too. I had a wonderful time.’ She stopped and laughed again. ‘Think the alcohol has clogged up my vocabulary. I haven’t drunk so much champagne in…’ she stopped and gasped theatrically. ‘Since forever.’ Collapsing against the door, she smiled up at him, only half blearily.
‘Better get you to bed.’ Johnny sounded stone cold sober but had matched her drink for drink throughout the night. He must have a higher tolerance.
‘Sounds promising,’ Callie purred in what she hoped was a seductive manner, but which came out as a series of hiccoughs. Aghast, she clapped both hands over her mouth and prayed he hadn’t heard.
She hardly ever drank. As a single parent she was only too aware it was down to her and her alone should anything go amiss with Frida so had been forced to be boringly sober for years. She had little head for alcohol, especially expensive champagne. Her tipple was more likely to be cheap white plonk from the local Spar. And there was always the fact that teaching with a raginghangover was the stuff of nightmares; it was a hard enough job as it was, let along attempting it without full control of your capacities. She’d learned that to her cost.
She let out a wavering but happy sigh. After a lifetime of being sensible, it had been good to let rip this evening. Felt as if she was rediscovering her youth. ‘Actually, I’m having the youth I never had,’ she murmured.
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, did I say that out loud. I had a good time tonight. Thank you.’
He reached behind her, so close she could smell his skin, and opened the door. Disappointment fluttered inside as she realised there would be no goodnight kiss. Probably just as well though. Better to stay friends. Anything else was too complicated. She fell into the hall.
‘Water,’ Johnny said, reprovingly, helping her up. ‘And then bed.’
‘Yessir.’ Callie had saluted him, followed him into the kitchen where he’d poured her a pint of water and had let him guide her up the stairs. He’d said a curt goodnight, she’d shown her teeth the toothbrush and flopped into bed.
Sleep evaded. All her senses were tinglingly alive. It had been a wonderful party. Listening to the faint sounds of the band still playing at Sandy Vistas and the occasional call of a gull as it swooped past her bedroom window and into the night, she giggled yet again. Lullbury Bay parties werewild.Or at least the Starling family version of them were. Had she glimpsed a woman in a clerical collar there? Had that been Austin she’d spotted doing a wild okey-cokey with Dave from the Art School? And had Johnny’s cousin Gilbert really requested the Stripper theme and stripped to his boxers? Laughter gurgled up as scenes from the party flashbacked. It had all been such fun.
What was this strange emotion running through her?Happiness.She was happy. Pint of water ignored, she rolled over, sucked in a great gulp of soft salty night air and felt her eyes closing as she drifted off to the distant sounds of Black Lace’s ‘Agadoo’.
Twelve
WEDNESDAY MORNING 14TH AUGUST
Paul Gauguin 1848–1903
A lover of Paris café life. Best known for his uninhibited paintings of Tahiti and its people.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
Agull screeched. Callie opened one eye fractionally, only to shut it again. The sunlight was harsh and firing daggers. She smacked her mouth open and shut. Dry and gritty and, ugh, her teeth felt furred and disgusting. Someone appeared to have taken up residence in her head, and they were playing drums. Timpani drums. And a double bass. They must have eight arms as they went on to hit a dinner gong. Loudly. Oof.
Through the pain Callie heard a gentle tapping on her bedroom door and Johnny’s voice saying, ‘Pot of tea here if you’re up to it.’
Groaning, Callie threw the duvet off. Hearing his footsteps retreat downstairs and the front door close, she forced herself up. Opening her bedroom door, through bleary eyes, she spied a tray. Teapot, mug, milk, a plate of biscuits and a packet ofparacetamol. And a bud vase with a single white rose from the garden. Even though the peculiar orchestra in her head was revving up for its finale, she mustered a smile. He was such a nice man. Wincing, she really, really hoped she hadn’t embarrassed him last night.
Thirty minutes later, having scrubbed her teeth, downed the pint of water neglected from last night, then taken an equal amount of tea and two paracetamols, Callie felt slightly more human. She eyed the biscuits and nibbled one. It was ginger. Her stomach heaved, thankfully settled and then gave out an enormous rumble. It seemed a long time since the lobster bao buns. There was only one cure for a hangover this bad. Mind made up, she headed for the shower.
An hour later, she sat at an outside table, eating a Sea Spray Café Lullbury Bay full English breakfast. Tracey, having clocked her wan face and dark glasses, had supplied an unfeasibly large pot of scalding tea and added fried bread. It was kill or cure.
As Tracey came to check if she wanted more toast, Austin ambled out from the inside the café. He was ashen-faced. ‘He was at that fancy party last night, up God Almighty,’ Tracey explained with a wink. ‘Had a right old good time, by the looks of it. Green as a mussel, he was, when he turned up this morning. Nonstop champagne, I heard. You all right, or can you manage a bite more, maid?’
