Through the bustle, Robina serenely made cakes, whipping up sugary frostings or boiling glistening jams to sandwich together layers of moist sponge or crispy meringue. Her drunkenly risen scones were treated by many customers as a meal in themselves and so many were baked that Honor was sure that she went home at night smelling like a steaming trayful.
On Tuesday, Clarissa dropped in for lunch. ‘Hello, Honor. Baked potato with cheddar cheese and crispy bacon, please. Thisplace can’t be good for me. What jam has Robina made? Plum? I’ll have a jar, then.’
Honor reached for a stubby jar with its white cotton cap. ‘I’m sure you can work it off. You Mayfairs are never still.’
‘True.’ Clarissa glanced at her watch. ‘Martyn says you run, so you’re pretty active, yourself?’
Honor wrote the jam on Clarissa’s bill and dropped it back on to the table. ‘I used to dance and stuff, too. But I haven’t got into that here, yet.’ The instant the words had left her mouth she wanted them back. Clarissa’s face lit up.
‘But I take dance classes — tap, ballroom . . .’
‘I’m more hip-hop, these days—’
‘And Zumba,’ Clarissa finished, triumphantly. ‘Zumba sounds right up your street. It’s tonight, at the community centre.’
‘I have taken Zumba classes back home.’ Honor made as if to move on to the next table but the hope in Clarissa’s eyes made her pause. The economy was bad and Clarissa was probably finding her numbers falling. And then the classes would end and Clarissa wouldn’t have a job and that would be awful . . . ‘I’ll try to come,’ she promised.
* * *
By the time she’d finished at the Teapot her feet burned and Zumba class didn’t sound like a good cure. She’d just jump in the shower and veg out with a meal from the freezer and a magazine. She liked English magazines. They made room for Z-list celebs who’d never done anything more noteworthy than appearing on a reality show and having their picture taken — bizarre but somehow fascinating.
Even though she could hear Karen saying, ‘A promise is a promise,’ she wrapped herself in her robe and flopped on the sofa withHeatmagazine. Russell Brand — nobody’s Z-lister —was on the cover, his smile assuring her that he didn’t give a rat’s ass for what anyone thought of him. An attitude she recognised. From Stef.
She tried not to think about Stef.
But it must be about time for a message to come through cyberspace.
Her laptop was sitting on the table, its baleful blue eye winking at her. She sighed and flipped it open. Tapped a key and the screen sprang to life, already logged into her Yahoo account.
INBOX (3).
One email from her father, asking her to touch base and reassure him that she was OK.I’m good thanks,she typed rapidly,enjoying having only myself to worry over. Hope you are doing fine, too.
She sighed again. Both the other emails were from Stef, through Billie.
I’m getting real tired of you blanking me. I may have fucked up but I don’t think I deserve to be forgotten or ignored. Come on, babe. Lighten up on me and let me know how you’re doing.
She opened the second.
Well, guess what! Jessamine, who obviously has a whole lot more heart than you have, came to see me today. And it seems you don’t mind replying to her emails or your dad’s, or Zach’s. So you’re really not speaking to me? Thanks a lot. You always find out who cares when you’re in a bad place and I’m not only in a bad place, I’m having to worry about my wife. What the fuck are you doing leaving your life behind?
She tried to stem the sour swell of indignation, to delay any response until she’d reflected and cooled down. But . . . she clickedreply.OK,she typed.Here I am. Fine — on my own. You don’t have to worry. I’m so mad at you, Stef. Your stunt wrecked my life so that there wasn’t a whole lot of it for me to leave behind. The bad place? You got yourself in it. There’s no law that says that I have to go there, too.
You’ve left it a little late to worry about your wife.
Quickly, she pressedsend, snapped the laptop shut and rolled restlessly to her feet. Damn him. The sofa andHeathad lost all power to relax her. No longer hungry or lazy, what she needed was to get out and get busy and her watch told her that there were only thirty minutes before the start of the Zumba class.
Quickly, she dressed in blackberry-coloured capri dance pants, an exercise bra with a camisole and fleece over, grabbed a bottle of water and set off power walking towards the community hall.
Clarissa beamed over her little cash tin when Honor marched into the wooden hall and paid her fee — and the reason for the warm welcome was pretty clear. Apart from herself, there were three people in the class — plus a whole lot of Mayfairs: Clarissa, Zoë, Beverley and Nicola. And, she saw with a hop of surprise, Martyn, at the back, performing hamstring stretches. She waved at the Sisters of Mayfair but skipped over to where Martyn was folded over to hold his feet, stretching alternate legs.
‘You’re kidding me! You dance, too?’
He gave an upside-down grunt. ‘If guilted into it by Clarissa. It’s exercise.’
He was the only man in the class. Most of the women had dressed bright, tight and dancy in sizzling colours of lycra. One looked as if she’d come directly from a hip-hop dance-off with slouch pants riding low on her hips, displaying an expanse ofbare flesh between the waistband and her tiny brilliant turquoise top. Martyn’s Zumba gear was pretty much like his running gear — plain, dark and roomy — but, at least he could wear a T rather than a sweatshirt, indoors.
‘I resisted for a while.’ Honor unzipped her fleece and tossed it on a chair. ‘But then I wanted company. And I like to dance.’ She hesitated about whether to hang out with Martyn at the back. But he appeared to be in one of his remote moods again, eyes distant, as if his thoughts were too intense to be shared. And then she was beckoned forward by Clarissa to discuss her fitness, health and dance experience. By the time that was over, the only space left was in the front row between Beverley in green and peacock-blue, and Zoë, who had abandoned her dark doctorly suit for scarlet chevron stripes.
