‘Thanks, Marianna,’ Darcy says without looking at the woman.
‘Thanks,’ I echo with a smile.
Marianna doesn’t make eye contact.
We pour our tea. There’s no milk jug so I guess I’ll have to drink it black. I help myself to a chocolate-chip cookie that tastes homemade.
‘How long have you lived in England?’ I ask.
She counts on her fingers. ‘It’ll be eight and a half years now. Mike and I met a year before Tyler was born. It was a whirlwind romance.’
‘Wow. Is Mike American, too?’
‘No. I met him over here, in London. He’s English. He’s also a workaholic, which is why you’ll hardly ever see him at the school gates. Unlike your divine husband.’
‘What does Mike do?’
‘Our company deals with commercial property. We buy up buildings and let them out as office space.’
‘Cool,’ I reply, taking a sip of my tea, which is absolutely delicious. I thought tea was tea. Obviously not. ‘Mm, this is so refreshing.’
‘Castleton tea,’ she says. ‘From Darjeeling. I’ll give you a tin when you leave.’
‘No, no, that’s okay,’ I say, mortified she might think I was hinting.
‘It’s fine; I always keep a good supply.’
My eyes keep being drawn by the view, to the dog walkers and joggers on the beach beyond, to the Condor Ferry heading out towards France, the sailing boats like white handkerchiefs in the distance, and seagulls hovering overhead. It’s like being on holiday. How can all this be so close to our house, and yet feel so distant?
‘How about you?’ she asks, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Do you work?’
‘I write a column in a weekend newspaper supplement.’
‘How exciting,’ she replies.
‘Not really. It’s only one small piece a week… but I do love it.’
‘Do you write about people you know? Might I be in it one day?’ She leans forward, a gleam in her eye.
‘Do you want to be in it?’ I laugh.
‘Of course!’
‘I write about being a mother – schools and being married and all that stuff.’
She gasps. ‘You writeLouisa’s Life’s a Beach!’
‘Guilty,’ I say.
‘Ilovethat column. So, you’re famous.’ She reaches out a slender, French-manicured hand to squeeze my arm.
‘Hardly,’ I say, with a swell of pride in my chest.
‘I’d brag all the time if I wrote for a newspaper,’ she says. ‘I write a blog, but it’s not the same.’
‘What’s it about?’ I ask.
‘Interior design. Hints and tips. That kind of thing.’
