‘At least I’ve avoided going silver – so far. We’d be like the hymn about daisies and buttercups, then – me silver and you gold. Probably uncool, now, but it was my favourite when I was a child. Just let your arms hang while I pin.’
Scrutinising the collar and smoothing the shoulders, Diane began to sing, under her breath. ‘Daisies are our si-ilver, buttercups our gold ...’ Her voice was OK and she sang the hymn right through, all about diamond raindrops and emerald leaves, as she helped Tamzin carefully out of the pink shirt. Hymns reminded Tamzin of her primary school, a traditional private school whereAll Things Bright and BeautifulorMorning Has Brokencontributed to the cosiness, along with blue gingham and grey serge. It had been a silken nest compared to university.
The other shirt was the delicate colour of clotted cream and the fabric as soft as tissue. Diane held it up. ‘Don’t be disappointed in the plainness, at this stage. The over-layer of gold gauze is going to bring out the lovely colour of your hair. Slide into it carefully … there. That round neck suits you, Tamz. Your dad’s invited me to stay for supper – are you in tonight?’
As if Tamzin was ever anything but ‘in tonight’, except for visits to the hospital. ‘I should think so.’
‘Great. Because I’d like to start on the decorated jeans, so we can throw ideas around. Your dad says he’s grilling steaks. Can he cook?’
Tamzin watched Diane’s efforts through the mirror, with growing interest. ‘He can do anything he decides to. Ask him to make mustard sauce as well – it’s wicked.’
Chapter Thirteen
Part of Diane’s long hair was bunched up on the top of her head and the rest was a moon river down her back. Pleasurably, James turned over the memory of her hair tumbling around her nakedness in the back of his car. What had happened had happened only once and maybe he ought to be glad that his complicated life hadn’t been sent spinning by it happening again. But he would really like to see her like that again. Daily.
Although it made him feel odd to see Diane here, in Valerie’s home in the upmarket village of Webber’s Cross, he couldn’t stop watching her eating her steak and salad as if it was a treat – in stark contrast to Tamzin, who treated every mouthful as a trial. Finally, Diane sat back with a sigh. ‘You were right about the mustard sauce, Tamzin, it was wicked. And the chocolate ice-cream with mini doughnuts, even wickeder.’
Tamzin just smiled. From her lack of participation in the conversation and her pallor, James could tell that she was shattered. Soon, she’d retreat to her room. But at least Diane’s breezy presence had dragged her out of it for a few hours.
Sure enough, it was only five minutes later that Tamzin climbed slowly to her feet. ‘I’m tired.’
Diane looked up. ‘Going to bed? ’Night, sweetheart.’
‘Night, Diane.’ Tamzin wafted through the open French doors and marked her progress through the house with a trail of illuminated windows.
James, hoping that Diane wouldn’t make Tamzin’s departure a sign that she ought to be turning for home herself, poured her a fresh glass of fruit juice. ‘She had a good evening. I haven’t seen her so bright for a fortnight.’
‘How do you feel about the quantity she ate?’ Diane slapped at one of a squadron of bugs out on its evening sortie.
‘For her, it was OK. Most of a small steak and salad, plus a small portion of dessert.’
Diane pulled a face. ‘It’s funny to think that Bryony and Tamzin are exactly the same age because they don’t seem it. And Bryony would have eaten eight times what Tamzin ate. It seemed incredibly little.’
‘I suppose it does, when you’re not used to it.’ The ‘small’ steak that Tamzin hadn’t quite managed to finish had begun as the size of a modest burger; the salad consisted of a cherry tomato and two leaves of frilly lettuce.
‘I could have polished it off in three mouthfuls,’ said Diane, feelingly. ‘I pigged out on a steak like a butcher’s buttock, a mound of salad and coleslaw and what felt like half a French stick. Was it tactless to take a second dessert?’
He laughed at her guilty expression. ‘Not at all. It’s fine to eat normally in front of her. The only rule, really, is not to pressurise her to do the same.’ The light from the house fell on one side of Diane’s face. She looked relaxed, her legs stretched out, her elbows on the arms of the chair and her top clinging interestingly across her chest.
The house, once the vicarage, lichened grey stone with a slate roof and a gravel drive, stood in the centre of the village on a little square green. The village shop and the pub, The Old Dog, stood opposite, and provided them with a background noise of cars pulling up and their doors slamming. He crossed one leg lazily over the other and thought how comfortable he felt, lounging here on a balmy evening with Diane, listening to the rise and fall of her voice and her occasional flickers of laughter.
‘It’s been a pleasant evening,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘All I would have done at home alone is think what a shit Gareth has been.’
He could have made an anodyne response about enjoying her company. But he never let a sleeping dog lie if he thought he’d achieve more by giving it a good old shake. He let his voice drop. ‘Is everything all right, after that night? Do we have any pregnancy worries?’
Diane was reaching for her glass and it wobbled alarmingly as she swung around to frown at him. ‘I thought it was too good to be true that you were co-operating with me to forget that madness,’ she whispered.
‘How can I?’ he murmured. Forget her hands, her mouth, the satin of her body, her pleasure in the act? In him?
She swallowed a mouthful of juice. ‘Yes. All fine.’
‘And you know … how?’ The light from the window hadn’t fallen on him so she wouldn’t be able to see his smile as he delved into the subject she so obviously wished left alone.
She sent him a darkling look. ‘Dr Cooke is a sensible woman and pleasantly unshockable about prescribing the morning-after pill.’
‘Good.’ He paused long enough to let her think she might be off the hook. Then, ‘You’ve never had to consult her about anything … likethat, before?’
‘Scandalous, do you mean?’ she returned, smartly. ‘Or perhaps a 43-year-old woman who’s had a one-night stand isn’t scandalous, in your world? Maybe it’s just what people do? And move on?’
